The Inmost Light, by Arthur Machen (1892)

 The Inmost Light (1892) is notable for a few reasons.  First, it is the first appearance of Dyson, Machen’s “occult investigator”, man of science, historian of London’s underbelly, and all around fact-finder for some of the weird happenings that occur within Machen’s early weird tales.  Second, it is arguably a slightly different version or retelling of Machen’s most famous tale, The Great God Pan (written in 1890), following a very similar plot from a different perspective, or at least with a slightly different outcome and point of focus.

Dyson, who puts the pieces of the mystery within the tale together, doesn’t largely figure into the actual narrative, and calling him an occult detective or anything similar (or, at least anything similar to the likes of Quinn’s De Grandin or Hodgson’s Carnacki) would be a disservice to readers looking for something within that genre.  He frames the tale, like many of Machen’s works told in an episodic, found clues fashion, but doesn’t have any lasting impact on the proceedings beyond being incredibly lucky (or unlucky) at being at the right place at the right time.

The tale itself, in brief, follows two old friends meeting up and discussing a weird occurrence, which they between them manage to unravel.  This time around the focus is on a doctor in a small London suburb who becomes embroiled in some mischief when his wife disappears, and later is found dead.  An examining doctor does an autopsy and discovers the woman’s brain is something wholly unlike a human’s or an animal’s, and tells Dyson later on that she seemed like some sort of devil and even her corpse frightened him.  Dyson, who previously saw the woman’s monstrous face (though she’s also described as beautiful) in a second story window, manages to piece things together through luck and circumstance, eventually finding a small wooden box owned by the doctor.  Within the box are a brilliant opal and a small book detailing what became of the wife.  Like the doctor at the start of The Great God Pan, there was some sort of occult influence on the doctor as he performed some sort of vaguely defined procedure on his willing partner, somehow inviting an outside force into her body and trapping her soul within the gem.  Startled by this and the unholy light emanating from the jewel he shatters the thing and the story ends.

Again, very similar to Pan in that a young woman is made a willing vessel to something from beyond our understanding, eventually leading to her corruption and the deaths of others, though in this case on a much smaller scale and with far less reason given to the reader for the occult practices.  That said, the way in which the woman’s possession is written and the seeming aftereffects of it are far more impactful than they are in the more frankly depicted ones in Machen’s more famous work.

Nobody wrote the corruption of the innocent (both in the spiritual and physical sense) like Machen and, despite being less fleshed out, the destruction of the young woman here really shines, not because of what we’re told happens to her, but because of the coercion of the doctor and the sad willingness of his wife to be utterly ruined by something no human can understand.  Her fear, sadness, guilt, and shame is written so perfectly within a few short paragraphs (within the found notes of the doctor) that it will stick with the reader even where the more gaudy Pan doesn’t.

Why, we have to ask ourselves, do the victims in these stories so willingly go along with the practices of predatory men?  In this case, unlike in Pan, the victim seems to be told entirely what will happen, and even goes so far as to ask the doctor to kill her should the procedure succeed.  She allows the thing to happen, knowing it will kill her body and damn her soul, but why? 

Machen seems to suggest there is something sexual in the ritual, and earlier within the tale a satyr is again mentioned (another theme throughout Machen’s weird tales), while the woman’s “shame” is mentioned as well – are we to suspect another rape via an otherworldly force?  Is this the reason she welcomes the corruption, and moreover why Machen goes out of his way to describe the woman as beautiful earlier in the tale?  The reader is given just enough to ponder these questions while Dyson and the reader are, unfortunately, left in the dark.

Pundits will surely point out that Machen’s tales seem to focus on female sexuality or liberation (via penetration?) and give one the point of view of a man afraid of a woman embracing her sexuality, and while that certainly can be gleaned from the tale, I feel like it’s a short-sighted take on things and ultimately robs the reader of what truly shines within Machen’s tales.

Unlike Lovecraft’s (who was very obviously influenced by this tale in both the use of the gem and the penetrative invasion by an outside influence on humanity) external corruption, the smaller scale, internal corruption here is perfectly done and really should be read and enjoyed by any fan of weird fiction. 

Note - Despite my take on the final pages of this tale, I will say that ultimately The Great God Pan is the better story, but the victim’s destruction in this story is better written.  While they both tread similar ground, both tales are more than worth reading on their own or as considered parts of a whole.

The Plant-Thing, by RG MacReady (1925)

 “The Plant-Thing” by R.G. MacReady appears in the July 1925 issue of Weird Tales.  It is MacReady’s only story to be seen in The Unique Magazine, and despite having a wonderful title (as always, “Thing” in a title always grabs my attention), is a rather humdrum weird tale that doesn’t really explore much new ground.  It has an interesting antagonist, which is unfortunately spoiled by editor Farnsworth Wright on the contents page, but that’s hardly enough to save the story from being more or less unmemorable, and quite possibly the reason that MacReady wasn’t seen again.

The story occupies a scant four pages and details a reporter who is tasked with checking in on a local doctor who has been accused of vivisection by local farmers who’ve been sending far too much livestock his way.  Turned away from the compound by the typically foreign manservants, the reporter slips over the fence and encounters the titular monster.  He passes out and awakes to discover the beautiful daughter of the mad scientist watching over him.  They bond, falling in love almost instantly, and the reporter is kept around – though not to be murdered.

They hang about the plantation for a short while as the existence of the beast is explained – an experiment to bridge the gap between animal and plant – and to see the carnivorous thing attack it’s former master.  Then the tale ends.

The various pulp tropes one would expect from such a thing are all on display here.  The plant thing is monstrous, the servants are all Asians, the daughter is beautiful, the reporter daring, and the scientist…surprisingly bland.  Hardly the mad scientist we’d expect (which might have made the tale better) with hardly a reason for keeping our reporter “hostage” (laid up while his broken rib mends).  It seems MacReady may have needed to flesh out his narrative a little more, particularly when the shock of what the beast is is revealed in the middle of the tale.

Not exactly worth a read, but not offensively bad either.  “The Plant-Thing” lacks much in the way of punch or originality, but it does hold one bit of trivia for Weird Tales – the author was deaf, though he never makes any mention of such things in the tale.  There seems little else available regarding his life, and I can’t find any other mention of his tales (if he even dabbled beyond this one), but for a fan of weird tales (as he must have been), it truly must have been an honor to appear in the July 1925 issue alongside Lovecraft, a debuting Robert E Howard, E Hoffman Price, and Seabury Quinn.

A Night in King's College Chapel, by M.R. James (1892)

 The Idler After Dark’s Chronological Examination of the Works of M.R. James Part 1

 

Quite possibly the first ghost (or at least supernaturally inclined) story James ever tried his hand at (speculated to be dated around 1892), “A Night in King's College Chapel” is a fragment of a tale, written seemingly to coincide with an article on stained glass James also wrote for “The Cambridge Review”.  It is also far more in the vein of humor than horror and quite obviously doesn’t take itself very seriously, making it quite a departure from the tales James is better known for.

The story is short and simple.  A man falls asleep in his chapel while writing an article on the stained glass windows in the place.  When he awakens the door is locked and night has fallen, but worse than all that he hears voices – the voices of the various saints, animals, and assorted characters depicted in the windows as they interact with each other and caper about within the confines of the various windows.

There is no sense of terror from the man, and he recounts what he sees and hears (or dreams he sees and hears) quite calmly, making small jokes and puns at the expense of the Biblical characters depicted.  Other than being startled by the door closing and locking nothing is taken as much out of place (despite the oddness of the encounter) and there is no real threat from the people depicted – whether or not they actually exist, and whether or not they are aware of the living in their midst.

Overall an odd tale with a lot of jokes and puns that will likely fall flat for those not well-versed in Biblical lore and the stories of some of the minor characters that make up the Bible.  There is also a bit of oddness in the writing that doesn’t quite seem like James (mostly in the dialogue of Reuben), though research seems to point to him having written this and the Review article that is mentioned at nearly the same time.

Honestly there isn’t much to recommend any fan of weird fiction reading this on beyond the curiosity of seeing what may well have been the master’s first foray into the supernatural.  The tale itself is short and largely uninteresting, featuring nothing of what one expects from M.R. James, but it may well be what inspired him to write the finest ghost stories in the English (or any other) language, so its importance there can’t be overstated.

 

The Horror of Abbot's Grange, by Frederick Cowles (1936)

The work of Frederick Cowles seems to be a mixed bag, from the limited experience I have with it.  While the pulps, and most especially the horror pulps, were never really that known for subtlety or nuance, Cowles’ work seems to exist somewhere in a league below them, somewhere seemingly more approaching the shudder pulps or even comic books.  That’s not to say the writing isn’t good, or the stories uninteresting, it’s more to say that the narrative hits one over the head from almost the get-go, with no mystery or style truly present (at least in the tales I have read so far). 

Now, that said, I’ve always been a fan of the supernatural in pulps, and I typically don’t care for it when the supernatural ends up explained away, or written so vaguely that one questions whether the ghosts were real or some mental delusion (ala Henry James), but even I find it a little off-putting when there is no mystery whatsoever, and the evils are utterly unmasked from the opening pages.  Cowles’ writing seems to fall, to this reader at least, somewhere between the likes of the original Tales from the Crypt comic books and the original Scooby Doo cartoons.

His stories are adult in nature, their monsters real and deadly enough, but the reactions all seem stilted by adults – particularly educated ones – leaving the reader wondering why any sensible person would remain in a house knowing haunted by some deadly specter, as is the case with “The Horror of Abbot’s Grange” (1936).

Here we have an utterly typical gothic vampire tale presented long after many other pulp and horror writers did their best to modernize or update the over-exposed undead.  People move into an old house with a sinister past and are plagued by a vampire after entering his crypt despite repeated warnings not to.  Priests are called, vigils are held, and the ending is something lifted directly from Stoker himself.

The only real originality to the plot involves a portrait that the vampire uses to maintain a link to life (similar in vein to Dorian Grey) and a slight backstory that suggests some occult and Satanic links.

All the above in mind, I really can’t say that the story is a bad one, it just isn’t terribly original or memorable, written seemingly to check the boxes of what the reader would expect in a vampire story from perhaps 50 to 60 years earlier.

Cowles has a very readable style and he wastes no time or words in telling his stories, moving from introduction to action faster than most of the pulp writers who came before him, but this seems to be both his gift and his curse, leaving the reader wanting more and perhaps with a few more shadows (or at least a lot less light) on the things that should be hidden (even slightly) in the background.

Easily the antithesis to the likes of M.R. James in style, there are still a few effective moments to be had at Abbot’s Grange, and I’d still recommend fans of the horror pulps to at least give this story a try to see if you like Cowles’ style.

Originally published in a collection with the same title, these tales are sadly out of print and oft overlooked by readers of classic horror.  Depending on your tastes, this may be an understandable thing.

Caterpillars, by E.F. Benson (1912)

 As an admitted newcomer to the works of E.F. Benson, I must say that he seems to have an obsession, or at least a great dislike, of small things that crawl along either on their bellies or on many legs – an idea I’d largely say I agree with.  Some four stories into his works, I’ve seen such beasts appear either in corporeal or incorporeal forms (or in the case of one slug, a wood cutting that turns into something more manifestly real), and obviously that is the case with “Caterpillars” (1912), which gives away what the menace is in the very title.

Or does it?

The story begins with a brief description of ghosts, and what their visitations may entail, which leads this reader to believe that the titular villains are perhaps not so terrestrial as they may seem.  Take into consideration as well how they do away with their victims (if one believes them to be so), and we can perhaps consider that they are something more than mere insects.  Ghosts though?  Even to me that’s something of a stretch, and I far prefer the bestial “ghosts” of M.R. James to the spectral ones of Henry James.

The narrative is brief, as is the story.  A group of friends gather in a large country house, more a mansion than anything else, where the odd room assignments trouble on guest’s sleep.  Awaking one night in something of a fit, with a feeling of apprehension, he discovers (or perhaps dreams) that a swarm of odd caterpillars are on the landing and in a room downstairs.  Phosphorescent and otherworldly these insects are, glowing with evil as well as a dull light, and our narrator is quite traumatized by the experience, whether it was merely a dream or a true nocturnal visitation.

The next day a similar insect is found and dubbed “Cancer Inglisensis” because of its crab-like pincers.  The men dispose of the beast but see it again later, squashing it as it seems to have become aggressive towards them (as aggressive as a small caterpillar can be, at any rate).  Later that night the dream resumes, with more of the insects, this time making their way higher in the house and entering the bedroom of the narrator’s friend.

From here we jump forward a space and our narrator is talking about his dreams and experience there, when its revealed that the friend who was intruded upon was found dead shortly after his visit to the house.  In the same manner as the previous person who died in that same, forbidden room.  Not from any supernatural cause, nor from insect bites or wounds, but from a far more insidious death.  Cancer.

Benson leaves much of what has occurred vague and never delves very deeply into what, if anything, the caterpillars are.  We know they’re real, and that they seem to destroy whoever inhabits that downstairs room (similar in theme to James’ “The Ash Tree”), but how they cause cancer and death, or why, is a complete mystery.

Their glowing suggests potentially that they’re radioactive and thus cause cancer in that way, but their attitude towards humanity (open hostility and a sense of cunning) suggests they’re likely more than mere insects.  Whatever they are, I think we can all agree they’re in no way ghosts, despite what Benson says about specters and suggests that the ghosts have planned within this tale.

What exactly the theme is here is hard to say.  Premonitions, nature’s revenge, a weird haunting, perhaps radiated insects, or even something related to the oft-mentioned Sirocco (essentially a desert wind storm that travels from the Sahara and carries real-life superstitions), Benson never fully fleshes out what he’s driving at.  He delivers a great weird tale with some unnerving imagery, but ultimately the downfall of the tale is the downfall of the narrative.  Things have happened, and they’re awful, but they happen for no real reason to people who’ve committed no other crime than going to bed at night.

Regardless, I’d still suggest reading Caterpillars (which seems to have been anthologized many times over) and avoiding any glowing insects you might see crawling up the stairs at night.

Ancient Lights, by Algernon Blackwood (1912)

 A walk in the woods with Algernon Blackwood (1869-1951) must have been quite the thing.  I often wonder to myself if he was a man who truly loved the outdoors, or feared them.  Much has been made of his fascination with the outdoors, and his horror tales dealing with natural forces, forests, natural phenomena, and the beings that call the wilds their home are without question the finest ever written, but how did the man himself truly feel about being surrounded by trees, by desolate silence, or by the near endless expanses of wilderness we know he saw during his time here in Canada?  Modern readers suggest that Lovecraft had an aversion to seafood tantamount to a phobia, that he allegedly feared the sea, and that gazing at the endless stars simply must have filled him with dread based on his writings (though these opinions are rarely, if ever, bolstered by reading his actual letters or looking up his true feelings of things).  If that’s the case, then how must Blackwood have felt about a walk in the woods?  Or the wind in the trees?  Or the babble of a brook?

We may never truly know, as surely his own letters wouldn’t give us any insight (…), but based on today’s story it may as well have been a laugh as a shriek.

Ancient Lights (1912) continues themes Blackwood previously visited in The Willows (1907) and The Man the Trees Loved (also 1912), that of a potential sentience among plant life that may or may not be hostile towards man, but invariably is willing to protect itself should it need to.  That’s not to say the stories are in any way connected, nor do they seem to suggest any overarching mythology, but rather an interesting fascination the author had with the outdoors and the seemingly innocent, though massively outnumbering denizens which sway with the breeze and just may have an intellect all their own.

In this very short tale (a “ten minute” tale written by Blackwood for magazines) a surveyor is called to the English countryside to meet with a homeowner about having a copse of trees removed that is blocking the view from his home.  Upon arriving the surveyor is in a gay mood and, seeing that the stand of trees seems a little less than an acre, is set between two large fields, and offers a full view of the man’s house on the other side, decides to take the path through the trees to see what he’ll soon be dealing with.

At first all is good and fun, the sun is shining and the little wood seems to be a lovely spot full of flowers, sweet smells, and a charming atmosphere.  He bends to pick at some flowers and a stray oak branch knocks off his hat – then does it again when the hat is replaced.  From there the forests seems to take on a sinister air as the man becomes hopelessly lost, sees odd shapes moving in the sun-dappled glades, and is continually turned around, being pushed further and further away from the fields and the red house that stands beyond the woods.

Blackwood does an expectedly amazing job of bringing the forest to life, turning everyday natural occurrence sinister, breathing life into shadows and rustling leaves and the fear that we all experience at becoming lost, even in so small a space.  He introduces potentially spectral figures, footsteps, and even the suggestion of the fae as the man is forced from the woods and told, in no uncertain terms, that “Trespassers will be Prosecuted”.

A message that becomes all the more true when we learn from the homeowner at the end of the tale that the ancient copse is known locally as “The Fairy Wood”.

There’s also a great line within the story as the surveyor reads his note from the homeowner stating:  “There is a short cut through the wood – the wood I want cut down – if you care to take it.”  The “c” in care, of course, is smudged and could be read as a “d”.

Blackwood does a masterful job with Ancient Lights, blending some subtle humor with increasing terror as he once again turns the innocent and prosaic sinister.  Too short to really reach the heights of the likes of The Willows or The Wendigo, Ancient Lights is nevertheless a great addition to Blackwood’s nature stories and the clever bits with the signage and the surveyor’s note stick with the reader long after.

The story ends with the homeowner asking the surveyor (who has just arrived at his home after the ordeal) if he’s quite ready to go out and have a look at the stand of trees, inviting the reader as well along for another walk in the woods with Algernon Blackwood, for good or evil.

Man-Size in Marble, by Edith Nesbit (1887)

 Edith Nesbit’s (1858-1924) Man-Size In Marble (1887) has become something of a highlight for Gothic short horror fiction, particularly for non-haunting, non-traditional short horror fiction.  Frequently anthologized and pondered with modern sensibilities, it falls comfortably into what may be considered rural or folk horror, having an atmosphere almost of local legend about it.  The sort of tale that may have been handed down from an aunt or uncle, or perhaps around the campfire by a woodsman or a Scout leader.

Nesbit does an amazing job creating the small, utterly normal world in which her story takes place.  The forested glen and surrounding areas where the short story happens, as well as the dilapidated buildings that play as strong a role as the human characters all come to life and one might be excused for thinking she was speaking of real places, rather than just drawing on the inspiration of fairly typical architecture of the time.  Suggestions are that the church in the tale is actually St Eanswith’s, though nothing can be said with certainty.

Where the story falls short for me, however, is in the actual telling.  Man-Size definitely has one foot squarely in the tales of the legendary M.R. James (though pre-dating James, the comparison still stands, though perhaps the other way around), using similar motifs and methods as the master, as well as pacing that is surely Jamesian in execution, though it’s missing the subtlety of most of James’ better works, instead laying nearly everything on the table and in many ways ruining the illusion that Nesbit’s prosaic landscape creates throughout the early part of the tale.

For those who haven’t read the story, which I still suggest any fan of classic horror literature do, here is a brief summary.  Spoilers abound. 

A young couple, recently married, are looking for a home.  They are both artistic types, a wrtier and a painter, and on meagre funds decide to look about for a cottage-style home that their lower income can accommodate.  After seeing a few shanties that are either too-rustic or not rustic enough, they decide on a seemingly perfect little house situated somewhere between the forest and an older church, well off the beaten path and seemingly with few neighbours (only one is really mentioned, and while he appears, he’s largely unimportant to the story).  They hire on a local woman to do their chores and go about their lives in happiness.

Approaching All Saints’ Eve, their hired help feigns a need to leave for a sick niece, rousing suspicion in the husband until he gets the true story from the peasant woman.  It seems the local church has a pair of statues near the altar - two knights, she tells us, who were wicked in life and only became interred (or at least remembered in stone) in the church due to the finances of their progeny.  These monuments, it has been said, come alive on All Saints’ Eve and return to their home, killing anyone they find there.

Quite naturally their former home is the site of our young lovers’ cottage.

At first scoffing about such things, the husband finds himself soon without a housekeeper and later out for a walk in the gathering dusk of All Saints’ Eve, his young wife at home with a feeling of apprehension she’s been unable to shake.  He heads to the church and sees both statues missing and, aware that the fable has become reality, races home.  He’s stopped in the field, his eyes taken by the light in his home, by his neighbour who convinces him he’s carrying on.  They return to the church and see both statues there, though one now has a broken hand.

Convinced he’s been chasing ghosts he heads home, neighbour in tow, for a drink and a laugh, only to discover his little wife dead, strangled it seems, with a marble finger at her throat.

Very little is done to make the tale reach any level of horror once the supernatural pokes a stony head into the otherwise placid story of two young people very much in love.  Nesbit does very well in creating the folklore of the knights, and the housekeeper’s version of the tale and her belief in the mythology are easily the best part of Man-Size in Marble (aside from, perhaps, the environs themselves).  Unlike James, the villains of the story are entirely too realized, and the trauma entirely too avoidable.  There is no reason for the husband not to return, no reason for them to ignore all the forewarnings, and further no reason to ignore the obvious fears of the housekeeps and seemingly everyone local to the area.

This lack of concern (though one could say it is a statement on the modern man’s thinking versus the more old fashioned, or perhaps even modern thinking versus nature and folklore) removes the reader from any real concern for the victims, while the entirely terrestrial nature of the creatures (which are never really explained nor seen outside of their stationary forms) removes any threat they may pose in the reader’s mind.  They become unironically like a speeding train, deadly certainly but utterly avoidable and posing no real threat to anyone who is not on the rail before them.

Many latter day readers and students of weird fiction take the time to examine the wife’s position in the story, how she’s left unguarded and ultimately killed because a) her husband was elsewhere and b) they again refused to heed any warnings, but for me this is largely a moot point and ultimately a service to modern thinking, perhaps even suggesting things that aren’t there and aren’t meant to be.  The wife plays a pivotal role in the story, as does the doctor, and the housekeeper, and the husband as narrator.  So to do the evil knights, whatever they may be.

At its core though the tale seems more concerned with the loss of natural knowledge, forgetting where we came from, and ignoring nature’s warnings (or at least those more in-tune with nature) because we’re modern.  And smarter.  Not smart enough to avoid a slow moving, well known threat that can’t seem to deviate its course, but still, smarter than we perhaps should be.

Lovecraft said it was mercy that humanity could not correlate their thoughts, that doing so would ultimately lead to our destruction.  Nesbit, at least in this tale, seems to suggest otherwise.  Maybe sometimes a little knowledge will save us, or at least a little common sense.