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The Mummy (1932)

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Psychomanteum #16

Editorial

I’ve been in need of comfort reading this month, due to various things. In addition to the books below, I’ve been rereading back issues of Knights of the Dinner Table. KODT is the one comic book I’ve stuck with for the past, oh, twenty years or so. It’s near and dear to my heart for a number of reasons – as a substitute for playing RPGs with friends; a reminder of good times past; but mostly because it’s one of the purest expressions of friendship, found family and fun going these days.

The characters, from the irascible Bob Herzog to the aptly-named Weird Pete, do not exist in isolation; every action they take has a consequence, sometimes for the better – and sometimes not. Friends get older; they drift apart, reunite, and drift apart again. Their community is a vibrant one, and its easy – and enjoyable – for a reader to get lost in the layers of story that have accreted around the fictionalised Muncie, Indiana. Frankly, these days it’s one of my happy places.

With over three hundred issues, and a handful of specials and one-offs, the world that Jolly Blackburn and co. have created is, in my opinion, one of the best realised in fiction, fit to occupy the same slice-of-life narrative space as John Allison’s extended Bad Machinery-verse, Meredith Gran’s Octopus Pie, or the Hernandez Brothers Love & Rockets – all books I love, coincidentally.

Regardless, whenever I’m troubled, or running on bare nerve tissue, a quick visit to Muncie usually perks me right up. I’ve read and reread my Bundles of Trouble so often, the pages are falling out. Storylines like the Bag Wars, the Inter-Campaign Grudge Match, and the Pwn Brian Express never fail to draw me in, no matter how many times I’ve read them.

Tldr; if you’re looking for something new to read, you could do worse than give the Knights a try.

Reading:

Ghosts & Scholars, issue 48. Notes from the Shadows by Christopher Harman. Orange Crush by Tim Dorsey. The Solar Pons Companion by Basil Copper and Stephen Jones.

Watching:

The Blue Lamp (1950). The Cocoanuts (1929). Frogman (2024). North of North, Season 1. Bosch: Legacy, Season 3. [REC] 3: Genesis (2012).

Listening:

Old Gods of Appalachia, Season Five. Where I’ve Been, Isn’t Where I’m Going (2024), Shaboozey.

News

Not much to report this month, really. A few short story acceptances I can’t talk about just yet, a couple of rejections – hey-ho, so it goes. I’ve mostly been preoccupied working on the current novel-in-progress, which is going well, if slowly.

It’s always a chancy thing, starting work on a new IP. You want to get everything right, so you check and double-check and flip through game books and novels, and spend ninety percent of your time trying to make sure you use the right word for gunpowder. That aside, the writing is easy. It’s fun and there’s a great crop of characters in this book, both protagonists and otherwise.

I am looking forward to finishing it, though.

New Collection – The Vordenburg Papers

I released a new collection in my Ko-fi shop. The Vordenburg Papers contains all of my Baron Vordenburg stories to date, including the novella, “The Coventry Street Terror”. These are the same stories available on this site for subscribers, but if you’ve ever wanted to read them elsewhere, now is your chance. Available in PDF, MOBI and epub. Grab a copy today!

New Essay – Enemy of Evil: John Thunstone

I posted a new(ish) Nightmare Men essay on Manly Wade Wellman’s John Thunstone to the site this month. It originally appeared in 2011 or so at the Black Gate Magazine site, but I’ve tidied it up some and updated it. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Essay – Curse of the Undead (1959)

I posted a new Silver Screams essay on the 1959 weird western, Curse of the Undead. It’s probably the best of the early weird westerns, but that might not be saying much. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Short Story – “The Deep Woods”

I’ve posted a brand new (old) Baron Vordenburg story to the site this month. “The Deep Woods” finds the monster-hunter hunting the deadly Leshy in the forests of the Ukraine. It was previously published in the fine anthology, Slavic Supernatural, which, I should point out, is still available. Subscribe and read it for free.

Monthly Spotlight“Fabius Bile: Repairer of Ruin”

This was the first time that I got to write Fabius Bile, Warhammer 40,000’s own answer to Doctor Frankenstein, and it shows. Fabius is less Peter Cushing here than Ernest Thesiger, camp mannerisms and all.

That said, it was a fun little audio drama to write. I never actually imagined it would get spun off into a novel series, largely because at the time everyone hated Fabius. Funny how things work out, hunh?

Anyway, it’s still available for download, if you’re interested.

Monthly Story

“Riding the Bull Moose Special” was another attempt to break away from my usual fare and try something a bit different – in this case, a Jamesian ghost story of sorts. I’m a bit of a history buff, so I like reading up on different eras and places and finding hooks to hang stories on, especially ones like these, full of blood and thunder and big characters. I think it came out pretty well, all things considered. Some folks have called it a weird western. I don’t know about that, but it sort of fits the idea if you squint a bit. It was published in 2011, in Specters in Coal Dust, from the now-sadly defunct Woodland Press.

The No. 29 morning train growled down the track, heading for Matewan. Onboard, a thirteen strong group of hard, bad men wearing natty suits and Baldwin-Felts badges waited to be unleashed on the deserving.

“You rode the Special through Paint Creek, didn’t you Bunk?” someone said, voice raised to be heard over the clack of the train’s journey over the rails.

Bunk Morely turned slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing. “What’re you implying, John?” he said. John Tops, a thin crane of a man, held up his hands and smiled.

“Nothing. Nothing, just making note is all.”

“Don’t.” Morely turned back to his newspaper. Morely was shaped like a mushroom, broad across the top and thin on bottom.

“But you was on it, right?”

“And if I was?” Morely said, without turning.

“What was it like?”

Morely didn’t reply. He flipped his paper.

“C’mon Bunk. We wasn’t there. We want to know what to expect!” another man said. Morely ignored him.

“Bunk. Just tell them,” Albert Felts, one of the leaders of this little expedition, said, from where he was sitting towards the back of the car. “They ain’t gonna shut up until you do.” He was a lithe man, like a needle. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes were amused.

Morely frowned and folded his paper. He looked at Albert, then turned, leaning over the top of his seat. “It was like riding thunder. Like being the hand of God,” he said, softly. He’d always had a poetic turn.

“Did you shoot anyone?”

“We all shot someone.” Morely closed his eyes. “We shot a lot of people.”

“Kill ‘em?”

“One.”

“Hot dog,” Tops said, showing his teeth. He gave the revolver holstered under his coat an affectionate pat.

Morely grunted and slid back down into his seat. Tops made his way towards him down the aisle. “Is that it, Bunk? Surely that ain’t it.”

“No. It ain’t. But that’s all you’re damn well getting,” Morely said. They wheedled at him for another two minutes before the conversation drifted to other topics-miner’s daughters and Matewan entertainments-leaving him alone to his thoughts.

Seven years. Seven years since he’d ridden the Bull Moose Special through the miner’s colony at Paint Creek with Morton and Bonner Hill. The specially-armored train had ignored everything those few, desperate miners who’d been able to even conceive of retaliation had thrown at it.

One man dead, God alone knew how many wounded. He could still hear Morton’s soggy voice, “Let’s go back and give ‘em another round!” One wasn’t enough for old Quinn Morton. He wanted blood on the ground, turning the black dust red. Teach men looking for a better wage that they should damn well appreciate what they had, even if it wasn’t enough to feed their babies on.

Cooler heads had prevailed. At least until the miners had responded at Mucklow, killing a few guards. None of that had been Morely’s concern because by then, Baldwin-Felts had pulled out of Paint Creek.

And now he was coming back. Not to Paint Creek, true, but the mountains were the same. Dark and mighty and hungry. Like sleeping gods, watching and waiting.

Morely smiled. Stupid thought. Unchristian, at the very least. His father would have whipped him for that. If the mine hadn’t eaten him. The smile died.

His father had been a miner. And now Morely shot miners. Slaughtered them, sometimes. An alienist might say there was a connection, but Morely didn’t know any to ask an opinion.

He put his paper aside and looked out the window, at the world passing by. The muted thrum of the train sent shivers riding up through the soles of his feet to his spine. He hated trains. Had since 1913.

“Seven years, Bunk.”

Morely looked up. Albert leaned over his seat, arms crossed. He bent close, so that no one else could hear. “You up for this?”

“If I said no, you have Tops kick me off the train?”

Felts laughed. “No. You want off?”

“No,” Morely said, sitting back, arms crossed. He continued to look out the window. There was a flash of something-his eyes narrowed. What was that? He closed his eyes again. Nothing. It was nothing.

“It’s been seven years. And they weren’t worth the hell you put yourself through over it, Bunk.”

“You weren’t there,” Morely said, after a moment. “You didn’t see-”

“I seen plenty,” Albert said. Morely looked at him, then looked away. Felts sighed. “Bunk-”

“I can still hear it,” Morely said. His tone was harsher than he’s intended. “I can hear that bastard Morton, and I can hear the whistle and-and everything.” He made to spit, then thought better of it.

“Maybe my brother was right. Maybe we should have left you in Charleston.” Felts sat down across from Morely. The butt of his pistol rode up on his hip as he situated himself. “But you said you wanted out of the office. Out here.”

“Not out here. Roanoke, maybe. We got other contracts,” Morely said.

“None like these.” Felts gestured. “I’m going to need you in Matewan. The mayor and the chief of police ain’t happy about us being there, Bunk. And the miners are in a killing mood.”

“They got reasons.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about their reasons,” Felts said, exasperation evident in his voice. “We’re being paid to evict, and evict we will.”

“Yeah,” Morely said, more to have something to say than from any agreement. The mountains humped like the bulges in a serpent’s spine just outside the window. The gun holstered just beneath his arm felt like a lead anchor tied to his heart. He heard Felts say something else, but it was lost in the rumble of the train.

Out the window, the sun was hurrying upwards, climbing the black peaks of the Appalachians towards the sky, but for Morely, it was night again and he was in the armored guts of the Bull Moose Special, riding towards Paint Creek and the tent-homes of striking miners.

The tents had looked like fireflies in the dark and the Madsen had cracked hard against his shoulder as he held the trigger back, lighting up the night. Where Morton had gotten those Morely never found out.

Only one man had died. Just one. And Morely knew him intimately. He didn’t know his name, or his face, or anything about him. But he knew him. He’d left the mountains to get away from him.

Morely didn’t even know if he was the one who’d shot him, but the miner seemed to know well enough. He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts. Something flashed in the sunlight-the reflection off a gun barrel? The strikers weren’t above ambushing a train, especially one carrying ‘Baldwin thugs’.

It wasn’t a gun barrel. Just a man, on his own, back up in the trees. Morely only saw him for an instant, just long enough.

There was a whistle in his heart, and his limbs felt loose and shaky. No face there, just a blur of dust and black damp beneath a battered cap brim. Morely’s palm itched and he rested it on the butt of his revolver. No-Face.

“Damn,” he said, under his breath. “Damn. Damn.”

“You say something Bunk?” Albert said, reaching over to pat his knee. Morely started.

“No. Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I said it was nothing, Albert.” Morely abruptly stood. “I need some air.” He pushed out into the aisle and headed for the back of the car. Stepping out into the space between cars, he let the air whip around him, hoping it would blow the cobwebs out of his soul. He leaned back, rubbing his face.

When he lowered his hands, No-Face was watching him. Morely froze, hands half-raised, jaw sagging. He barely breathed. No face. Just the hint of features, lost in a swirling mess. Black-stained fingers pressed to the glass of the opposite car’s door, and he could see every grimy wrinkle in the thing’s clothes. He could see everything but a damn face. That was why he’d taken to calling the apparition No-Face. It wasn’t as funny when it was right in front of him.

Going for a ride, Bunk. Me and you, down deep, it said.

Morely licked his lips. Then, “Leave me alone. I didn’t do nothing to you.”

No answer. Just silence and the echo of his own words, as if he were down deep in a shaft. “I didn’t shoot you, damn it,” he said. “I’d surely shoot you now though-”

“Shoot who?”

Morely lurched forward, heart thundering in his chest. Albert Felts stood in the doorway, looking concerned. He pointed at the pistol in Morely’s hand. “That for me, Bunk?”

“I-” Morely shook his head. How had the pistol gotten into his hand? He holstered it slowly. Something black scuttled beneath him, crawling under the car. No-Face stared up at him, just for a minute, then was gone. Morely coughed. His lungs felt full of something heavy. “No,” he said, coughing again. “No. Just spooked me.”

“You spook easy these days, Bunk,” Felts said.

“I’m fine,” Morely said, though whether he was telling Felts or himself, he couldn’t say.

The No. 29 pulled into station a little later. There was no band waiting to strike up a song of greeting for them, no town council members eager to press the flesh. That alone made Morely nervous.

Something was in the air. There was a tang of sulfur clinging to everything. Or at least it smelled that way to him. He didn’t mention it to Felts. Albert wouldn’t appreciate the poetry.

Matewan was silent around them as they moved through its streets. A few of the men had rifles, nothing heavier. Morely kept his thumb tucked behind the strap of his rig, ready to pull his pistol should the need arise. You could never tell with these Mingo County people.

He saw No-Face in every alleyway and every doorway. Just a hint of a shape that wasn’t really there. He knew that. It wasn’t there. Not really. But it was.

Morely wanted to pull his pistol, empty the cylinder, reload and do it all over again. To crack the silence, maybe put some definition in that God-awful face. He could still feel the rhythm of the train beneath his feet, but far and away below him.

“Where we heading?” Tops said, breaking the silence. Morely jerked, snapping back to the moment. Felts looked at his brother, Lee, and said,

“Camp is Stone Mountain Coal property. Just on the edge of town. They’re on strike, they got no right to be living there. So we’re turning ‘em out, every man-jack.”

“What about Hatfield?” another man said, referring to the Matewan Chief of Police. “He’s going to be trouble.”

“We got men already in town,” Felts said, meaningfully. “And I got an arrest warrant with his name on it, issued by the state. He ends today with a bullet, or in the pokey if he sticks his nose in.”

Tops and a few others laughed. Morely noted the undercurrent of nervousness and felt a brief burst of relief that he wasn’t the only one.

“There’ve been some shots,” Lee Felts said. “So keep your fingers on the twitch. One of those shaft-rats even blinks, plug him.”

“Kill them now, we ain’t got to worry about evicting them,” Tops said, slapping his holstered weapon. Several of the others echoed his sentiments. Morely felt a muscle in his cheek jump and realized he’d been clenching his teeth.

He felt an echo, still, under his feet. Like he was standing on a track and watching a train come down the line. He looked down, but he was standing on hard-packed earth.

“Bunk. Bunk!” Albert snapped. Morely looked up, fingers tightening on his pistol. Felts frowned. “Get your head right, Bunk. This ain’t Paint Creek, and we ain’t in no damn train now. It’s just us.”

“Justice?” Morely said.

“Exactly,” Felts said. Morely looked away, taking a breath. He took his hand away from his pistol.

They reached the tent colony just before mid-day. Both Felts brothers fired their rifles into the air to grab the miners’ attentions. Voices swelled in protest as the Baldwin-Felts men knocked over tents and rousted the inhabitants.

Morely stood off to the side, pistol in hand, held low, his other hand over it. He watched the controlled chaos of the eviction with something approaching awe. Albert Felts and his brother had done this many times over the past few years, and they’d become old hands at it. Morely, for his part, had only participated in raids. He was a gun-bull, not a warrant-man.

There was a time when he’d been proud of that. Before Paint Creek. Before-

Something black wove through the canvas streets of the Stone Mountain Coal Camp. Sweat beaded on Morely’s face as the blackness rolled and jerked like an old film reel caught in a snag, making its way towards him.

“Stop it,” he whispered, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. The ground trembled under him, as if some great thing were charging towards him. No-Face stood in front of him, face swirling, arms limp, shoulders hunched. Morely blinked burning wetness out of his eyes. He stepped back. No-Face followed without seeming to move, pressing close.

Morely could smell the rotten egg stink of hydrogen sulphide deep in his nose and his legs felt like rubber. Why was the ground shaking?

The gun jerked in his hand. No-Face vanished like smoke. A miner staggered, clutching his arm. Morely blinked, shocked at his own action.

“Bunk! Goddamnit!” Felts barked.

“He had a gun, boss! I saw it!” Tops yelled, before casting a wink at Morely. Morely felt his gut heave. He didn’t need to be here. The mountains seemed too close, closing down on him. It was all in his head, just in his head but that only meant he couldn’t escape it.

We’re going for a ride, Bunk, it said, whispering at the edge of his hearing. Me and you. No-Face dogged the edges of his vision as the eviction continued to its forlorn conclusion. And the train rumble with it; a dark grinding that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Even as they walked back to Matewan later, Tops’ belly rumbling audibly, he could hear it, keeping pace. He glanced over his shoulder. Thirteen shadows on the street, but something moving amongst them like a stray cat in the weeds.

At the Urias hotel, dinner was full of noise, but only by the Baldwin-Felts men. The people of Matewan were staying quiet, staying low. That suited the Felts brothers, Morely could tell. Tops and a few of the others seemed disappointed.

Morely watched No-Face stand outside the window, looking in, black palms pressed to the glass. Watching him. He couldn’t eat or drink, his stomach was trembling so bad in sympathy to the rumble under him.

When they left the hotel, it was a relief. Morely knew-he knew-he’d be safe if they got on the train. If they could just get back to Bluefield, he’d be fine. No-Face wouldn’t follow him out of the coalfields.

And then, there was No-Face, standing between them and the depot. Morely felt his heart clench tight to his ribs and his breath come in short gasps. Pulling into the depot, Bunk. We’re going for a ride, me and you, way down into the long and deep, it whispered.

The Chief of Police was there, and the Matewan mayor. Arguing with Albert Felts. Pieces of paper were shaken in the space between the two factions. But Morely paid no attention to any of that.

No-Face stood at the end of the street now, watching him from a distance, long form blurry. Like the smoke trail of a snuffed candle. Morely clutched at his pistol.

The ground roared and his skin crawled. So loud. Was this what the miners at Paint Creek had heard? This ugly down-deep bellow? No-Face moved as if wrenched forward, body jittering and shuddering, growing larger and larger and larger.

“I didn’t kill you,” he said. Tops was looking at him now, and several of the others, but he ignored them. “I didn’t do it, damn you! I didn’t!”

No-Face came on, billowing now, no longer a man but something else and sparks flew from his feet and lights swirled in the emptiness of his face and Morely felt himself screaming out denials even as he dragged his pistol free.

As if from a distance, he heard someone say, “Jesus God, they’s all around us!” and then the howl of the darkness hurtling towards him was too much to bear and he emptied his revolver wildly.

Something struck him, blazing hornets that tore his leg out from under him and spun him around and then he was toppling backwards. He couldn’t breathe. There was a weight in his lungs, thick and black.

The sun was setting and men were crying out and he could hear shots. A man lay nearby, curled up, eyes glassy. He recognized the mayor-something Testerman. Morely wondered who’d shot the man, but not for long.

No-Face blocked out the sun. Morely looked up. He tried to deny it one last time, but looking into the darkness, he didn’t have the strength. The ground shuddered beneath him as No-Face leaned in, closer and closer like a locomotive bearing down the track.

We’re going for a ride, it seemed to say. A ride down deep and long, Bunk. We’ll ride the Bull Moose Special, me and you. Ride it all the way down.

And then it was past and down and Morely with it, riding the Bull Moose Special straight into the darkness.

Deep and long.

In Closing

That’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.

But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!

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The Deep Woods

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Enemy of Evil – John Thunstone

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Curse of the Undead (1959)

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Psychomanteum #15

Editorial

The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices…to be found only in the minds of men.

– Rod Serling

I’m tired.

I think we’re probably all tired. The world is variously on fire, under water or falling to pieces. Or so it feels, at times. There’s a meanness in the air that I don’t like. I’ve been feeling it for years now, but it’s gotten worse, lately. Impossible to ignore.

Sometimes, I just want to shake some sense into folks. To make them see that those people they’ve been told to hate are just people. People who never did them any harm. And that any man who tells you that hate is righteous, or empathy a sin, is not a man to be trusted or followed, because the road he will take you down is not one you will ever walk back up.

Growing up, I was taught the things the powerful now espouse were sins. That venality, greed and cruelty were the tools of the wicked. That only a tyrant sought conquest, or imprisoned those who spoke out against him. And now people I know are trying to tell me that vices are virtues, and virtues are vices. That kindness is a mug’s game. That…

Never mind.

It doesn’t matter really, I suppose. I have a sad suspicion that everyone’s mind is made up now, for better or worse. I hope not. I like to think not. I like to think that maybe there’s a way back for those who’ve started down the path to Chorazin. I don’t have any answers, though. All I can do is just write my stories and hope they bring some joy to someone somewhere having a tough time. Because in my stories, hate is never righteous and empathy is never a sin.

It’s not much, but it’s what I can do.

Reading:

The Pastel City by M. John Harrison. Last War in Albion by Elizabeth Sandifer. In Lovecraft’s Shadow by August Derleth. Faunus, issue 50. Knights of the Dinner Table, issue 317.

Watching:

The Great Pottery Throw Down, Season 8. The Breach (2022). The Thing (1982).

Listening:

Old Gods of Appalachia, Season Five. Halfsies (2024), Lizzie No.

News

I sold a book! Unfortunately, I can’t say any more about it at the moment. But – I sold a book. Not a tie-in novel, but a thing that’s all mine. More on that, as I’m freed up to talk about it. Otherwise, I sold a couple of stories, including a new Sherlock Holmes piece. I started work on a few more, including a Holmes/Lovecraft mashup and a new story featuring the main character from my short story, “Regions of Fancy.”

At the moment, most of my time is being spent on the current book-in-progress. This is another one I can’t talk much about, until the license-holder decides to do so, but it’s a lot of fun so far. The IP is similar to others I’ve worked on in the past, so it feels like a homecoming, of sorts. I’m aiming for an August deadline with this one, so I’ve got plenty of time – a nice change of pace, honestly.

Oh, and it’s that time of year again: the British Fantasy Society is taking suggestions for nominations for the British Fantasy Awards. If you’re of a mind, I’ve got a few things that came out last year that might be award-worthy. In particular, it’d be swell if someone were to suggest my Artemis Whitlock short story, “An Indefinite Kingdom”, which appeared in Alone on the Borderland from Belanger Books. Hint, hint.

New Essay – The Good Man – Inspector Legrasse

I posted a new(ish) Nightmare Men essay on HP Lovecraft’s Inspector Legrasse to the site this month. It originally appeared in 2011 or so at the Black Gate Magazine site, but I’ve tidied it up some and updated it. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Essay – Tarantula (1955)

I posted a new Silver Screams essay on the 1955 giant beast classic, Tarantula. It’s a fantastic slice of atomic horror, and Clint Eastwood is in it! Subscribe and read it for free.

New Short Story – “The Adventure of the Dreaming Dragon”

I sold a new Sherlock Holmes short story, “The Adventure of the Dreaming Dragon”, to the forthcoming volume of The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories. The story finds Holmes and Watson once more joining forces with the Pinkerton agent, Leverton, to hunt down a grifter and a stolen painting. It’s still on Kickstarter for a few more days. Get your bid in now!

New Short Story – “Oscula Naturae”

I’m happy to announce that I sold my story of tracheotomies, strange growths and nunneries full of trees, “Oscula Naturae”, to the forthcoming anthology, This World of Vile Wonder, from Scythian Wolf. I did entirely too much research for this one! Including checking out French sources regarding noted medical practitioner and professional crank, Nicolas Habicot.

New Short Story – “Flittermouse”

I’ve posted a brand new Baron Vordenburg story to the site this month. “Flittermouse” finds the monster-hunter hunting a literal (vampire) bat in a belfry. Subscribe and read it for free. And speaking of the good baron, there are now a dozen stories written. Any interest in me adding a Vordenburg Papers collection to the Ko-fi store? If so, let me know in the comments below.

Monthly Spotlight“The Wedding Seal”

I wrote “The Wedding Seal” way back in the dim days of 2011 or 2012 (I forget which, exactly). It was in that first flurry of Royal Occultist stories, when it felt as if I were selling a new one every other week. This one was a bit grimmer than the others I’d written up until then, dealing as it did with themes of spousal abuse, but I think I managed to do it justice. I forget the name of the anthology it first appeared in, but it’s since been reprinted in the first volume of Royal Occultist stories from 18thWall Productions, Monmouth’s Giants. Grab a copy and see for yourself.

Monthly Story

“Green Hell, Red Murder” was my attempt to break away from my usual fare and try something a bit different. A straight-edge whodunnit, featuring Vincent Price in the role of sleuth, set during the filming of James Whale’s ‘Green Hell’ (1940). I was inspired by the delightful Groucho Marx Mysteries penned by Ron Goulart in the late Nineties, though my knowledge of Hollywood isn’t quite to his standards. This remains one of my favourite stories, and I’ve had a sequel in mind – based on Price’s time promoting ‘The Tingler’ (1959) – for years, though I’ve never managed to get it written. At any rate, this first appeared in 2017 in Silver Screen Sleuths from 18thWall Productions. Enjoy!

It was the worst heat wave the City of Angels had experienced in almost forty years. The forty odd thousand square foot confines of the interior jungle set for James Whale’s latest picture were almost as sweltering as the real thing. The stage hands were in a war of attrition with the humidity, and production assistants were waving clipboards like fans, trying to keep the cast from melting. There were rumours that Fairbanks had collapsed from heat stroke, and that George Bancroft was running amok somewhere.

All in all, I was quite happy to be dead, and lounging in the shade.

“About five of the worst pictures ever made are crammed into this one,” I said. I was on my third cigarette of the morning. I held out the pack to Ray, who took one.

“The doctors say these will kill me,” he said, before lighting up. “And that’s being a bit harsh, Vincent. We’ve both been in worse films.” He gave me a flat smile. “And will be for many years to come, if the fates are kind.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “I suspect I’ve reached the apex of my cinematic journey. Two poisoned arrows to the chest and a bit of melodramatic writhing.” I tapped my chest for emphasis. “Hardly a praiseworthy career.” It was a bit part, but I got last billing. It’s said that last billing is better than no billing, but I was having a hard time seeing the upside, career-wise. Such is the lot of the bit-player.

“Four years ago, I shared top billing with a horse and a dog,” Ray said. “Now I’m playing a jungle savage, with fewer good lines than a character who got two poisoned arrows to the chest.” He quirked an eyebrow and blew smoke at me.

“Don’t forget the writhing. I am quite proud of the writhing.”

“Almost Shakespearean.”

“Well, I did get my start on the stage.”

Ray laughed. There was nothing quite like watching Ray Mala laugh. His face, usually about as expressive as a chunk of teak, broke into canyons and crinkles. He clapped me on the shoulder, coughing slightly.

“That’s why I like you, Vincent. You make me laugh.”

“My talents are many and varied, Ray.” I puffed on my cigarette and studied the interior of the subterranean Incan temple that had led to my most recent death. The studio had spared no expense on it – it rose wild, a blossom of heathen idolatry, crammed into a sound stage. It was the dais that drew the eye – a slab of faux-stone, surmounted by an immense menhir, ringed by a quartet of stylised, vaguely capric statues. Deer or goats or antelope, they didn’t quite fit the theme. None of it did, really, despite the profuse amounts of plastic and paper flora clumped and scattered over the set in haphazard fashion. 

Even so, it was a masterpiece far out of proportion with its current display. Cyclopean and intimidating, with an air of primitive mastery to it, it hinted at far better stories than the one currently playing out within it. I had no doubt Universal would use the set again, whenever they had need of something suitably exotic. Trade out the vines for sand, and it’d be a perfect Temple of the Seven Jackals or what have you.

“I heard Douglas tried to swing on one of the vines,” Ray said. “Came off in his hand and dumped him on his ass.”

“Serves him right. This isn’t Zenda, and those aren’t chandeliers.”

“Did he swing on any chandeliers in that one?”

I blew a plume of smoke. “Not during the film.”

Ray smiled. “You’re just annoyed because he ran off with your wife.”

I choked as smoke went down the wrong pipe. As I bent over, wheezing, Ray patted my back sympathetically. I knew he’d meant Joan Bennet, who played my late character’s wife. My part was so miniscule that I hadn’t had a chance to meet her before I was out, she was in, and the jungle was a-swelter with illicit romance between her character and Fairbanks’ dashing adventurer. But for a moment – just an instant – I’d been thinking of Edi. My Edith.

Not unusual, all things considered. We’d been having some difficulties, of late. Broadway wasn’t being kind to her, and none of the usual comforting pabulums were doing the trick. My successes, meagre though they were, weren’t helping matters. Nor was the distance – she was still on the East Coast, while Hollywood had caught me up in its sun-drenched claws. I’d suggested we split the difference and move to Kansas, but she hadn’t appreciated my attempt at humour. Edi was a tougher audience than Ray.

I forgot about Edi when the first scream echoed over the lot. Ray and I looked at one another. Then, a second scream followed the first, rising up like the wail of a fire engine. It was coming from the temple. We started forward, along with everyone else with two legs and a pair of ears. There was a stampede towards the looming eidolon, with its fake greenery and grisly decorations. One of the native girls – really, a former waitress from Long Island – stumbled into the open, eyes wide. She screamed again, showing off a set of lungs that would have made Weissmuller jealous.

Members of the crew were already crawling over the artificial edifice, seeking whatever it was that had set her to sounding the alarm. As we arrived, they found it.

Him, rather.

To the surprise of no one, shooting was cancelled for the rest of the day.

The next morning, I found myself in the scrap of a lot office that James Whale had claimed for his own. It was early enough that the drunks were singing in accompaniment with the birds on Cahuenga Boulevard, but the Universal backlot was silent. No scratch of tools or shouting teamsters. It was unnerving, I admit. You get used to the noise – the constant pressure of a hundred voices, all speaking at cross-purposes. It’s only when it goes silent that you realise just how big and empty a sound stage truly is.  An infinity of possibilities.

Whale looked like a man who’d been subsisting entirely on coffee and cigarettes for too long. He was still handsome, in that brittle British way, but you could see the cracks in the facade. The rumour was, he was on his way out. A shame, but then, I wasn’t even in, so who was I to commiserate? Whale had been a name, once. A director on the rise.

But then the Laemmles had lost control in ’36, when the studio went bankrupt. Showboat had sunk them, for all that it had been a success. And with the Carl and Junior out, Whale’s rising star had turned into a falling one. I’d heard about the mess with the Germans and The Road Back – everyone in town had. Whale had won the battle, but lost the war. Rogers, the new studio head, was trying to figure out a way to get rid of him without breaking their contract, but Whale wasn’t having any of it.

Thus, the great man had found himself directing a string of B-movies, including the currently in-production Green Hell. Whale was beaten down, with a hangdog look on his long, English features. Nonetheless, he eyed me keenly. “You made for an engaging Albert, when I saw you on stage a few years ago.”

“It wasn’t difficult. He was a charming man.” I had played Prince Albert in the American production of Houseman’s Victoria Regina. Not one of my more well known roles, but one I was proud of, nonetheless.

Whale smiled. “Have you ever given thought to a more hardboiled part?”

“I’m open to opportunity,” I said, trying to hide my eagerness. Was I being offered a part, in another film? My last starring role had involved being invisible for the majority of my screen-time. I don’t recommend it.

The door closed behind me. I turned, and saw the familiar figure of the studio fixer, Earl Hoskins, looming in front of it. Imagine a chunk of granite, chopped carelessly, and stuffed into an expensive suit in an effort to hide the flaws in its shaping. That was Hoskins. Officially, he was just another studio executive. In reality, his purpose was more colorful than corporate. Hoskins was a new breed of middle man, designed and built by the studio system to make sure scandals stayed quiet, and that all the moving parts performed their function without interruption. “You ask him yet?”

“I was getting to it.”

“Hurry up. I can’t keep the cops off of the set forever.”

“Then don’t.”

“This film is already over budget and behind schedule.” Hoskins spat the Four Deadly Words like bullets. Whale twitched but didn’t otherwise react. I shrank slightly in my seat, trying to inch out of the line of fire.

Whale glanced at me. “You were on set yesterday? When they found it?”

“Yes. Poor Harold.” I reached for the pack of cigarettes in my pocket. The body they’d found had been that of Harold Gummer. A security guard, and something of a fixture on the backlot. Elderly, even by the standards of Universal security guards. I hadn’t known him well, but he’d seemed pleasant enough the few times we’d chatted. “Heart attack?”

“Arrows.”

I stopped, the pack half out of my pocket. “Arrows?”

“Poison arrows. Just like the ones that did you in.”

“But those are just props, surely?”

“Not when you break one in half and slide it between a guy’s ribs,” Hoskins grunted. He leaned against the door, arms crossed. “Better than a jailhouse shiv.” The voice of experience, I assumed.

“The props department will be pleased to hear it.” Whale looked at me. “It was murder. He was killed sometime the night before. The body was hidden.”

I lit my cigarette. Given the heat, I was surprised someone hadn’t stumbled over the body sooner, but I kept that little bon mot to myself. “Then why keep the police off the set?”

Hoskins set a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I thought you said he was smart?”

I glanced up at him. “This is about money?”

Hoskins grinned, despite my withering tone. “Look at that. He already found a clue.”

Whale sighed. “The police will shut down the set. We’re behind schedule already. But, if we can wrap things up nicely for them, before they start poking around, they might be inclined to accept our gift horse without first checking its teeth.” 

I sat back. “I’m starting to see where this is going. But why am I here?” I tensed. “Am I a suspect?”

“No. You’ll be playing the detective.” Whale tried to smile encouragingly. He didn’t quite manage it.

“Why me?”

“You got a reason to be on set, even if you aren’t doing anything. We hire a private dick, word gets out, the schedule goes to hell.” Hoskins spoke flatly, grudging every word. He cracked his knuckles repeatedly, as if longing to thump someone.

“I know you’re at loose ends, Vincent. I also know you’re a good deal smarter than you pretend to be. You were an art procurer, for a brief time.”

“Still am, in the slow months.” When it came to buying art, it always helped to have a second pair of eyes. I was only too happy to provide those eyes, for a modest fee. Enough to cover the cost of a piece or two for my own collection.

“You have to have a good eye for forgeries in that line. The ability to see what a layman might miss. The little details.”

I sat back, digesting this. As parts went, it wasn’t the kind I’d had in mind. But, at the same time, I wasn’t doing anything at the moment, being in something of a professional dry spell. And house rentals in the valley weren’t cheap, on a bit player’s income. Besides which, I’d liked Harold. No one ought to die on a film set. Not for real, anyway. I looked at Whale. “I’ve always wanted to don the deerstalker. How much does it pay?”

“We’re over budget,” Hoskins growled.

“It will be worse, if the police get involved,” Whale said, pointedly. He looked at me. “We’ll bump your salary. You’ll get what the leads are getting, in cash. Off the books.” Behind me, Hoskins made a choking sound. Whale ignored him. “Does that sound fair?”

“More than adequate,” I said. “I assume I am to begin by digging for suspects, among the cast and crew.”

“I already know who did it,” Whale said, bluntly. “I just need you to find them.”

I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray on the table. “And who are they?”

“The Nazis,” Whale said.

“It’s not the Krauts,” Hoskins said.

“I didn’t say it was the Krauts,” Whale said. “We’ve got plenty of goose-stepping pricks here. Can’t throw a rock in Illinois without hitting a Nazi.” He leaned towards me, the shadows turning his face into a Greek tragedy mask. “Mark my words, Vincent – it’s the Nazis. They hate my work. The only thing worse than a fascist is a critic.”

“And the only thing worse than that is a critic who’s a fascist,” I said. Hoskins gave me the side-eye, and I quickly sheathed my rapier-like wit. I recovered quickly. “Why do you think it’s the Nazis?”

“They’ve had it out for me since The Road Back premiered. You heard about it?”

“Who hasn’t?” Whale’s sequel to All Quiet on the Western Front had ruffled some feathers, including those of George Gyssling, the Los Angeles consul for the current German government. He’d squawked that the film had been unfair in its representation of the German people. Threats had followed, and the whole thing became one of those messes someone will inevitably write a book about, in a decade or two. “And you think they killed a security guard in order to shut down production?”

“I think there’s nothing they wouldn’t stoop to.”

I leaned back, already in need of another cigarette. Instead, I nodded. Never argue with a director. A glance at Hoskins told me he felt the same. Whale’s theory was unlikely, if only because he was no longer important enough to sabotage. At least not by the German government. But it was best to keep that to myself. I pushed myself to my feet.

“Even so, best to be thorough. I’ll begin with the young woman who found the body, and go from there.”

“You got a day, Price. That’s all the budget allows for,” Hoskins growled. “And I’ll be watching to make sure you earn every penny.”

“I feel more productive already. If you gentlemen will excuse me?”

As I left, another argument began. Or perhaps it was the same one. Directors and producers were uneasy allies in the eternal war against rival studios, and Whale was harder to clamp down on than most.

Days like this, I was glad to be a humble thespian.

I found my witness in the studio cafeteria, nursing a cup of Joe. She was a mild thing, with a face for cinema and a voice for a bus depot. Too much yelling, not enough speaking. “I recommend tea with a dash of lemon and honey. Does wonders.”

“What?” She looked as I sat down across from her. “Say, ain’t you the dead guy?”

“That’s what it says on my tombstone.”

“What?”

“Yes. Vincent.” I extended my hand. She shook it.

“Imelda.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Got a problem with it?”

“Not at all. Fine name.” I cleared my throat. “Amarti, e nel martoro…”

She stared at me. I floundered for a moment, tripped by my own erudition. I fancy that I’m terribly cultured, but sometimes I fear I’m simply cultured terribly. “Donizetti’s Imelda de’Lambertazzi,” I continued, lamely. “The opera?”

“Oh.” She laughed, more to be polite, I suspected, than because she was taken by my wit. “Hey, being dead pay well?”

“Oh, I’m as happy as a clam. Can I finish your coffee?”

“Sorry, this has to get me through the day.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I understand you had a rather tough one, yesterday.”

She blanched. “Poor old Harry.”

“You knew him then?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Not well.” I took out my cigarettes and set it down between us. She glanced at it, and I nudged it towards her, in silent invitation. “You?”

“He was a card. A real cut up.” She took a cigarette and I fished out a matchbook. She leaned forward, and I struck a match. “Why you asking?”

“Curiosity, mostly.” I lit a cigarette for myself. “Did Harry have trouble with anyone on the set?” It seemed the sort of question a detective might ask. Then, what I knew about detectives came mostly from books.

“Besides whoever killed him?”

“Well, ideally they’re one and the same.”

She sat back. “Why are you asking me?”

“Curiosity, as I said.”

She frowned. “Not that I know of. He was a sweet guy, like I said.” She puffed on her cigarette. “They said somebody stabbed him.”

“Yes, with a prop arrow, sometime the night before you – ah – stumbled over him.”

She shuddered. “Nasty way to go.”

“How did you come to stumble over him?”

She looked at me as if I’d accused her of something. “I was having a smoke in the chimney.” Seeing my expression, she clarified. “The big stone. You know the one?”

“In the temple?”

“It’s hollow, or mostly. Good place to duck out of sight, for a few minutes, if you need a smoke or for…you know.”  She flushed. I did know. Movie sets were highly pressurised environments, and sometimes, you had to release that pressure however you could. Even if it wasn’t strictly hygienic.

“Yes. I suppose the killer must have thought the same.”

“Say, I thought you were an actor, not a detective.”

“A man who limits his interests limits his life,” I said, aiming for worldly. From the look on her face, I fear I came off more as pompous. I made my excuses and cleared out, hands in my pockets.

I interviewed a few more people as the morning wore on, and cast and crew arrived. Despite the murder, the show would go on. Hollywood’s guiding ethos, and Hoskins’ influence. Nonetheless, I knew time was pressing close about me. Every so often, I caught a glimpse of Hoskins lurking in the background, watching me like a hawk. There’s nothing so intimidating as a pushy producer.

I spoke to Imelda’s fellow natives, a few stagehands, and one very surly teamster in short order. Most of them said the same thing – Harold Gummer had been a fine fellow, and a diligent security guard, if a bit deaf and doddering.

Nothing I learned was helpful.  In the stories, it always seems so easy. A quick chat with the witness, bob’s your uncle. The murderer hadn’t even tried to bop me on the head, or drop a sandbag on me. Maybe I was being too inconspicuous in my poking around. Or maybe it was simply that a movie set was no place to conduct a murder investigation.

Nonetheless, I was determined to earn my increased salary.

By late afternoon, I was sitting above the set on the catwalk, puffing on the second to last coffin nail in my pack, pondering the imponderable and fanning myself with a folded up copy of the L.A. Times. The pieces were there, I knew it. Harold had been killed at night, after filming had stopped for the day. Which meant he’d have been making his rounds. I studied the soundstage, trying to think like Sherlock Holmes.

I was certain by now that Harold had been a victim of circumstance, rather than intent. If you were looking to murder someone on a movie set, why kill the guy who doesn’t even get bottom billing?

Had Harold seen or heard something? But what would someone be doing on the set after hours? Whale’s mention of sabotage came back to me. Perhaps one of the theoretical Illinois Nazis he’d mentioned had been lurking around, and Harold had surprised them in the midst of some skulduggery. But why hide the body, if that were the case? Leaving poor Harold strung up somewhere public would have effectively brought filming to a halt, and not even Hoskins could have swept that under the rug.

Too, there was no evidence of sabotage. No mysterious accidents. No accidents at all, save the usual lethality associated with the Universal backlot. No figures seen creeping about the catwalks, nothing stolen or out of place.

Just a dead man, killed with a prop, seemingly for no reason. Too many questions, not enough answers. Like all good actors, I needed a writer to feed me lines. Unfortunately, this was real life, and unless I started coming up with theories, a killer would walk and I’d be out of a job. I thwacked the rail with my newspaper. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?” Ray asked, from behind me. Startled, I nearly plummeted from my perch, but Ray steadied me. “Whoa there, Vincent. We don’t need another accident.” He was dressed for work, in a grass skirt and a necklace of prop ivory.

“Not an accident, I fear.” I filled him in. Gossip is the currency of the backlot, but Ray knew how to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t quite Nigel Bruce, but I needed a sounding board. One can only monologue for so long.

When I’d finished, he sat back on his heels, looking solemn. “So you’re getting more money,” he said, finally.

“Focus, Ray. I need help.”

“Are you having fun?”

“Oh I’m having a ball,” I said.

“Give me a cigarette.” He held out his hand, and I complied, sacrificing my last cigarette for the cause. He puffed away for a few moments, crouched on the balls of his feet, arms over his knees. Finally, he said, “My first thought is that it’s probably not Fairbanks.”

I threw the newspaper at him. He caught it and flipped it open. I shook my head. “You’re not helping, Ray.”

“Well I’m not being paid to play detective. Not this time around.”

I looked at him. “Wait, what?”

Ray ignored me. “Have you seen this?” He folded the paper and displayed it. I took it back and scanned the article. I’d noticed it before, but had been too distracted to read it.

“A robbery,” I said. “An auction house in Beverly Hills got knocked over a few days ago. Police are still searching for one of the men involved. He’s believed to have gotten away with…diamonds. Hunh.” I glanced at Ray, in his native get-up, and suddenly, it struck me. Much like a poisoned arrow, in fact. “Say, Ray, anyone new on set these past few days?”

“A few. You know background talent, Vincent. They tend to go where the wind takes them.”

“Could you be a pal and find out if they’ve hired anyone new recently? In, say, the last week?”  I tucked the paper under my arm and peered down at the soundstage, the faint inkling of a theory tickling the underside of my brain. “I have a suspicion that our killer is hiding in plain sight.”

It was contrived, I admit. The sort of crime Agatha Christie might assemble out of a collection of random events. But it all seemed to fit. Still, one had to be sure. That meant going spelunking.

I waited until everyone broke for lunch, and then began my quest to conquer the summit of the ancient temple. It wasn’t that hard. The dais, like the rest of it, was hollow, and it was a simple enough matter to wriggle my overlong frame beneath the whole setup. From there, I climbed a short web of support timbers, until I found myself standing in a wide space. The stone might have been fake, but it was solid.

I found the spot where Harold had been left easily enough, with the help of light bulb wired up inside the stone. The bulb was there for the stagehands to use when they made repairs or disassembled the scenery. The light it cast was weak, but serviceable. There was a stain, obviously, and I admit I stared at it for far longer than a real detective might have. It was a sad place to die, I thought. A quiet, cramped little tomb.

It was also a terrible hiding place for a body. It was the centre of the scenes being filmed currently, which meant that someone was bound to stumble over the body sooner or later. Not to mention the stifling heat. Anyone working on the set would’ve known that. But what if hiding a body hadn’t been part of the plan? As I tore my eyes from the dark stains, I noticed a scuff mark on one of the timbers. There was a second scuff mark one another timber, a little ways above.

Curiouser and curiouser.

It was the little details, as Whale had said. Paintings were made of little details, hundreds of them, one blending into another, forming a whole. I fancied a mystery was much the same. Little clues, adding up to a big crime.

I was starting to think like a detective now, my little grey cells firing. Bracing myself, I began to climb the skeleton of the stone. As I did so, I felt around. When I found what I was looking for, I resisted the urge to shout ‘Eureka!’, and satisfied myself with a grunt of triumph. Holding onto my perch, I pulled it down.

The bag was soft and black, like the kind you find in a jeweller’s. A quick peek told me that it was full of ice – diamonds. More than enough to make a man homicidal, if he’d already gone to the trouble of stealing them.

Agatha Christie herself couldn’t have laid it out better – where better than a backlot to hide something? Lots of people coming and going, every day. So intent was I on my own cleverness, I didn’t notice Hoskins until he caught my ankle. I squawked, nearly dropped the bag, and looked down into the producer’s hard-edged features.

“Don’t do that! You nearly scared the life out of me.”

“What are you doing in there?” Hoskins growled.

“What you’re paying me to do. Solving the case.”

“Get out of there, before someone sees you.”

“Did you hear me? I solved the case.”

“Great. Maybe we can bring it in under budget. Get out here.”

I began to clamber after Hoskins, still holding the jewels. After a moment’s hesitation, I stopped, and placed them back where I’d found them. The beginnings of a plan had begun to form. When I clambered out from under the set, Hoskins caught me by my collar and swung me back against the dais.

“Explain.”

“Take me to Whale.”

Hoskins growled.

“Time is money,” I said, quickly. “And you’re wasting both.”

Hoskins released me, and I straightened my shirt. A bell rang, somewhere, signalling the end of lunch. As cast and crew started flooding back into the soundstage, I caught sight of Ray hurrying towards us. Seeing the look on Hoskins’ face, he said, “Vincent? Any trouble?”

“Quite the contrary, Ray. Did you find out what I asked you about?”

Ray fell into step beside me as we walked. “Not really. Background comes and goes. Some only work for a few days. We filmed the native attack scene yesterday, so most of them will be gone today, looking for something else.”

I nodded. That meant whoever it was, was likely to come looking for their loot tonight. I caught Ray’s shoulder. “Ray, do me a favour – guard the temple.”

“What?” Ray stopped, frowning.

“The temple. Guard it. Keep an eye on it.” Hoskins was pulling  ahead, leaving me behind. I turned to catch up, leaving Ray scratching his head.

Whale kept us waiting long enough for Hoskins’ face to shift through several spectrums of colour. When the director finally arrived, I jumped to my feet before the producer could explode. Whale closed the office door behind him and looked at me expectantly. “Well?”

“There’s a bag of diamonds hidden in your South American temple.”

Whale blinked. “Real ones?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a first.” He sat down heavily. “And how did they come to be there?”

I gave him the bullet points, conscious of Hoskins’ glare. “Jewellery heist, auction house, Beverly Hills. It’s not really important. They’re here and I think they’re the reason Harold was killed.’

“He was in on it?”

“More mundane than that, I’m afraid.” I cleared my throat. “I think whoever our murderer is, got a job as background talent so that they’d have a reason to be wandering around the set. Think about it…where better to hide something small and valuable than a movie set? And no one notices background  – it’s right in the name.”

“So you think Harold surprised them while they were hiding it?”

“Or attempting to retrieve it. It’s a good hiding place, but Harold knew the supernumeraries used it for…extracurricular activities. So of course he’d check it, when he heard a sound or saw that the light was on. He must have surprised them, they panicked and…well.” I shrugged. “The question is, what do we do now?” I paused. “We could question all of the background talent…”

“That’ll take too much time,” Hoskins growled. “We’re over budget as it is, and I’ve got the cops circling, asking me why we ain’t reported a dead body yet. Nothing they like better than poking around a backlot. No, we need this handled now.”

“Which is why I left the diamonds where I found them. I think whoever it was will come back tonight, looking to retrieve them before the cops start poking around. We’ll have one shot at catching them red-handed.”

Whale looked at Hoskins. Hoskins looked at me. “What are you suggesting?”

“Simple. We have the bait. Let’s set a trap.”

When night came, and the shooting day ended, we were waiting. Me, Hoskins and Ray. Once he’d realised what was going on, Ray demanded equal billing, so to speak. Even Hoskins wasn’t tight enough to turn down an extra pair of hands when it came to catching a murderer. Whale had left it with us, serene in his confidence. Or maybe he was just good at pretending, after all these years.

The trap wasn’t clockwork, but it was as good as. Ray was waiting on the catwalk, and Hoskins was out of sight in the wings. And I had the centre stage – right inside the chimney. Mostly because of the three of us, only Ray and I fit, and Ray had declined the honour. It was stifling there, in the dark, and cramped. By the time I heard the sound of someone walking across the set, I was a bundle of aches and pains.

I forgot all of that the moment someone began to mess with the dais, and clamber underneath. I heard muttered cursing – a man’s voice, I noted – and a grunt of effort. He was a big one, not quite as large as Hoskins, but large enough to have rammed a prop arrow through poor Harold. I tensed, ready for my big scene.

If this had been Agatha Christie or Conan Doyle, there’d have been a moment of recognition when the bulb flickered to life, revealing the face of our murderer – perhaps he’d have been one of the stars, or someone I’d questioned. Instead, it was just another face in the crowd. I’d seen him a few times, a background player, shooting arrows at befuddled explorers. He stared up at me in confusion, his jaw working. All that came out was, “What?”

“Looking for – oh damn it! Hoskins!”

He hadn’t even waited for me to get the line out. He scrambled out of the scenery, cursing a blue streak. I followed, more awkwardly. Blessed – or cursed – with long limbs as I was, it was all but impossible to swiftly slither out of hiding. I kept shouting.

The murderer was running, when I finally got free. I caught sight of Ray shimmying down from the catwalk, and Hoskins bulling out of his hiding place. I envisioned a tense, ill-lit chase through the prop department, perhaps a shoot out on one of the other lots. Instead, Hoskins’ fist hammered across the intruder’s jaw, spinning him around. The producer was quicker than he looked. Then, so was an avalanche.

The man, big as he was, went water-kneed and stumbled back towards me. I put my fists up, but there was thankfully no need for me to show off my pugilistic skills. Ray tackled him a moment later, hitting him low about the legs, as is the fashion in Republic serials. The bruiser went down with a yelp, and kicked at Ray, trying to throw him off.

By the time he wriggled free, Hoskins was waiting to ring his bells again. The producer hit him twice, in quick succession. The murderer folded over and sagged. Hoskins hit him again, just for good measure. I winced, as he collapsed to the floor.

“Well. That was easy.”

“Over budget,” Hoskins grunted. He crouched beside our captive and rolled him over. “Either of you recognise him?”

I looked at Ray, who shrugged. I shook my head. “No. How disappointing.”

The police were, of course, called at that point. They were not so put out as one might expect. My name was left out of it, as was Ray’s. Hoskins claimed the credit, in the same way a lion claims an expanse of savannah. It had happened in his territory, and was, ipso facto, his. I was happy enough to leave the producer to it.

It wasn’t the first time I’d played a bit part.

And last billing was better than no billing, as they say.

In Closing

That’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.

But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!

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Flittermouse

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The Good Man – Inspector Legrasse

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Tarantula (1955)

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Psychomanteum #14

Editorial

February didn’t start out great, I’ll admit. I had a bit of a health scare – which is still ongoing, mind – the details of which I won’t bore you with, but it crystallised some things for me, in regards to the work-life balance struggle and all that comes with it. Now despite a good deal of my output, I’m not of a morbid turn of mind. Death isn’t something I think about all that much, for various reasons. It’s an inevitability and thus not a going concern – it’ll happen when it happens, no earlier and no later. Will I be like my granddad, and keel over after spending a day trying to get a tractor running? Maybe. Probably. It is what it is.

Yet at the moment, around 3AM every other morning, I find myself wondering what’ll happen to my work when I go. Will it be forgotten? Will it be preserved by my loved ones? Will other writers pick up my characters, and give them new life, or will they be consigned to oblivion the way so many others have? Perhaps most importantly, does it matter?

My conclusion, each and every morning, has been – not really. Royalties will still get paid, or not. My family will be looked after, regardless. Other than that, it’s unimportant. I have never written for posterity. Perhaps that’s because until a few minutes ago I didn’t even know how to spell posterity, but I digress.

My work will be remembered, or forgotten, or something in-between – what will happen, will happen, no more, no less. All that really matters is that I had fun doing it.

What more can anyone ask?

Reading:

Octopus Pie V.4-5 by Meredith Gran. Atmospheric Disturbances by Helen Grant. The Instruments of Darkness by John Connolly. The Long Divorce by Edmund Crispin. Jerry Cornelius: His Lives and Times by Michael Moorcock.

Watching:

Elevation (2024). The Blacklist, Season 6. The Sticky, Season 1. From the Dark (2017). The Great Pottery Throw Down, Season 8.

Listening:

Old Gods of Appalachia, Season Five. The Epic (2015), Kamasi Washington. HYPHEN (2024), B Hyphen.

News

Despite the aforementioned health concerns, this has been a consistently busy month. I knocked out some paid work for Aconyte/Fantasy Flight that I can’t talk about yet, and wrote a novel pitch for a tie-in publisher I’ve never worked with previously, as well as one for a non-tie-in publisher. I also wrote a few short stories, including a new Baron Vordenburg one (“Flittermouse”) and a new Artemis Whitlock one (“Beating the Bounds”). I sold a few stories and got a few rejections.

New Essay – The Sighted One – Sheila Crerar

I posted a new(ish) Nightmare Men essay on Ella Scrymsour’s Sheila Crerar to the site this month. It originally appeared in 2011 or so at the Black Gate Magazine site, but I’ve tidied it up some and updated it. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Essay – The Hideous Sun Demon (1958)

I posted a new Silver Screams essay on the 1958 cult classic, The Hideous Sun Demon. It’s a weird little film, and a deceptively complex one, despite its shoe-string budget. Subscribe and read it for free.

New Short Story – “The Adventure of the Third Sketch”

I have a new Sherlock Holmes story in Sherlock Holmes: A Year of Mystery 1887 from Belanger Books. In “The Adventure of the Third Sketch”, Holmes solves a mystery from his armchair, and then makes Watson visit a supposedly haunted mill. You can grab a copy from Amazon.

New Short Story – “The Adventure of the Two Mudlarks”

I also have a new Sherlock Holmes story in Sherlock Holmes: A Year of Mystery 1888, again from Belanger Books. In “The Adventure of the Two Mudlarks”, Holmes and Watson trap a murderous mudlark in order to catch a thief. You can grab a copy from Amazon.

New Short Story – “The Wolf Chapel”

I’ve added a brand new Royal Occultist story to my Ko-fi store. This time around, St. Cyprian and Gallowglass are in the Cotswolds, hunting a predatory structure. Grab your copy, in PDF, EPUB and MOBI, for a buck.

New Short Story – “On Dark Wings”

I’ve posted a brand new Baron Vordenburg story to the site. “On Dark Wings” finds the monster-hunter tangling with a flock of winged nightmares in the Ionian Sea; but are they the only threat he must face? Subscribe and read it for free.

Monthly Spotlight“Those Folk Below”

Dark Regions Press’ 2017 anthology, Arkham Detective Agency was a tribute to author CJ Henderson. I got started reading Henderson early on in my formative years, devouring what I could find of his work. Its not an overstatement to say that a lot of who I am as a writer is down to Henderson’s influence. He shared my love of occult detectives and gribbly monsters, and its not an overstatement to say that a lot of who I am as a writer is down to him. Thus, as you can imagine, getting to contribute something to this anthology was a high-point for me.

“Those Folk Below” combined my love of occult detectives, sinister auctions and ghouls into one nasty little tale. It also features the first appearance of Anton Sforza, who went on to star in his own adventures, including “The Burning Man”, which is currently available in my Ko-fi shop.

Sadly, Arkham Detective Agency is long out of print, though you can still snag copies for reasonable prices from second-hand sellers.

Monthly Story

“Elizabeth on the Island” was my first attempt at writing a proper gothic. Despite that, I think I managed pretty well. I won’t say too much more about it, because I don’t want to spoil the twist. It first appeared in 2011, in Candle in the Attic Window, from the sadly now-defunct Innsmouth Free Press. Enjoy!

In the sea was an island. And on the island was a house. And in the house was a woman. And in the woman was a secret. But, like all the best secrets, the one upon whom it centred was completely unaware of its existence.

Her name was Elizabeth and she had never seen her face.

Elizabeth had been born out of the sea, like Aphrodite. A classical allusion that she clung to in order not to think about the circumstances of her birth-the cold fangs of rock that she had clung to all unknowing, and the hard scrabble for the grim, gray shore through the freezing waters. Bloody and dripping she had emerged from the womb of the sea to stagger onto land and into the house that seemed so familiar, despite her inability to recall how or why.

Shuddering and weak, she had reached out to touch the door and it had swung inward, as if in welcome. Inside there was a table, chairs and shelves of books. All of it waiting for her. All of that, and her name as well, inside a locket that lay forgotten in a pile of clothing covered in stains.

On the back of the locket were the letters ‘V’ and ‘F’, and when she had opened it, a woman’s face had returned her stare. There was a name opposite. Elizabeth. Her name and perhaps her face, though the angles she traced with her fingers did not seem to fit those of the woman in the picture.  

She lived hard, eking out an existence on the barren rock, at night hunting the innumerable rats that scampered out of the island’s guts when the lightning ripped wide across the black sky. With the rats, she ate the moss that clung to the rocks, and, once a seabird that drew too close to her.

Elizabeth had strong hands. She wielded rocks and driftwood with all the dexterity of a Norman knight wielding his sword, but often as not she relied only on her ten fingers, and stalked through the scrub of the island’s high places on ten toes. She did not cook the meat she caught, but felt no ill-effects from chewing it raw. Indeed, she could not imagine dousing the taste of the flesh through fire.

She had clothes which she did not wear for fear of ruining them. There were trousers and a shirt, neither of which truly fit her, perhaps having been meant for a child and an apron which stank of chemicals and other, less pleasant things. The latter she rolled into a ball and buried behind the house.

In truth, the constant rain that drenched the island felt good upon her skin, and her naturalism became more about comfort than consideration. Her flesh was invariably flushed with an unrelenting heat when hid it from the air. Sometimes, when the lightning curled and coiled, it burned as well.

There were two other houses on the island, besides hers, but they were both ruins now, broken and empty. In the evening, as she gorged on rat, she wandered among them, exploring their secrets.

By day, she read. She read the anatomy texts and alchemical treatises that filled the shelves of the house to bursting, and when those grew dull, she gorged on Byron and Shelley and Voltaire. Of those, she preferred the latter. There were twenty-seven books in the house, and she had read them all, in random order, seven times apiece. That some were in Latin and others in Greek, French and Arabic did not matter for she could not tell one language from the next. It was all the same to her.

When she had finished the last book and waited to begin the next rotation, she would sit on the rocks outside her door and stroke her arms and legs, which ached sometimes in the oddest places. It was as if she were filled with old hurts and ancients wounds that her eye could not see and fingers could not reach. A bone-deep itch that scuttled through her at lonely intervals, dragging with it images to her mind’s eye.

Some of those images were comforting. Others made her pull out her own hair and drum her heels against the rock. Once, possessed of a rage that echoed out of a glimpse of a memory of mismatched eyes, she had bounded across the island screaming and howling and flailing at the lightning with a club of driftwood.

Only when the club had broken, and her fists had been rendered bloody and bruised from battering the unheeding stones, did she at last return to sensibility.

Her wounds healed, and quickly, if the medical texts were to be believed. She watched the bruises lighten and fade over the course of hours, the golden skin returning to its normal sheen.

The scars never healed in the same way as the bruises. They remained, but then they had always been with her. They were thin strands of pale yellow that stood out against the gold of her flesh, rising and falling across her arms and legs and belly and elsewhere; a latticework of marks that she could not recall the origins of, nor, indeed, did she wish to.

Sometimes, when she touched them she got the strangest sensation that she was waiting for someone. The true owner of the house, perhaps. She touched the locket and traced the initials carved on it. Who was ‘VF’? Was that who she was waiting for?

Elizabeth was stroking the locket when she caught sight of the boat for the first time. It was a blotch of pale colour on the vast darkness of the water. She half-stood as the wind whipped her hair about her face in a frenzy. Unconsciously, her hands clenched and she warred with the sudden impulse to flee.

She had never seen a boat before, but the word and the shape lurked in her memory. And with the word came fear. Hard, cold fear that clambered up into her belly and sat lodged like a lump of badly-chewed rat. Elizabeth did not know why she was afraid, and that only made the fear worse.

Breathing hard, she crouched and watched the boat for minutes, then hours, watching it draw closer and closer. As it grew dark, she lost sight of it at last and the trance was broken. Abruptly, she turned and dove into her home, slamming the door and latching it. Head down, a wracking sob escaped her and she trembled uncontrollably. Her stomach heaved as she pushed away from the door, and she looked around wildly.

Suddenly, the house, her home, seemed horrible. Everything sent a razor-caress of disgust across her nerves-the anatomy books on her shelves, the odd table that sat in the centre of the room with its runnels and odd score-marks and the stains on the floor. Her hand flew to the locket hanging from her neck and she squeezed the soft metal tightly.

Eyes closed, she slid down to the floor and sat weeping. And then, after a time, she sat sleeping. She dreamed that night of the sea and her birth and the way the water had smelled of iron and oxygen, and how that smell had clung to her for weeks following. She dreamed of how she had hurt all over, as if her limbs were held on by red hot pins, and walking brought new agonies each and every day until finally the pain had faded.

She dreamed of those first days, when the books had been full of blurry hornets rather than words and how she had destroyed three in a rage, scattering pages across the island. Three books full of cramped writing, with neither pictures nor poetry. She had torn them page from page the way she tore rats, and had watched the white shreds become caught in the cold wind rolling off the sea. The sight of it had calmed her immediately, though she could not say why.

 Elizabeth awoke with a start. Her nostrils flared as she took in the smell of the day and the sea. She pushed herself to her feet and away from the door. Her hand hesitated inches from the knob. Then, with a growl, she yanked the door open and stepped out.

Birds cried out as they swooped over the beach. She gazed at them, then down towards the path that led to the beach.

The boat sat among the rocks where its occupant had pulled it ashore. She bit back a whimper and contemplated running back inside. But the house wasn’t safe. Nowhere was safe. Not now.

Elizabeth didn’t know why, she simply knew it was so. Safety had been an illusion, now stripped away. Slowly, unwillingly, she started down the path, pausing only to scoop up a length of driftwood.

The boat sat silent as she approached. She circled it, stepping unheeding through the surf, her bare feet dancing awkwardly over the rocks. She tapped it with the stick, and when no response was forthcoming, her lips peeled back from her teeth. She had strong teeth, capable of breaking bone and grinding muscle to paste. She bared them now as she climbed into the boat and searched it for any sign of its occupant.

Wet tarps and empty boxes filled it. She swung a tarp around her shoulders, suddenly cold, and used the stick to smash a hole in the bottom of the boat. Then, grunting with the strain, she shoved it back out into the water. The rocks shifted loudly beneath her feet as she pressed her shoulder to the prow and heaved. The boat glided along against the current, then began to dip as the water blossomed through the hole she’d made.

Elizabeth could not say why she had done what she’d done, but it was satisfying all the same. A blow struck against…who? She shook her head and turned, the driftwood creaking in her grip.

Above her, at the top of the path, a man-shape watched her. Her heart stuttered in her chest and her eyes sprang painfully wide. She stumbled back and the sea clutched at her ankles, shocking her back into herself. Above, the man-shape ducked out of sight.

Elizabeth screamed. A moment later the tarp fell from her shoulders as she sprang into motion, running up the path, the driftwood swinging wildly. She fell several times as she scrambled upwards, such was her hurry. At the summit, she hurled the driftwood blindly, and it clattered against the house.

There was no sign of him. Breathing, she whirled, head cocked like a hound’s as she sniffed the air. Familiar scents dug into her mind, but she could not bring the memories they had hooked into the light. Frustrated, she hissed and swung her arms.

Where was he? Where?

Her eyes fastened on the door. It was open, ever so slightly. She grunted as if struck, and shivered. Was he in there, in her house? Was he watching her even now?

Her breath came faster, painful rasping knife-stabs of oxygen that bruised her lips in their escape. Her hands writhed into fists and sprang open again over and over. She took a clumsy step forward but then hopped back.

Why was he here? Why had he come back? She shook her head and whined. Had he come back? Who was he? Why was he tormenting her? Her fingers dug into her scalp and she yanked at her hair, shuffling back and forth as her eyes stayed locked on the house.

Finally, explosively, she lunged for the door, striking it with her shoulder. The hinges popped and squealed. She was very strong, and not just in her hands or feet and the door fell in and she fell with it. She was up a moment later, crouching on all fours. Books sat on the table, neatly piled as in preparation to be moved. Clothes were folded, and placed in a trunk. She scrambled around, peering beneath the table and behind the bookcases. Where had he gone? He had been here, she could smell him.

Where was he? Where was he?

Rocks crunched together. She froze. Her eyes cut to the door. A shadow, rippling in the wind. In her mind flashed again that long ago nightmare of mismatched eyes. A voice like the thunder rattled in her head.

Her hand flew to her locket and she screamed. She flung herself at the closest window and broke through, heedless of the scratches and splinters in her skin. What she could not ignore was the splash of pain that rippled up her leg as her ankle twisted and refused to bear her weight. She tumbled forward.

“No, no, no, NONONONONONO,” she whined, her voice long unused now slipping forth like metal scraping metal. The shadow stalked her, gliding across the ground like a hunting dog ahead of its caster.

She met his eyes across the distance. Gray like the rocks and harder still. They widened as they took her in and she felt the memory of scalpels and cold ointments. He opened his mouth to speak but then she was moving despite the pain, moving up and towards him, shrieking like a hawk. She lashed out and he fell back, no longer a monster but a man, the same as any in the anatomy texts. Berserk, she threw herself on him.

As she bore him down, images pinwheeled through her brain like scraps of paper caught in a wind. Images of the man before her examining her with gray eyes and a surgeon’s smile, and of another whose mismatched eyes blazed hungrily, hatefully in her head and whose voice cut across her soul like razors stropping stone. 

Her fist rose and the man squirmed away from her, babbling inanities. She reached for him, feeling the strength coil through her. She could rip him in two like a rat, and crush those hateful eyes. As she dragged him back, fear filled the gray eyes. Fear and something else.

Her face looked back at her, contorted in rage.

“Elizabeth,” he said. But he wasn’t looking at her. His flailing hands snagged the locket and as she jerked back in surprise, he tore it loose. She stood and stepped back, her hand flying to her throat.

Then, hands dangling, she looked down at him as he grovelled in the dirt, sobbing and clutching her locket. No, not hers-his. His locket. His Elizabeth.

She wasn’t his. She had not been waiting for him. A darkness crept upon her, and she saw those mismatched eyes again, alight this time with a devil’s flame. Her hands clenched, then, abruptly, relaxed.

“No,” she said. “No.”

On his knees, he reached for her, babbling. She stepped back. “No,” she said again, more strongly. She brushed fingers across her throat. The weight was gone. The weight of Elizabeth. Of memories not hers. Of designs and desires that she had no part in.

She was not Elizabeth. She had never been Elizabeth. And she had not been born in the sea. But to the sea she would return.

Leaving the man with the gray eyes behind, she walked away from the house with its secrets and down towards the water, her golden limbs moving much more smoothly than they ever had before. Before she knew it, she was running. 

As she entered the water, she wondered, just for a moment, whether her intended bridegroom would be upset by her absence. She imagined his mismatched eyes wide with rage and his hands, so like hers, shaking in fury. Then, pushing that thought aside she wondered what her new name would be.

In the end, there was only one way to find out.

With strong, smooth strokes, she began to swim.

In Closing

That’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.

But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!

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