Reviews of Old and New Stories. Mostly Old

Review of “The Great God Pan” by Arthur Machen: Halloween Countdown

For October 14

Plot:

Dr. Raymond wants to show his friend Clarke his new method of seeing “beyond the veil.” The physical world as we know it is an illusion, but with a little bit of brain surgery, one can see reality, or as he claims the ancients referred to it, “seeing the god Pan.”

Because he can’t very well do brain surgery on himself, regardless of how brilliant a surgeon he is, he needs a volunteer. That volunteer is his adopted daughter, Mary.

“As you know,” Dr. Raymond tells Clarke, “I rescued Mary from the gutter, and from almost certain starvation, when she was a child. I think her life is mine, to use as I see fit.”

After demonstrating Mary’s verbal consent (like she’s going to say no?) to Clarke, Dr. Raymond chloroforms her and slices her scalp open to make “a slight lesion in the grey matter.”

When Mary wakes, she first wonders about something invisible to the men, and then terror fills her face. She collapses.

Days later, Dr. Raymond says what a pity it is but pronounces Mary “a hopeless idiot.”

Years pass, and a series of tragedies follow a woman named Helen V., who likes to walk in the woods alone. People around her seem to die of fright. Later, a string of men she keeps company with—wealthy men—die by suicide.

Thoughts:

Machen’s writings often deal with the mystic and the occult. Here, he uses the idea from the classical world that coming across the divine was terrifying. Poor Mary—whose name should resonate among those familiar with Christian ideas, I imagine—is at first awed by what she sees, then driven insane.

Dr. Raymond’s reaction is instructive—Shrug. Ah, geez. What a pity.

No grief, no regret, or even sympathy. Only toward the end of the book, after perhaps a dozen people have died horrible deaths because of what he’s done, does he take any responsibility. He made my skin crawl more than any of the “horror” elements of the story.

While Machen isn’t popular currently, he was enormously influential with many horror and weird fiction writers in the early and mid-20th century. His idea that the physical world conceals true reality, protecting humanity from it, is part of what inspired H. P. Lovecraft’s idea of cosmic horror. The idea that reality is a mask for a deeper reality grew from classical Neo-Platonism.

Dr. Raymond is a mad scientist, experimenting in places where he shouldn’t—and knows he shouldn’t—on a person whose humanity he had no right to disregard.

Yet, in the end, this is referred to as a mistake. The evil that follows the mistake is regarded by one and all (…men…) with horror and revulsion. I wouldn’t want the person committing the horrors over for dinner, to say the least. Nor would I want the doctor anywhere near my property.

As for recommending the story, I’m on the fence. It offers more sadness than horror, though there is plenty of horror. And more than a dash of misogyny. So—caveat lector.

Bio: Arthur Machen was the pen name of Arthur Llewellyn Jones (1863-1947). Machen, the son of a clergyman, was a Welsh translator, actor, and author. Among his best-known works are “The White People” and “The Three Imposters.” “The Great God Pan” was his first major success. His 1914 short story, “The Bowmen,” gave rise to the Angel of Mons urban legend.

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here (2:05:07)

Title: “The Great God Pan”
Author: Arthur Machen (legal name Arthur Llewellyn Jones) (1863-1947)
First published: 1894
Length: novella

Review of “The Gorgon” by Clark Ashton Smith: Halloween Countdown

For October 13

Plot:

Traveling after the death of the only woman he loved, the grieving main character in this short tale comes across an odd character in the crowded streets of London. The old man reminds him of Charon, ferrying souls to the Underworld.

The modern-day Charon locks eyes with him. “I can see that you have a taste for horror,” he says and offers to show him the head of Medusa.

How does he know the old man has the real Medusa’s head? (The real head of a mythological creature? Yeah, you can’t be too careful there.) What’s it doing in London? And isn’t there a problem inherent with looking at Medusa’s head?

“Charon” promises he can view it in a mirror, so no worries about the being turned into stone thing.

And his questions about time and place? Well, that shows how little he knows about how time and space work.

“It is inexplicable to me that I should have accepted his invitation,” the narrator tells the reader, “…and I could no more have refused his offer than a dead man could have refused the conveyance of Charon to the realms of Hades.”

Against his better judgment, the young man follows “Charon” through twists and turns, away from the crowded streets into deserted areas.

Once they arrive, the narrator notices several peculiar things about the house, but none as odd as the realistic life-size statues of black marble.

Wait a minute. Ya don’t suppose?—Naaah.

Thoughts:

Like everything of Smith’s I’ve read, this story is full of lush and, at times, lurid imagery. The main character is inevitably drawn to something repulsive and mortally dangerous, yet he cannot—and does not wish to—resist.

While it may strike readers in 2024 as over-the-top in its sensationalism, this is a fun little tale. The main character bites off more than he can chew, but we know he survived to narrate the whole affair: “I have no reason to expect that anyone will believe my story,” he begins.

I liked this, even if it’s not for everyone. It is Poe-ish in tone and outlook.

Bio: Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961) was primarily a poet but is now best known for his weird fiction, much of which was published in Weird Tales. His prose tends to be extravagant. His protagonists are often drawn, against their better judgment, toward some dangerous or forbidden object. He also painted and translated works.

The story can be listened to here: (38:51)

The text is included on the podcast page.

Title: “The Gorgon”
Author: Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961)
First published: Weird Tales, April 1932

Review of “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allen Poe: Halloween Countdown

For October 12

Plot:

The unnamed narrator arrives at the home of a childhood friend, Roderick Usher, after receiving a letter requesting that he come and cheer the friend up. Usher is not well and appears anxious and depressed.

The narrator’s first glance of the house is dispiriting. It is old and covered with moss yet appears stable despite its air of decay. He halts his horse by a still “tarn” (lake) and contemplates the reflection of the house. When he looks up, he notices what appears to be a crack in the masonry of the house, running from the roof to the lake.

Nah. Just his morbid imagination.

On his way in, he passes the family physician, who “wore a mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity.”

Roderick greets him warmly and explains that his affliction involves overstimulation of the senses: he can stand only the dimmest light, the blandest food, and particular garments. The only music he can bear to listen to is from stringed instruments.

Adding to this is the sorrow over the illness of his sister, Madeline, who is not long for this world. Among her ailments, she suffers from catalepsy. (An actual medical condition ) but sometimes used in 19th-century literature as an affliction that mimics death.

Over the next few days, Roderick and the narrator read and paint together. Roderick plays dirges on his guitar. They do not speak of Madeline, nor does she appear again.

The day comes when Roderick tells the narrator Madeline has died. Together, they lay her body in the family vault underneath the house for two weeks before final internment to keep her safe from “certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men.”

And then Roderick loses his mind.

Thoughts:

This piece is a heavy and atmospheric gothic work, lending the reader the idea that house and occupant are one. (Makes you want to go clean out the attic, doesn’t it?) As much as he would like to help, the narrator can do little to stop the oncoming tragedies despite realizing they’re some self-fulfilling prophesies. He refers to Roderick as a “hypochondriac” more than once.

Some commentators say that Poe implies an incestuous relationship between Roderick and Madeline. They were twins and close, but to say they had sex adds only unnecessary salaciousness to the story, IMseldomHO.

Roderick believes himself and his sister, the last remnants of the family, are doomed. He does nothing to resist that doom. It’s as if he’s saying, “Yeah, might as well play guitar, paint, and write depressing poetry until I die.”

This story has been adapted for film going back to silent movies.

This is not one of my favorite Poe stories; it is so heavy, and the beginning tells you the end. On the other hand, when I read it as a kid many years ago, I found it a page-turner, wondering what would happen to poor Madeline and Roderick. Would the narrator escape?

Bio: Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) was the son of two actors. After his father deserted the family and his mother died of tuberculosis, two-year-old Edgar was taken in by the wealthy Allan family. He briefly studied at the University of Virginia and West Point. His most well-known works include “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Black Cat,” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” The last is sometimes cited as the first detective story. The work that made him a household name in his day was the poem “The Raven.”

The circumstances of his death are still unclear. He was found in a tavern, appearing drunk, wearing someone else’s clothes, and died some days later in Washington University Hospital. According to the Poe Museum, twenty-six different theories regarding the cause of his demise have been published.

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here: (55:41)

Title: “The Fall of the House of Usher”
Author: Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849)
First published: Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, September 1839

Review of “The Face” by E. F. Benson: Halloween Countdown

For October 11

Plot:

Hester Ward is a happily married mother of two small children. Still young, she’s good-looking (and aware of it), healthy, and prosperous. Yet after a dream like those she had when she was younger, she senses catastrophe approaching. She sees no point in telling her husband, Dick, about anything so silly.

They go out for dinner and, after a lovely evening, return about midnight. Hester falls asleep instantly. Dick sleeps in her dressing room, which opens onto her bedroom, leaving the door open for air because of the heat.

In her nightmare, Hester stands on a seashore, looking up at a church on a cliffside. The waves have worn away the earth under the church. Masonry and gravestones line the cliff bottom.

She has been here many times before, and although she tries to flee, she cannot. A pale oval light, the size of a man’s head, approaches her. It resolves into a face. Hester sees thin red hair. The lips form a cruel smile. “I shall soon come for you now,” a voice says.

Hester wakes up screaming.

At her husband’s insistence, Hester consults a doctor. The doctor finds her healthy and attributes her dreams to the unseasonable weather. He suggests a trip alone away from London to some quiet place she’s never been, where she’ll sleep better.

Thoughts:

This story is moody and atmospheric. Even by 1920s standards, Hester is not a hysterical woman. She tries to distract herself from her nightmares. They’re only dreams, and dreams don’t mean anything, right?

One thing I found interesting was a description that sounds a lot like sleep paralysis:

“…she tried to run away. But the catalepsy of nightmare was already on her; frantically, she strove to move, but her utmost endeavour could not raise a foot from the sand. Frantically, she tried to look away from the sand-cliffs close in front of her…”

The bad guy seems to have no connection to Hester. Why would he want to harm her in such a predatory way? Why single her out? Granted, it makes for irony that the place she goes away to for relief puts her in danger from the bad’un. Yet, the question remains—why her? Evil bad guy could have picked on a lot of people. IMseldomHO, this makes for a weakness in the story.

Nevertheless, overall, I liked this tale. The reader cares about Hester. She does her best in a world that doesn’t make sense. The few glimpses the reader gets of Hester and Dick’s married life show one of happiness. It would be nice to see them living happily ever after and playing with grandchildren.

Bio: E. F. (Edward Frederick) Benson (1867-1940) was a British author best known in his lifetime for his 1893 novel Dodo, satirizing British suffragist Ethel Smyth and his Mapp and Lucia series, which poked fun at the British upper middle class. These have been adapted for TV. In the 80s, British author Tom Holt wrote a couple of sequels. Benson is probably best known today for his short supernatural fiction.

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here: (36:10)

Title: “The Face”
Author: E. F. (Edward Frederick) Benson (1867-1940)
First published: Hutchinson’s Magazine, February 1924

Review of “The Death of Halpin Frayser” by Ambrose Bierce: Halloween Countdown

For October 10

Plot:

Halpin Frayser has been living rough, sleeping in the forest around Napa in California. After waking from a dreamless sleep one morning, he mutters, “Catherine LaRue.” The reader receives no further explanation.

Things haven’t always been so unfortunate for Halpin. He was raised in the South by an indulgent mother and a father who was often away, building a political career. Mother and son grow close, sharing a love of the (bad) poetry of a colonial ancestor.

When Halpin tells his mother of his desire to go to California for a couple of weeks, she tells him that the poet-ancestor came to her in a dream to warn her of Halpin’s death by strangulation.

Before anyone can strangle him in California, someone presses Halpin into the Navy. Only years later can he return to San Francisco. There, he finds himself friendless, but he’s too proud to take help from strangers, which leads to his sleeping in the wild and hunting for dinner.

He sleeps again, but this time he dreams. The woods he walks through have grown sinister. The trees drip blood. He feels rather than sees things watching him. Lastly, he comes upon his mother. Unlike the usual ghost, which is a soul without a body, she is a body without a soul. She doesn’t speak to him, but Halpin realizes she hates him. She clutches his throat.

Thus, the narrator tells the reader, Halpin dies in his dream.

Thoughts:

This is a sad, confusing little story with—as I saw it—no single correct interpretation. Who killed Halpin? And why? He was an unfortunate. Did he deserve such a fate? Perhaps he committed a sin not mentioned in the narrative, and this was payback? The story provides no clear answer.

Is his mother’s warning dream real or a masterstroke of passive-aggressiveness? Again, I could make an argument either way.

As with many of Bierce’s writings, things are not what they seem, and a twist appears at the end. Halpin is a spoiled rich boy out in the cruel world, but the world is cruel in unexpected ways. He tries to maintain the appearance of honorability after he returns from his time at sea.

Lush, if disturbing, imagery fills Halpin’s dreams in the forest. The depiction of the relationship between Halpin and his mother has the trappings of being sweet, but the reader gets the feeling of something a little off kilter. Like most of Bierce’s tales, this is a downer.

This is a story to admire for its craft, that is, for Bierce’s way of communicating more than the narration says. It’s a little hard to enjoy as a rippin’ good yarn.

Bio: Ambrose Bierce (1842- disappeared 1914) was an American journalist, writer, and Civil War veteran. Among his best-known works are “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”—familiar to high school students in the U.S.—and The Devil’s Dictionary, a collection of sardonic definitions of common words. He also wrote a memoir, What I Saw at Shiloh, an unsentimental (at least) account of that battle.

There has been much speculation about his death. He is said to have gone to join the forces of Pancho Villa to observe the Mexican Revolution and disappeared, but a small ocean of ink has been spilled about hows, wheres, and whens.

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here: (38:40)

Title: “The Death of Halpin Frayser”
Author: Ambrose Bierce (1842-c. 1914)
First published: The Wave, December 19, 1891

Review of “Celui-Là” by Eleanor Scott: Halloween Countdown

For October 9

Plot:

On his doctor’s advice, Maddox takes a vacation to a tiny fishing village on the Breton coast. He stays with an acquaintance of Dr. Foster, the local curé, Father Vétier.

Maddox goes for long walks on the beach in the evening, although the locals avoid being out at that time of day. One evening, he sees someone digging something in the sand. The figure runs off. Against all common sense, Maddox goes to see what the person was hiding and digs up a little box. What was he expecting? Pirate treasure?

He finds a scroll with Latin writing on it. Father Vétier says it’s an incantation and tells Maddox to stop reading it aloud. Realizing he’s a guest and Vétier has been good to him, Maddox puts the parchment away, albeit with some reluctance.

He continues his walks.

Thoughts:

“Celui-là,” for those readers who sat in high school French class in the more distant past than I did, translates as something like “that one.” While some foreign language is scattered throughout the story, the title probably demands the most of the reader’s translating skills.

This tale is M. R. James-ish in tone and flavor. A stranger walking along a beach finds a relic from a bygone age. A Latin inscription summons an unknown, ill-defined evil that threatens him in ways he cannot understand.

It is nicely atmospheric if a bit light on the explanations. There is evil in the world, and this is the evil that shows up in this part of the world, perhaps.

I liked it.

Bio: Helen Madeline Leys (1892-1965) was a British writer and teacher. In her forward to the anthology from which this above story is taken, she said the tale originated in dreams.

I was unable to find an easily accessible text version of this story.

This story can be listened to here: (48:42)

Title: “Celui-Là”
Author: Eleanor Scott (legal name: Helen Madeline Leys) (1892-1965)
First published: Randalls Round, 1929

Review of “Casting the Runes” by M. R. James: Halloween Countdown

For October 8

Plot:

The story opens with an exchange of letters in which the secretary of the “—Association” tells Mr. Karswell the Association has, after careful consideration, declined to accept his paper, “The Truth of Alchemy.”

Mr. Karswell wants to know who’s responsible for the decision. The secretary tells him that he cannot possibly tell him the name of the person or persons who read his paper and politely adds that he will not respond to any further inquiries on the matter.

Later, the secretary talks to his wife about the letters and calls Mr. Karswell an angry man. The only person qualified to read Mr. Karwell’s paper concluded it was “hopeless.”

The Secretary and his missus leave for a prearranged lunch with friends who live in the same area as Mr. Karswell. The wife (Florence) plans to ask—politely, subtly—if they know him and find out what kind of person he is.

Before Florence can broach the subject, the friend tells her husband she saw the “Abbot of Lufford” coming out of the British Museum gate. He’s not a real Abbot, she quickly adds. They call him that because he bought Lufford Abbey a few years ago. “His real name is Karswell.”

They tell them all about him: Nobody knew what he did with himself. His servants were a horrible set of people; he had invented a new religion and practiced no one could tell what appalling rites; he was easily offended and never forgave anybody; he had a dreadful face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat demurring); and never did a kind action—whatever influence he did exert was malicious.

The year before, he gave a magic lantern show for the village kidlets and scared the bejesus out of them.

The Secretary is starting to remember something… an unfortunate John Harrington wrote a scathing review of Karwell’s earlier book, History of Witchcraft. Didn’t he die some years ago breaking his neck after falling from a tree?

His host confirms this and asks, “Was [the book] as bad as it was made out to be?”

“Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all the pulverizing it got. But besides that, it was an evil book.”

The reader then follows Mr. Dunning—the one person qualified to read Mr. Karwells’ paper—on his trip to the British Museum.

On the train, Mr. Dunning sees an ad reading: “In memory of John Harrington, F.S.A, of the Laurels. Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18, 1889. Three months were allowed.”

While he’s at the museum, he drops a bunch of papers. He thought he’d picked them all up, but a helpful stranger hands him one more.

Thoughts:

This story may not be M. R. James’ most memorable, but the author gives the reader a nice contrast between the light-hearted gentility of the chatter of the two couples and the relentless vindictiveness of the bad guy. Even the magic lantern show, which reveals his petty meanness—scaring the neighborhood munchkins with images of nasty things prowling his woods and preying on unwary children so they’ll stay off his property—shows a Snidely Whiplash aspect to this character that is vicious and laughable at the same time. I mean, come on, dude, you put a lot of effort into terrorizing children because they annoy you. You really got nothing better to do?

Were he not responsible for a man’s death, the reader could indeed laugh. The author goes out of his way to show that not only is the bad guy a spiteful bastard—he’s a bad writer who can’t take no for an answer.

Could he possibly have someone in mind? Perhaps someone like occultist and author Aleister Crowley (1875-1947)?

The ending is satisfying if contrived. The bad guy gets his comeuppance

Bio: M. R. (Montague Rhodes) James (1862-1936) was a linguist and biblical scholar. He was Provost of King’s College, Cambridge, and later of Eton. He told ghost stories to his fellow dons at Christmas. His tales tend to find the supernatural in the everyday, unlike the earlier gothic tales, which focus on atmosphere—graveyards, abandoned houses, weather, etc. Among his most well-known is “Oh, Whistle and I’ll Come to You, My Lad.”

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here: (Librivox):(53:57)

Title: “Casting the Runes”
Author: M. R. James (1862-1936)
First published: More Ghost Stories, 1911

Review of “The Feast at the Abbey” by Robert Bloch: Halloween Countdown

For October 7

Plot:

Traveling through a forest to meet his brother, the narrator is caught in a storm and takes refuge in a monastery he happens across. A short, rotund abbot admits him and summons two servants (whom he refers to with the unfortunate term “blackamoors”) dressed in “great baggy trousers of red velvet and waists of cloth-of-gold, in Eastern fashion.” The narrator finds them out of place in a Christian monastery.

One servant sees to the narrator’s horse, and the other shows him to his room, which is “hung in Spanish velvets of maroon.” The narrator finds them lavish but in bad taste in a house of worship.

The abbot has arranged a set of dry clothes for the traveler that fit him perfectly. The abbot extends an invitation to dinner.

The dinner is lavish, far beyond what the narrator considers the usual monastery fare. The monks laugh. It’s a party. The narrator grows more uncomfortable.

The abbot tells him he’s fortunate to have found them. Others have not been so lucky.

Thoughts:

How many warning signs does this guy need to know that not all is well where he is? Sure, he’s caught in a storm in some pre-industrial society. Calling AAA if his horse breaks a leg is not an option, so he has to take what he’s offered. Nevertheless, outside of sniffing at the impropriety of the conduct of people around him, he does nothing until the big reveal at the very end.

Bloch was about 18 when he wrote this tale. He can be forgiven for things like not knowing an abbot would not answer a monastery door, for example. The writing is adjective-heavy, slowing it down a bit. Nevertheless, it is nicely atmospheric. The feeling of threat grows as the story progresses. The monks seem at first merry—perhaps a little indulgent—then outright gluttonous when dinner arrives, stuffing themselves. They laugh loudly, drink, and tell jokes. Near the end, they appear “wolfish.”

He steals some of his thunder, betraying the shocking ending before it arrives. At the same time, this is short and can be read in one sitting. I liked the atmosphere and waiting for the narrator to get a clue. Great literature it is not, but it is entertaining. Given Bloch’s age, it ain’t half bad.

Bio: Robert Bloch’s (1917-1994) best-known work is Psycho (1959), which Alfred Hitchcock made into an iconic movie of the same title in 1960. The writings of H. P. Lovecraft greatly influenced Bloch’s early career, but Bloch later branched out into crime, psychological horror, and a bit of science fiction. He also branched out into television and film, including The Twilight Zone and some Star Trek episodes. “The Feast in the Abbey” was among his first sales to Weird Tales.

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here:

Title: “The Feast in the Abbey”
Author: Robert Bloch (1917-1994)
First published: Weird Tales, January 1935

Review of “The Call of Cthulhu” by H. P. Lovecraft: Halloween Countdown

For October 6

Plot:

While going through the effects of his late uncle, George Gammell Angell, professor emeritus of languages at Brown University, Francis Wayland Thurston discovers a small bas-relief depicting a creature, an amalgam of “an octopus, a dragon, and a human.” He further describes it: “A pulpy tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings.” Below the creature, hieroglyphics were inscribed.

According to Professor Angell’s notes, a young man by the name of Henry Anthony Wilcox brought the bas-relief to him, asking him to translate the hieroglyphics. A student at the Rhode Island School of Design, Wilcox had made the bas-relief, including the inscription, after something he’d seen in dreams.

Wilcox is taken ill and sent home. After some days, he recovers with no memory of having been ill. The strange dreams cease.

Among his great-uncle’s papers, Francis finds accounts of other similar dreams, experienced mostly by artists and poets.

The Professor had seen something like this before. In 1908, Inspector John Raymond Legrasse from New Orleans came to consult a gathering of the American Archaeological Society in St. Louis about cult of voodoo adherents who practiced human sacrifice.

From here, arise stories that seem to indicate a cult dedicated to an image much like Wilcox’s exists in nearly every far-flung corner of the world. They chant a phrase in an unknown language which means, “In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”

Thoughts:

A warning to anyone who might be thinking of reading this gem, which is often considered Lovecraft’s masterpiece. Lovecraft uses racist language and stereotypes unapologetically. People of mixed-raced are “mongrels,” and they are (whaddya know?) the bad guys—assassins, and often not terribly bright. “Degenerate Esquimaux” practice Cthulhu rites. He doesn’t have much good to say about sailors, either. Lovecraft was a racist and a snob.

Lovecraft’s prose is often lush and heavy, a throwback to 19th-century purple passages with phrases like, “My uncle, it seems, had quickly instituted a prodigiously far-flung body of inquires amongst nearly all the friends whom he could question without impertinence…”

Even if Lovecraft was long-winded, he knew how to build suspense. What might appear at first as no more than an ugly sculpture made by a young man whose unsettling dream interest the narrator’s great uncle becomes a symbol of a threat to the entire world. It’s evil enough not to mind devouring humans for breakfast. How to stop it? It’s deathless.

This is a longer story, broken into three chapters. It takes a little longer to get through, but I think if the reader has time, this is not a bad little yarn. The racism, however, spoils it.

Bio: H.P. (Howard Phillips) Lovecraft (1890-1937) was an American writer of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. He is best known as the creator of the Cthulhu myths, involving “cosmic horror,” that is, a horror that arises from the danger that surrounds us mortals, but it keeps so far from our everyday lives we don’t and can’t see it. Those who seek knowledge of it are often driven insane or die.

Lovecraft originally wanted to be a professional astronomer. He maintained a voluminous correspondence, particularly with other writers. Though his work is now revered as seminal in horror and dark fantasy, he died in poverty at the age of 46 of cancer of the small intestine at his birthplace, Providence, Rhode Island.

Lovecraft was an early contributor to Weird Tales magazine in the 1920s. Among his best-known works are “The Dunwich Horror,” “Dagon,” and “The Call of Cthulhu.”

The story can be read here:

The story can be listened to here:(1:29:36)

Title: The Call of Cthulhu
Author: H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)
First published: Weird Tales, February 1928

Review of “The Burned House” by Vincent O’Sullivan: Halloween Countdown

For October 5

Plot:

Aboard a ship crossing the Atlantic, the narrator hears other passengers discuss being (maybe) over the spot where the Lusitania went down, which leads to a discussion of death by drowning and a discussion of ghosts, which in turn leads to laughter.

One passenger, a man from Fall River (MA?), does not laugh, though he denies believing in ghosts. He tells the narrator a story.

Later, topside walking and smoking cigars, the man from Fall River tells the narrator, “So many damn’ strange things happen in life that you can’t account for. You go on laughing at faith healing and dreams and this and that, and then something comes along that you can’t explain.”

Before he launches into his main story, the man from Fall River describes himself as an “outfitter” (he sells men’s clothes?). His favorite author is Ingersoll (presumably Robert G. Ingersoll, “the great agnostic”), so he’s not into woo-woo stuff.

After a tiresome time “before the courts,” he was acquitted and took a vacation in the hills of Vermont.

While walking, and sees a house burn, killing a couple inside. Oddly, the fire is not hot, nor does the smoke choke him. He runs back to the village for help and notices a man he’d seen earlier hanging from a footbridge, toes dangling in the water. When he tries to help him, he clasps at nothing.

Because of his earlier legal troubles, he’s reluctant to make a fuss and asks obliquely about the house on the hill when he returns to his inn.

The innkeeper says there is no house on the hill as he described.

Thoughts:

So, was the unnamed man from Fall River hallucinating? Was he daydreaming? Stressed out after his trial? That would be the most logical explanation.

While perhaps strictly not a ghost story—all parties are alive when the visions occur—it bears the same hallmarks as many ghost stories. It is sad. The actors are trapped by their fate, perhaps even doomed to repeat it. A suicide is involved.

Realizing he could do nothing to prevent the tragedy despite his forewarning haunts the man from Fall River as surely as any ghost.

I liked this little tale, as sad as it was.

Bio: Vincent O’Sullivan (1868-1940) was an American poet, critic, and writer of weird fiction, most notably in the turn-of-the-century Decadent movement. He spent most of his life in Europe, living quite comfortably until the family business went bust.

The text can be read here:

The text can be listened to here: (19:52)

Title: “The Burned House”
Author: Vincent O’Sullivan (1868-1940)
First published: The Century Magazine, October 1916