Changing the Map: Moistly in the Attic

At the tip-top of the gothic house, an attic looms. This particular attic does not entrap Mrs. Rochester, though it’s a close relation to the upper level of the House of Usher. No, in this MOIST attic, four children — the Dollangangers (Cathy, Chris, Carrie, and Corey) — are held captive by their evil grandmother for the primal sin of their existence. At first, their mother comes to visit, but the visits fade, and the children are left to themselves. Cathy and Chris assume the parental roles for their younger brother and sister, and here’s where the attic gets damp — Cathy and Chris assume the parental roles IN ALL ways, leading to a forbidden incestuous love affair.

Yes, this attic has all the flowers of youth, dark creepy blossoms. Flowers in the Attic is a classic Gothic tale with a twist into what I like to call “moist” horror. Published in 1978, written by V.C. Andrews, the series spun off after her death (only the first seven books are fully written by her) into an empire, continued by ghost writer Andrew Niederman.

V.C. (Cleo Virginia) Andrews was raised in Baptist/Methodist traditions. As a teenager, she suffered a severe back injury, leading to the use of crutches and wheelchairs most of her life. Via a correspondence course, she became a successful commercial illustrator and supported her family through her commissions.

Illustration by V.C. Andrews for Flowers in the Attic

After her death in 1986, her family hired Andrew Niederman to continue writing in her name, a time-honored practice committed by the living as well, for example, James Patterson, or Alexandre Dumas.

But what is “moist” about this brand of horror? Moist is just one of those words, you know? Like panties or schmear, and these books definitely evoke the same emotional response as the words combined “moist panties.”  Add a “schmear” for extra oomph.  For me, “moist” horror is a sense of shame and ickiness resulting from pleasure in a societal transgression or taboo.

And boy, does Flowers in the Attic really hit the sweet spot of pubescent horror. I first encountered these books in Junior High (I assume most do), where they beckoned seductively in dog-eared paperbacks mauled from teenagers reading about incest. And feeling very disturbed by it, with a resulting sense of shame from having read them, ALL of them, long after you knew much better.

And that’s the joy of “moist” horror. You aren’t scared. The monsters are not going to jump out of the closet, the serial killer is not going to wear your skin or flambé your liver with shallots. No, they’re just going to lock you in an attic with only your brother to help relieve the burning passions of adolescence.

Eww. Moistly so.

There have been other writers in this sub-genre — Stephen King did a brilliant job with Carrie, and many of Lois Duncan’s books (I Know What you Did Last Summer), as well as Judy Blume’s works, evoke the same visceral response of teenage sex, the first part of which is the sheer “ewwwww” of the physical act itself (so many fluids, what goes where, why is hair growing “down there!”).

Moist horror is the horror of adolescence, of bodies changing with or without permission, of sexuality and the multitude of taboos around it through the lens of teenagers’ relentless focus. It causes you to feel disgust and shame for your moist panties, whether deserved or not.

In Flowers in the Attic, Chris and Cathy know what they’re doing isn’t right, is forbidden, and dirty. We feel, keenly, both Cathy’s sense of shame, as well as her pleasure, of the carnal joys of her brother. That’s the horror — that we feel not only revulsion, but attraction.

Moist. Panties. V.C. Andrews.