Monsters Chapter Notes | Year 8 English IGCSE (Cambridge) PDF Download

A Modern Monster

In a gripping article titled "The Hunt for Chupacabra," the mystique of a modern monster from Puerto Rico unfolds, dubbed the world’s first “internet monster” for its blood-draining attacks on animals. Humans have long been captivated and terrified by tales of shadowy creatures, from Mongolia’s acid-spitting Death Worm to Colombia’s Alligator Man seeking human brides, and Japan’s man-eating spider women. In Puerto Rico, the Chupacabra, meaning “goat sucker” in Spanish, emerged in 1995, described with glowing red eyes, massive claws, back spikes, and the ability to leap vast distances. Over five years, sightings spread to Argentina, Mexico, and Chile, evolving into reports of a fierce, hairless dog-like beast. Unlike most monster myths, some Chupacabra corpses were examined by scientists, not just web enthusiasts. These revealed a mundane truth: the creatures were dogs, coyotes, or raccoons, their grotesque appearance due to skin infections causing baldness and inflammation. The internet fueled the myth’s wildfire-like spread, amplifying rumors and altering descriptions. Madelyne Tolentino’s 1995 sighting in Canovanas, resembling an alien from the film *Species* she had recently seen, likely sparked the legend, her imagination transforming a diseased animal into a global phenomenon.

Fear of Monsters

Joshua A. Krisch’s online article, “How Monsters Under the Bed Became a Common Childhood Fear,” delves into the primal roots of monster fears, drawing on insights from psychology professor Peter Gray. Children’s dread of the dark and imagined creatures lurking beneath their beds isn’t triggered by horror films but by an innate human response. Gray explains that darkness was historically perilous, as humans rely heavily on vision, making night a time of vulnerability. This fear is etched into our psyche through evolution, with infants who cried out in the dark more likely to survive by attracting protection. Beyond inborn fears of heights and loud noises, humans quickly develop aversions to snakes, spiders, and darkness. At night, the instinct to seek safety in a group—akin to huddling in a cave—drives children to cry when left alone in a dark room, a survival mechanism honed by natural selection. This explains why a child’s fear peaks when a parent leaves, as solitude in darkness signals potential danger, like a lion poised to strike.

The Giant

In Oscar Wilde’s 1888 fable *The Selfish Giant*, a timeless tale unfolds with a moral heart, set in a once-joyful garden where children played every afternoon. The garden, lush with soft green grass, star-like flowers, and twelve peach trees that bloomed pink and pearl in spring and bore rich fruit in autumn, echoed with birdsong so enchanting that children paused their games to listen, exclaiming their happiness. But the Giant, returning after seven years with his ogre friend, disrupts this idyll. Enraged to find children in his garden, he bellows in a gruff voice, scattering them. Declaring the garden his alone, he erects a high wall and a sign warning “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted,” embodying his selfishness. The children, now relegated to a dusty, stony road, mourn their lost paradise, reminiscing about their joy. When spring arrives, the Giant’s garden remains locked in winter, shunned by birds and blossoms. Snow cloaks the grass, Frost silvers the trees, and the North Wind roars, delighted to claim the desolate space. The Giant, puzzled by the persistent cold, hopes for change, unaware that his selfishness has banished spring. One morning, a linnet’s sweet song pierces his isolation, stirring hope that spring has finally arrived, prompting him to leap from bed to witness a transformation unfolding outside.

The Little Boy

In Oscar Wilde’s *The Selfish Giant*, a transformative moment unfolds as the Giant gazes out his window to find his garden teeming with children perched in every tree, birds twittering joyfully, and flowers laughing through the grass. Yet, in the farthest corner, winter lingers where a small boy stands, too short to reach the tree’s branches, weeping as he circles it. The sight melts the Giant’s heart, stirring a profound realization of his selfishness and the reason spring has forsaken his garden. Determined to atone, he vows to lift the boy into the tree, demolish the wall, and dedicate his garden as a playground for children forever. Creeping softly downstairs, he enters the garden, but the children flee in fear, plunging the garden back into winter. The little boy, blinded by tears, remains, unaware of the Giant’s approach. Gently, the Giant lifts him into the tree, which bursts into blossom as birds sing. The other children, seeing the Giant’s kindness, return, bringing spring with them. The Giant declares the garden theirs, wielding an axe to tear down the wall, embracing a newfound generosity inspired by the boy’s plight.

The Giant’s Redemption

The fable *The Selfish Giant* concludes with the Giant’s heartwarming evolution, as the children play daily in his now-open garden, bidding him farewell each evening. He inquires about the little boy he helped, his “first little friend,” but the children, unaware of his whereabouts, say he has vanished, leaving the Giant saddened yet devoted to all the children. His longing for the boy persists as he grows old and feeble, no longer able to play but content to watch the children from his armchair, marveling at his garden and declaring the children its most beautiful flowers. One winter morning, he sees a miraculous sight: in the garden’s farthest corner, a tree glows with white blossoms, golden branches, and silver fruit, beneath which stands the little boy he loved. Overjoyed, the Giant hurries to him, and the child, smiling, invites him to his own garden. That afternoon, the children find the Giant dead beneath the tree, covered in white blossoms, a serene end to his journey of redemption, marked by love and selflessness inspired by the mysterious boy who changed his heart.

A Smaller Monster

Hilaire Belloc’s poem *The Scorpion* presents a diminutive yet menacing creature with a darkly comic twist. Described as black as soot, this scorpion revels in biting, a cruel brute that becomes a nightmarish surprise when found in bed at night. Its concise, rhythmic lines and rhyming structure lend a playful tone to its threatening nature, casting the scorpion as a small but formidable monster whose delight in causing pain evokes both amusement and unease. In contrast, *Shadow of the Scorpion* unfolds a gripping narrative in an unnamed village, where a scorpion’s intrusion into a family home sparks terror. Its huge shadow flickers like a monster from an old film, paralyzing the family. As it scuttles away, the night stretches on, marked by the mother’s frantic search with a broom, the father’s feigned bravery, and the children’s mix of fear and excitement. When it strikes, the sister’s scream pierces the night, her hand swollen and numb. The mother weeps and prays, the father masks his fear, and the narrator, desperate for his sister’s survival, endures a night seared into memory. Dawn brings relief as the sister recovers, and years later, the narrator learns scorpion bites rarely kill, yet the night’s long shadow lingers, a testament to the enduring impact of fear.

Monster Below Ground

In Chris Baynes’ newspaper article “Monster Fatbergs Weighing More than 100 Tonnes Cleared from London Sewers,” a grotesque urban monster emerges from the depths. Two colossal fatbergs, weighing a combined 103 tonnes—equivalent to eight double-decker buses—were removed from central London’s sewers near Buckingham Palace and the Shard. Formed from fat, oil, and grease poured down drains, fused with non-flushable items, these greasy giants threatened to flood homes and businesses with wastewater. Engineers, wielding power tools, toiled in hot, foul-smelling conditions to break up the lumps, one containing several tonnes of concrete, and remove chunks by hand. Stephen Pattenden, Thames Water’s network manager, likens fatbergs to monsters lurking beneath the city, growing unseen until they endanger infrastructure. The grueling task, intensified by the overpowering stench when disturbed, underscores the urgency of proper fat disposal. Pattenden urges the public to let cooking fat cool and dispose of it in containers, warning against “feeding the fatberg.” The article’s extended metaphor casts fatbergs as menacing creatures, amplifying their scale and danger, and serves as a stark reminder to prevent these underground behemoths from wreaking havoc.