Reviews of Old and New Stories. Mostly Old

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

A story about to be a podcast! YIPPEE!

Review of “The Bad Lands” by John Metcalfe: Halloween Countdown

For October 4

Plot:

To “slay the demon of neurosis,” Brent Ormerod takes a vacation in the quiet town of Todd on the Norfolk coast of England. As part of his treatment, he gets plenty of exercise and fresh air. He returns to the hotel from these daily walks exhausted and sleeps.

Things go well enough until he comes upon a deserted tower among the dunes beyond a golf course. For some reason, the landscape depresses him. He finds it sinister and decides that the only way to deal with the dark mood is to keep going back and press onward.

When he talks of these things to other people at the hotel, he gets no sympathy until he meets another newly arrived guest, one Mr. Stanton-Boyle. Mr. Stanton-Boyle concedes that the area beyond the golf course “gets on his nerves,” and it “is somehow abominable.”

So is this area indeed, as Stanton-Boyle later calls it, “terre mauvaise”? (Because the Bad Lands are “that bit in the States.”) Two people independently get the creeps from the same place, so it has to be bad, right?

After talking with Stanton-Boyle, Brent dreams of a country “full of sighs and whisperings.” He sees a sinister-looking house.

In the following days, he walks farther beyond the oddball tower and comes to the country he dreamed of, including the house. Looking in through a window (not at all creepy), he sees an old spinning wheel and concludes it’s evil. Not only is it evil, but it’s also the source of all the bad things in the surrounding countryside—and he must burn it!

Back at the hotel, he tells Stanton-Boyle of his plans. Rather than try to talk him out of arson and vandalism, Stanton-Boyle cheers him on, calling him a hero. Stanton-Boyle is the friend your mother always warned you about.

Thoughts:

The action takes place about fifteen years before the story is related, about 1905. Even so, spinning wheels couldn’t have been common. Was it real? A lot of the story has this feeling. Does Brent dream the house into being? There is an answer for that.

The descriptions and the moods created by the landscapes are evocative. Something is off. Is it haunted? What spirit oppresses Brent? How much is in Brent’s head, and how much is not? We have an outside observer. There must be some objective reality, right?

My read on the ending is that the author intended humor. City slickers lost their heads in a countryside they didn’t understand. Too much fresh air, maybe?

There is no note of whether Brent suffers any repercussions beyond humiliation. The townsfolk seem more annoyed and content with making him a laughingstock. They dismiss the things that Stanton-Boyle says. Adding to his embarrassment, Brent finds his sister, concerned he has not written to her, arrives from Kensington to look after him.

Bio: William John Metcalfe (1891-1965) was born in the UK. He is best known for horror and weird stories. He earned a degree in philosophy from the University of London and taught in Paris until the outbreak of WWI, then served in the British Royal Naval Air Service and Royal Air Corps. After the war, he taught in the UK and began writing. After publishing his first short story collection, The Smoking Leg and Other Stories, he wrote full-time. He taught in the UK and the US after WWII. He married American novelist Evelyn Scott.

The story can be read here, though it is challenging:

The story can be listened to here. (begins at 4:53:36)

Title: “The Bad Lands”
Author: John Metcalfe (1891-1965)
First published: Land and Water, April 15, 1920.

Review of “Amour Dure” by Vernon Lee: Halloween Countdown

For October 3

Plot:

Polish scholar Spiridion Trepka, working for a German university, is in Italy researching the archives of the fictional town of Urbania. He has come to find the Past.

He comes across the story of Medea di Capri, a 16th-century noblewoman who left a trail of dead husbands and lovers and was finally executed by her brother-in-law, Duke Robert, at the age of twenty-seven. She was reputed to be a striking beauty. Spiridon finds a couple of likenesses of her and becomes entranced by a miniature showing her wearing a necklace with the words, “Amour Dure—Dure Amour” (“love endures, hard love.”)

His obsession with Medea grows to the point where he neglects his work. One day, a letter arrives in what he believes to be Medea’s handwriting, asking him to meet her at a particular church. It must be a hoax. Medea has been dead for centuries—but he goes.

And he finds the church in much better shape than he expected.

Thoughts:

The story is told as a series of entries in Spiridion’s diary. It opens slowly, with more mentions of artists and sculptors than seems necessary. The author is building an atmosphere thick with Renaissance art and intrigue. She also creates a sense of black magic: Medea, in Greek mythology, was a witch. She fell in love with Jason, but when he betrayed her, she killed their children.

Medea di Capri’s magic lies in her beauty and ability to get men to do just about anything for her. But she’s also abused by her society and family. She was engaged at the age of twelve to a cousin (ICK), but after some misfortune in her family, the cousin’s family broke off the engagement. Spiridon reads the records of husbands’ violent deaths. Why is he attracted to her? The reader knows this will not end well.

I’m not quite sure what to make of this one. The thick atmosphere was a little heavy. Poor Spiridion knew Medea’s track record with men. He falls in love with the likenesses he finds of the long-dead woman. Why does he keep pursuing her and doing the oddball things she seems to be asking? Will it be different this time?

Bio: Vernon Lee is a pseudonym for Violet Paget (1856-1935). Paget is best known as a writer of supernatural fiction. She was born in France to British parents but lived in Italy, the setting for much of her fiction. She also wrote essays on art, music, and travel.

The story can be read here.

I could find no free or easily accessed audio recordings of this story.

Title: “Amour Dure”
Author: Vernon Lee (Legal Name: Violet Paget) (1856-1935)
First published: Murray’s Magazine, January 1887