It’s my favorite time of year, and I’m not talking about election season. Actually, I’m a huge fan of Halloween, for a lot of reasons. It’s my favorite holiday, not just because I’m a pagan, but because it falls in one of the most beautiful seasons of the northern hemisphere this time of year, when leaves start to turn colors and litter the yard and a crisp coolness is in the air. There’s also the whole candy and costumes thing, too, which I love, but what I really love is that this is the perfect time for ghost stories.
I love horror movies, and I love reading horror fiction, but I honestly don’t spend as much time as I’d like reading horror, mainly because I just get caught up in other stuff. (It’s the downside for having eclectic tastes in reading.) But I’ve always had a love for the genre, starting with my first Stephen King novel back when I was in middle school. (“The Stand”, immediately followed by “It”)
King was the gateway to other writers like Clive Barker, Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, Anne Rice, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe. I graduated on from there to more “literary” horror writers like Shirley Jackson, Octavia Butler, Bram Stoker, Rudyard Kipling, Mary Shelley. Even writers who aren’t known particularly for horror have written books which have made my favorite lists in horror: Toni Morrison (“Beloved” is, at its heart, a creepy ghost story.), George Orwell (There is nothing more horrifying than a good dystopic future, and “1984” is one of the best and most horrifying.), and Roberto Bolano (I was left with an unsettling “WTF?” feeling after reading “2666”, and while I’m not sure what happened in it, it was undoubtedly a horror novel, albeit an incredibly poetic one.)
I’ve read a lot of horror, and I’ve seen a lot of horror movies in my 45 years, so I feel that I have a pretty good grasp of the genre. While I do happen to love gratuitous blood and gore in my fiction, as in film, I tend to be a lot more discriminating nowadays. I steer clear of what is commonly called “torture porn” in movies, mainly because that kind of depravity is less horror than it is simply shock value violence. It’s the lame and lazy attempt at scares, the equivalent to the cat jumping out of a closet or the killer popping up behind a victim. It’s also too close to reality: I don’t need to be reminded that there are sick fucks in the world who will torture and kill for some perverted sense of fun.
Lately, my tastes in horror have reverted back to a simpler time, when things that really scared me were the childhood fears of shadows moving across the wall at night, or creaky boards in old houses, or that sense (the “sixth” one, according to M. Night Shyamalan) that an unseen presence is nearby, preceded by the hairs on the back of my neck popping up.
Lately, I am less interested in blood and guts and more into a sense of the supernatural, a feeling of cosmic dread, which is why Lovecraft has always held a special place in my (twisted) heart.
While not a particularly great writer, Lovecraft was a brilliant creator of dark worlds populated with ideas and concepts that often went beyond the traditional sense of the supernatural. Not constrained by a Judeo-Christian mythos or ideology, Lovecraft felt that there were, certainly, supernatural forces bigger than us operating in the universe, but that they were older than, and more powerful than, our notions of God or ancient deities. He called them “Old Ones”, and they had ravaged the universe long before our solar system was even a spinning mass of debris, and the only reason they hadn’t destroyed us yet is because we were simply too tiny and inconsequential to be a blip on their radar.
Lovecraft, of course, got his sense of the weird and spooky from somewhere. In interviews, Lovecraft referenced, as inspiration, Victorian-era horror writers such as J.S. Le Fanu, M.R. James, and Algernon Blackwood. Sadly, many of these writers are rarely read anymore. In the case of James, for instance, it is perhaps due to the fact that he created so many of the horror fiction cliches that we take for granted today that reading him is almost like reading basic templates of novels or stories by subsequent, and better, horror writers.
Blackwood, a ridiculously prolific writer (he published over 50 novels, plays, short story collections, and children books in his lifetime), was considered a major influence on Lovecraft, and it’s easy to see why.
“Best Ghost Stories of Algernon Blackwood”, compiled and edited by E.F. Blieler and published in 1973 by Dover Publications, is a short but intense collection of ghost stories by Blackwood. Bleiler, himself, in his introduction, admits that Blackwood’s body of work is so huge as to be unable to include all of his best stuff, and that many of his best works were too long to be included in a compilation. Nevertheless, the selection is impressive. If anything, the book makes me want to find more of Blackwood’s published works, many of which are, unfortunately, out of print.
The opening story, “The Willows”, is so overtly Lovecraftian one would think it was written by Lovecraft himself. The story takes place during a long canoe trip down the Danube. Two (unnamed) friends, ostensibly college buddies (although so little is actually revealed about either character, almost purposefully), set up camp on a desolate piece of land somewhere between Vienna and Budapest. On the first night, both men witness what they first think is a corpse floating down the river but may have been just an otter flopping about in the water. They also see what could have either been a man standing on a barge, waving his hands at them as if warning them about something, or debris in the shape of man with outstretched arms. The trip goes downhill from there.
As the story progresses, an inexplicable dread creeps into each man’s psyche, brought on by horrifying but unrecognizable noises and the sense that the creepy willow trees are alive and moving around at night. Things go from bad to worse, and all the while, the men exchange theories to explain their plight, most having to do with the growing knowledge that they’ve stumbled upon a soft spot in our world that is a gateway into another world, an alternate dimension in which otherworldly and horrible creatures abide, and they have nothing but hatred and evil designs upon the world of man.
This story is, by far, the creepiest story of the bunch, and it’s a great opener for the other twelve stories.
Two stories involve Blackwood’s recurring character, John Silence, a psychic detective who pits himself in cases involving strange, supernatural aspects. In one story, “Secret Worship”, he saves a man who comes to visit his old boarding-school only to find that it is now run by a Satan-worshipping cabal of former faculty members and students, who may be the undead. In another, “Ancient Sorceries”, a man consults Mr. Silence about an incident in a French town in which everyone turned into cats at night, a fact that Silence nonchalantly explains away as simply being indicative of an entire town of witches and warlocks, because everyone knows that a witch’s most prominent familiar is that of the cat. Of course.
Some of the stories are more run-of-the-mill haunted house stories, but they are all expertly executed and guaranteed to give one the heebie-jeebies.
The last story, “Max Hensig”, is out of place in that it is the only one that does not have anything to do with the supernatural, but it is nevertheless still creepy as hell. Blackwood was a journalist for a short time in New York City, and he had obviously seen some shit. In the story, the protagonist, Williams, is a journalist who is covering the trial of a German doctor accused of poisoning his wife. The doctor insists he is innocent, and while the general public seems to be split on it, Williams is sure the guy’s a killer, and his articles don’t hide his feelings. (It was, apparently, acceptable for journalists to editorialize far more in stories than it is today. Either that, or editors were just completely worthless back then.) When Hensig is set free due to a technicality, Williams’s world is turned upside down. Word on the street is that Hensig is after the journalist, and soon Williams is seeing the German doctor everywhere. Hensig is a joyfully creepy and charismatic psycho, who predates Hannibal Lector by about seventy years. It wouldn’t surprise me if Thomas Harris used this story as inspiration for his classic character in “The Silence of the Lambs”. I certainly can see Anthony Hopkins playing Dr. Hensig.
If you’re looking for some good old-fashioned scares and ones that will certainly leave that slow crawl of dread down one’s spine, it would behoove one to check out the stories of Blackwood.
Happy Halloween!