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This year I took part in the Ladies of Horror Fiction anniversary mini-readathon, and one of the titles I read is going straight into my next class syllabus: Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul by Leila Taylor (2019). What a powerful, insightful, and beautifully written work this is! Highly recommended. Here is the official description: “Leila Taylor takes us into the dark heart of the American gothic, analysing the ways it relates to race in America in the twenty-first century. Haunted houses, bitter revenants and muffled heartbeats under floorboards — the American gothic is a macabre tale based on a true story. Part memoir and part cultural critique, Darkly: Blackness and America’s Gothic Soul explores American culture’s inevitable gothicity in the traces left from chattel slavery. The persistence of white supremacy and the ubiquity of Black death feeds a national culture of terror and a perpetual undercurrent of mourning. If the gothic narrative is metabolized fear, if the goth aesthetic is romanticized melancholy, what does that look and sound like in Black America?” And here is a sample of Taylor’s haunting prose: The sublimity of the modern ruin lies in its relative newness, the purpose and life of the former building are familiar and recognizable, creating the dichotomy between the attraction and repulsion of our world gone to dust. We see ourselves in a state of decay. We are watching our own death, and in the photographs, ruin-porn websites, documentaries, and horror movies, we become mourners at our own funeral. There is a dark pleasure in this glimpse of the end of civilization, a taste of life after the apocalypse. Eugene Thacker calls this nebulous zone the “world-without-us.” It is a glimpse at what our world would be like without people, a place in which human beings are inconsequential. It’s not that nature doesn’t care about us, or is purposely exhibiting its domination. The world doesn’t even know we’re here. In ruined spaces, nature, the original builder, takes over, defying gravity and eschewing structural integrity, reminding us of what we once were and how small we really are. I have an uneasy relationship with ruin porn. There is a guilty pleasure in these images (hence the “porn” connotation), but having grown up in Detroit, it’s uncomfortable seeing my hometown perceived as sociological experiment, an art project, or a bargain-basement real-estate deal. There is a dissonance between my fascination with these images and the circumstances of their making. - from Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul by Leila Taylor (2019) View the full post.

If you’re looking for a contemporary vampire read, Vampires Never Get Old: Tales with Fresh Bite is brand new, edited by Zoraida Córdova and Natalie C. Parker with stories by an all-star lineup of authors including Samira Ahmed, Dhonielle Clayton, Zoraida Córdova, Natalie C. Parker, Tessa Gratton, Heidi Heilig, Julie Murphy, Mark Oshiro, Rebecca Roanhorse, Laura Ruby, Victoria “V. E.” Schwab, and Kayla Whaley. If you’d like to sample a taste from the collection, Tor.com has a spooky excerpt from Rebecca Roanhorse’s story “The Boys From Blood River” here. Enjoy a couple of eerie snippets. Now let’s go old school… But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent: Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse: Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. From “The Giaour” by Lord Byron (1813). (Art is “Vampire” by akelataka.) View the full post.

(Photo by Elizabeth. See the original source here.) So often and so anxiously we have talked of this thing called death, that now that it is all over between us, I cannot understand why we found in it such a source of distress. It bewilders me. I am often bewildered here. Things and the fancies of things possess a relation which as yet is new and strange to me. Here is a mystery. Now, in truth, it seems a simple matter for me to tell you how it has been with me since your lips last touched me, and your arms held me to the vanishing air. Oh, drawn, pale lips! Nerveless, dropping arms! I told you I would come. Did ever promise fail I spoke to you? “Come and show me Death,” you said. I have come to show you Death. - from “Since I Died” by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, originally in Scribner’s Monthly (February 1873), as published in Avenging Angels: Ghost Stories by Victorian Women Writers edited by Melissa Edmundson (2018) View the full post.

It’s an old-fashioned puppet. The details are hard to make out in the dim light, but it looks like the puppet’s neck is broken. It’s a sad-looking thing, trapped there in its cage. Maybe I should let it out… - from Harrow Lake by Kat Ellis (2020) This year I took part in the Ladies of Horror Fiction anniversary mini-readathon, and one of the titles I’m very glad I selected was Harrow Lake by Kat Ellis (2020). This young-adult Gothic tale is a chilling and effective love letter to cult horror films and those who obsess over them, wrapped inside of a toxic family mystery, and topped with a clever framing narrative that pays off immensely in the end. Ellis allows her heroine self-discovery and hard-won empowerment and a realness I found to be very compelling. I would’ve devoured this with relish as a teen; as an adult, I thoroughly enjoyed every single line. Highly recommended! Here is the official description: “Lola Nox is the daughter of a celebrated horror filmmaker–she thinks nothing can scare her. But when her father is brutally attacked in their New York apartment, she’s quickly packed off to live with a grandmother she’s never met in Harrow Lake, the eerie town where her father’s most iconic horror movie was shot. The locals are weirdly obsessed with the film that put their town on the map–and there are strange disappearances, which the police seem determined to explain away. And there’s someone–or something–stalking her every move. The more Lola discovers about the town, the more terrifying it becomes. Because Lola’s got secrets of her own. And if she can’t find a way out of Harrow Lake, they might just be the death of her.” Ellis definitely has a wonderful way with words. Here’s an example. I watch the light creep over the tops of the trees and I rasp in painful, beautiful breaths, lying on grass and grit and a backbone made of stories. Stars fill the sky above me, echoes from some long-dead part of the universe, stories from long ago. The stars watch as I get to my feet and walk into the trees. Perhaps they are all monsters’ eyes. Perhaps they are not there at all. - from Harrow Lake by Kat Ellis (2020) View the full post.

(Art is “Halloween 2019″ by jackthetab.) Sadie Hartmann has a fantastic suggested Halloween reading list here at LitReactor: “Halloween 2020 Reading List.” Two other books to that deserve to be on any list include the new Weird anthologies from Handheld Press, British Weird: Selected Short Fiction, 1893-1937 edited by James Machin and Women’s Weird 2: More Strange Stories by Women, 1891-1937 edited by Melissa Edmundson. And guess what? Next week, you can take part in the book launch for these two volumes online for free! Weird book launch: Tuesday, 27th October 2020 At 19.30 UK time / 13.30 EST on Tuesday, 27th October, Handheld Press be hosting a Zoom book launch for our two new Weird anthologies, British Weird, edited by James Machin, and Women’s Weird 2, edited by Melissa Edmundson. Kate Macdonald of Handheld Press will be moderating. To sign up to attend this online book launch, go here for details! (Photo by Yours Truly.) There was never more curiosity than there is today about ‘the uncanny’ or ‘strange things’ – ‘things’ that even in our fathers’ day it was improper to believe in at all…. Even now old forumlae haunt and stir. LOVE: I have fallen upon the breast of Despoina, Queen of the Underworld. DEATH: You shall find on the left of the House of Hades a well-spring. Beside it is a white cypress. Say: ‘I am the child of earth and the starry heavens. But my race is of the stars.’ Formulae that are very old. The time may be coming when, their ritual origins traced, their risings and settings chased through our subconscious, we shall know what powers we have evoked exterior to us…. If we do not find out, we had better look out for ourselves. We have been careless lately what spiritual company we have kept; in our choices of ghostly guests. - from “‘Ghosties and Ghoulies’: Uses of the Supernatural in English Fiction” by Mary Butts (1913) in British Weird: Selected Short Fiction, 1893-1937, edited by James Machin View the full post.

(Art is “Zbrush Doodle: Day 1750 - Festive Pumpkin” by UnexpectedToy.) For today, here is the atmospheric opening of the short story “Haunted!” by Jack Edwards, originally published in The Weekly Tale Teller #83 (December 3, 1910), as found in Glimpses of the Unknown: Lost Ghost Stories edited by Mike Ashley (2018): When Roydon came down the stairs he saw it waiting for him, and as usual it vanished as he approached. He went into his bedroom, which, with the rest of the rooms of the flat, was on the floor below the studio. The chintz-covered chair complained in all its wicker frame at the heavy descent of his body. A large blue-bottle from the lime-trees below the half-opened window buzzed in the silk of the casement blinds, and the hot sunlight lay in bars on the floor. The roar of the motor traffic on the north side of the square, modulated by the distance, bore with it the faint jangle of a piano organ like a treble melody half drowned by a tuneless base, but he did not hear the noise of the street any more than he noted the golden noon or the buzzing of the fly or the creaking protest of the chair. His hands were limp, and his legs stuck out stiffly before him. His chin was sunk on his breast, and his eyes goggled beneath his frowning brows. It was the face of a man who had begun to be afraid. He sat thus, looking neither to the past not to the future, but permitting only the horror of the present to absorb him. To-day it had seemed more tangible. He had faintly discerned a face; the blurred outline of a form; a suggestion of limbs. View the full post.

If you’re looking for a truly beautiful and meaningful work to read this October, then try this first novel from one of my favorite authors, Lipan Apache wordsmith Darcie Little Badger. This is not a work about Halloween, but with magic and monsters, murder and ghosts, it’s perfect for the season. In fact, it’s perfect, full stop. By page four, Elatsoe had me: “She could handle mundane dangers, like violent men with guns or knives, but every tunnel, bridge, and abandoned building in the city was allegedly home to monsters. She’d heard whispers about clans of teenage-bodied vampires, carnivorous mothmen, immortal serial killers, devil cults, cannibal families, and slenderpeople.” What genius is this? And don’t get me started on the scarecrows with real human eyes. Or Kirby the ghost dog, the best boy ever. Or the locals who stare at strangers. Or Teddy Roosevelt. Here is the official description of Elatsoe: “Imagine an America very similar to our own. It’s got homework, best friends, and pistachio ice cream. There are some differences. This America been shaped dramatically by the magic, monsters, knowledge, and legends of its peoples, those Indigenous and those not. Some of these forces are charmingly everyday, like the ability to make an orb of light appear or travel across the world through rings of fungi. But other forces are less charming and should never see the light of day. Elatsoe lives in this slightly stranger America. She can raise the ghosts of dead animals, a skill passed down through generations of her Lipan Apache family. Her beloved cousin has just been murdered, in a town that wants no prying eyes. But she is going to do more than pry. The picture-perfect facade of Willowbee masks gruesome secrets, and she will rely on her wits, skills, and friends to tear off the mask and protect her family.” I can’t recommend this young-adult novel highly enough (for YA and adult readers alike). I laughed and I cried; I also punched the air in triumph three separate times. I want to foist this book on everyone I know. Here is a taste: Sometimes, the world was too mysterious for her liking; Ellie intended to change that someday. In the kitchen, her father nursed a mug of coffee. “You’re awake before noon?” he asked. “Did summer end while I was sleeping?” He smiled with his mouth, but his brown eyes seemed sad. “Feels like it,” Ellie said. “Where’s Mom?” “She took a dawn flight to McAllen.” “Is that because…” Ellie trailed off. Every word about the tragedy felt like a psychic paper cut, and too many stings would make her cry. There was nothing shameful about tears, but Ellie hated the way her face ached when she wept. The pain felt like a head cold. “When did it happen?” “Last night,” her father said. “Around two-thirty. He peacefully walked to the underworld. No struggle, no pain.” “No pain? You can’t know that, Dad.” Although Ellie spoke softly, he heard her. Must have. He no longer pretended to smile. “Lenore needs help with Baby Gregory. That’s why your mother left suddenly.” He put his coffee on the counter and hugged Ellie. His wool vest tickled her chin. Ellie’s father had to wear blue scrubs and a physician’s lab coat at work, but during off-days, he broke out the cable-knit sweaters, tweed pants, and scratchy wool vests. “She has other duties. Your aunt and uncle are crushed with grief. They can’t handle the burial preparations alone.” Oddly, thinking about Trevor’s widow, infant son, and parents helped Ellie push through. She had a job to do: protect them from Abe Allerton. “Are the police investigating the crash?” she asked. “I believe so.” “Let me make it easier. Abe Allerton killed him. Abe Allerton from a town called Willowbee.” Her father stepped back, perturbed. “Why do you believe that?” “Cuz spoke to me in a dream. Told me who killed him. Same way that drowned boy told Six-Great-Grandmother about the river monster.” “I see.” Judging by his furrowed brow, that was an exaggeration, at best. “Wait. What river monster are you referring to? Didn’t she fight a few?” “The one with a human face and poison scales. That’s not important. Dad, I think Cuz reached out to me in between phases, after his last exhale but before his spirit went Below.” “It’s possible. You and Six-Great are so much alike.” “You think so?” she asked. “Sure. I never met the woman, obviously, but you’re both remarkable ghost trainers. Intelligent and brave, too.” Ellie smiled faintly. “Thanks,” she said, taking a glass from the cupboard and pouring herself some orange juice. She had no appetite for solid breakfast. “You know what this all means, though, right? Abe Allerton from Willowbee is a murderer, and he cannot hurt anybody else.” - from Elatsoe by Darcie Little Badger (2020) You can read a longer excerpt from Elatsoe here and access a Q&A with Darcie Little Badger and see related videos here. You can also find links to some of Darcie Little Badger’s spooky online short stories on her website here. The book is gorgeously illustrated by artist Rovina Cai. View the full post.

It’s film time! Every year about this time I think about good Halloween films (not necessarily horror movies, and definitely not lame slasher pictures, but suspenseful, atmospheric films that put a chill up the spine) that are “off the beaten path” – that is, films that are independent, foreign, direct to DVD or VOD, or somehow under promoted, and thus might easily slip under the proverbial radar. Not the classics. Not the usual suspects. I’ve already made a separate post in the past with recommendations of Anton Yelchin’s Halloween-friendly films, so I won’t repeat those here. Now I have a few new recommendations to add to my list, based on this past year’s viewing. (We accessed nearly all of these via Netflix or Amazon streaming.) Here they are in reverse chronological order: Here are my 2019 recommendations: You Should Have Left (2020): This is a very effective troubled-family-on-vacation film, packed with layered characterization and psychological unease. The incredible chemistry between Kevin Bacon and Avery Essex makes a genuinely moving father-daughter relationship the heart of this film. It really works. American Hangman (2019): This is a powerful thriller with a lot of meaning. Even though Donald Sutherland’s genius is undisputed, it’s still stunning to watch him here. I’ll use the official description so I don’t give more away than I should: “Two men are chained up in a basement. The captor has cameras aimed at them and is streaming it on the internet – turning it into a ‘trial’ on the held, retired judge’s last court case. The viewers become the jurors.” The Color Out of Space (2019): This is an adaptation of one of my very favorite Lovecraft works, so I was braced for disappointment. Instead, this turned out to be one of our favorite films of the year. Sensitive, poignant, and genuinely scary, this film genuinely delivers on every level, including the pathos inherent to the story. I’m agnostic about Nic Cage – he doesn’t make or break a film for me – but his performance really worked here, as did that of the ever-capable Joely Richardson. It was delightful to see Q'orianka Kilcher and Tommy Chong in solid supporting roles, as well. Watch this one! Doctor Sleep (2019): This is an adaptation of Stephen King’s sequel to The Shining. It’s not a perfect film, but it’s interesting and visually stunning and packed with able actors. (Five words: Zahn McClarnon as Crow Daddy. I can’t stress this enough.) I’m sure many would find this crazy, but if given the choice right now, I would rather watch Doctor Sleep again than watch The Shining again. So there. In the Tall Grass (2019): Is this the best Stephen King (more accurately, Stephen King and Joe Hill) adaptation ever? No. Did I enjoy every minute spent lost in the grass maze with over-the-top Patrick Wilson? Yes. Yes I did. Your mileage may vary based on your level of Patrick Wilson appreciation. Mine is high. Midsommar (2019): Yes, I know this isn’t an “under the radar” film, but we really loved it, so I wanted to take this opportunity to say so. Ready or Not (2019): Dark comedies are often hit or miss for me, but this newlywed-hunted-by-her-evil-in-laws-in-Satanic-ritual romp is a definite hit, both clever and funny. Vivarium (2019): This science-fiction mind-game of a horror film messed me up and continues to haunt me, and I mean that in the best possible way. I knew nothing about it going into the film, and I think that was for the best. Highly recommended. We Have Always Lived in the Castle (2019): This is a very well crafted adaptation of a novel by Shirley Jackson that I love. I was prepared to be critical, but the film thoroughly won me over with brilliant visuals and performances – Taissa Farmiga and Alexandra Daddario are phenomenal – and a screenplay that emphasizes how relevant this story remains. Read the book first, but then treat yourself to this movie. Delirium (2018): This isn’t a great film, but it keeps the twists and turns coming, and it uses the unreliability of the protagonist’s hallucination-laden point of view to good effect. You really need to suspend your disbelief to swallow the “young man released from twenty years in a mental asylum into house arrest at his dead father’s mansion” premise, but once you’re there, the oppressive isolation and sense of unreality are worth your time. The Wind: Demon of the Prairies (2018): This slow-burn Western plays on the horror and desperation of solitude – especially for settler women – on the frontier. Women’s points of view are highlighted here in a refreshing and chillingly effective way. Lost Child (a.k.a. Tatterdemalion) (2018): We were really enchanted and moved by this work of “hillbilly Gothic” or Ozark folk horror. When a combat veteran returns home with the scars of war on her psyche, she encounters a boy in the woods. Is he a lost child in need of her help, or is he the tatterdemalion of local lore, a demon who wants to feed on her very life? This is a quiet, haunting, compelling story of pain, superstition, and the people who fall through the cracks. Voice from the Stone (2017): This is a classic old-school Gothic film of the “new governess for troubled child after mother’s death” mold, and it delivers all of the lush atmosphere, claustrophobia, and passion needed. This is a beautifully disturbing movie. Kudos to Emilia Clarke for her compelling performance. Bone Tomahawk (2015): Why on Earth did I wait so long to watch this Western horror film? More Patrick Wilson, more Zahn McClarnon, both tremendous pluses. Outstanding Kurt Russell content. Genuinely scary and less gratuitously gory than I’d feared. Lake Mungo (2008): I’m so glad Mike Davis of The Lovecraft eZine recommended this film, which is a “mockumentary” about a family trying to come to turns with the drowning death of the daughter/sister. Are we witnessing how grief yields false hope and makes us vulnerable to charlatans, or is something supernatural taking place? This is a subtle work of slowly-mounting terror. Really delicious. Mike now tells me that if I loved this film, I need to read Disappearance at Devil’s Rock by Paul Tremblay, so I’m going to do that too! Click below for my recommendations from previous years. Read more … View the full post.

(Artwork is “Coven” by Sadist-Ka.) “Why do people go to these places, these places that are not for them? “It must be that they believe in their night vision. They believe themselves able to draw images up out of the dark. “But black wells only yield black water.” ― Helen Oyeyemi, White is for Witching (2009) “These last months, I have learned that the acknowledged history that belongs to the daylight, that is not the only history. Turn over the stone and you will find another history, wriggling to escape.” ― Beth Underdown, The Witchfinder’s Sister (2017) Relevant to both titles above, here is a reading recommendation list from Sublime Horror that’s perfect for the season: “Witches in fiction, a reading list chosen by Professor Marion Gibson.” This is another seasonal reading list from Margaret Kingsbury at BuzzFeed News: “13 Witchy Books That Will Keep You Spellbound.” Last, Erika W. Smith offers these suggestions for Cosmopolitan: “24 Witch Books That Belong on Your Bookshelf.” And here’s one more quote for your day: “And therein lies the most alarming aspect of the Salem witch crisis—if Salem is not aberrant then it cannot be comfortably consigned to the past. Within this slippery historical continuum of behavior, precedent, practice, and response, witchcraft in North American religious and intellectual life becomes less safe to think about. This lack of safety, this persistent reminder of the inhumanity that a small community and its learned and trusted government can show its own members, lingers among us, a threat of what wen could at any time still become.” ― Katherine Howe, The Penguin Book of Witches (2014) View the full post.

For today I have some great lists of Halloween-appropriate reading for younger readers as well as scary-story lovers of all ages. First, from Angie Manfredi: “Shivers & Shudders: Scary Middle Grade Books.” Second, from the Spooky KidLit site (“Celebrating the kids’ books that go bump in the night.”), two lists: “Celebrating Black Authors, Part 1″ and “Celebrating Black Authors, Part 2.” One of the stellar books recommended in two of the lists above is The Forgotten Girl by India Hill Brown (2019), and here’s a haunting little taste: Iris’s nightmares terrified her. Especially the ones when she couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or not. When she was barely awake but not quite asleep, frozen to her bed. Unable to move as monsters crept from the shadows in her room, walking toward her until she squeezed her eyes shut and hastily thought of a prayer. “When that happens, the witch is riding your back,” Daniel’s grandmother Suga would say every time she recounted a dream. “To stop them, you have to put a broom under your bed, so she’ll ride that instead and let you go.” Every one else wrote it off as another one of Suga’s old superstitions, but Iris so wished her parents would let her keep a broom under her bed, at least for one night. Instead, she just slept with a night-light, even though she felt too old for that. Her nightmares were what made her afraid of the dark—well, not exactly afraid. She just didn’t like how unsure the dark was…. You can read a longer excerpt from The Forgotten Girl here. And here’s some great news! The Forgotten Girl is one of four books being adapted for television: “Scholastic Entertainment to Develop ‘JumpScare’ Kids Animated Horror Series With ‘Ben 10’ Team.” View the full post.

(Photo is “Shiver My Bones002″ by bjfrenchphoto.) Today I want to highlight two excellent reading recommendation lists from Sublime Horror that are perfect for this spooky season, both written by a scholar whose work I follow with great enthusiasm, literary historian Melissa Edmundson. Here they are: 1) “Ghost stories by Victorian women, a reading list chosen by Melissa Edmundson” and 2) “Supernatural novellas by Victorian women, a reading list chosen by Melissa Edmundson.” This is an excerpt from one of the supernatural novellas mentioned in the second list, the ghost story Cecilia de Noël, by Lanoe Falconer (1910): It was a tall figure in a long grey garment, who carried a lighted candle in his hand. For a moment, startled and stupefied as I was, I failed to recognise the livid face. “Canon Vernade! You are ill?” Too ill to speak, it would seem, for without a word he staggered forward and sank into a chair, letting the candle almost drop from his hand on to the table beside him; but when I put out my hand to ring the bell, he stayed me by a gesture. I looked at him, deadly pale, with blue shadows about the mouth and eyes, his head thrown helplessly back, and then I remembered some brandy I had in my dressing-bag. He took the glass from me and raised it to his lips with a trembling hand. I stood watching him, debating within myself whether I should disobey him by calling for help or not; but presently, to my great relief, I saw the stimulant take effect, and life come slowly surging back in colour to his cheeks, in strength to his whole prostrate frame. He straightened himself a little, and turned upon me a less distracted gaze than before. “Mr. Lyndsay, there is something horrible in this house.” “Have you seen it?” He shook his head. “I saw nothing; it is what I felt.” He shuddered. I looked towards the grate. The fire had long been out, but the wood was still unconsumed, and I managed, inexpertly enough, to relight it. When a long blue flame sprang up, he drew his chair near the hearth and stretched towards the blaze his still tremulous hands. “Mr. Lyndsay,” he said, in a voice as strangely altered as his whole appearance, “may I sit here a little—till it is light? I dread to go back to that room. But don’t let me keep you up.” I said, and in all honesty, that I had no inclination to sleep. I put on my dressing-gown, threw a rug over his knees, and took my place opposite to him on the other side of the fire; and thus we kept our strange vigil, while slowly above us broke the grim, cold dawn of early spring-time, which even the birds do not brighten with their babble. Silently staring into the fire, he vouchsafed no further explanations, and I did not venture to ask for any; but I doubt if even such language as he could command would have been so full of horrible suggestion as that grey set face, and the terror-stricken gaze, which the growing light made every minute more distinct, more weird. What had so suddenly and so completely overthrown, not his own strength merely, but the defences of his faith? He groped amongst them still, for, from time to time, I heard him murmuring to himself familiar verses of prayer and psalm and gospel, as if he sought therewith to banish some haunting fear, to quiet some torturing suspicion. And at last, when the dull grey day had fully broken, he turned towards me, and cried in tones more heart-piercing than ever startled the great congregations in church or cathedral— “What if it were all a delusion, and there be no Father, no Saviour?” And the horror of that abyss into which he looked, flashing from his mind to my own, left me silent and helpless before him. Yet I longed to give him comfort; for, with the regal self-possession which had fallen from him, there had slipped from me too some undefined instinct of distrust and disapproval. All that I felt now was the sad tie of brotherhood which united us, poor human atoms, strong only in our capacity to suffer, tossed and driven, whitherward we knew not, in the purposeless play of soulless and unpitying forces. The entire novella is available online here from Project Gutenberg. View the full post.

(Photo is “Spooky Woods” by GypsyMist.) Do you consider crime thrillers and murder mysteries good reading fare for the Halloween season? I do. And I’m glad that we’re in a time when crime fiction by Indigenous American writers is increasingly recognized and celebrated. Here’s a terrific article by Lakota author David Heska Wanbli Weiden for CrimeReads: “Why Indigenous Crime Fiction Matters.” He also contributed this useful reading list for The Strand: “Seven Essential Native American Crime Novels.” Speaking of David Heska Wanbli Weiden, I read, thoroughly enjoyed, and highly recommend his gripping 2020 novel Winter Counts, which is a (to borrow the official description) “groundbreaking thriller about a vigilante on a Native American reservation who embarks on a dangerous mission to track down the source of a heroin influx.” A tense and engrossing read. And speaking of his essay on “Why Indigenous Crime Fiction Matters,” I was very glad to see Cherokee novelist John Rollin Ridge mentioned front and center. Earlier this year in my monthly “Looking Back on Genre History” segment on the StarShipSofa podcast, on Episode 628, I discussed how we can trace parts of Batman’s origin back to John Rollin Ridge and his fiction. (Photo by Yours Truly.) Perhaps my favorite discovery this year is the wonderful Cash Blackbear mystery/crime series, including Murder on the Red River (2017) and Girl Gone Missing (2019), by White Earth Nation author Marcie R. Rendon. Set during the Vietnam Conflict, these books follow 19-year-old Cash Blackbear – “aged-out foster child, girl pool shark, truck driver from Minnesota’s White Earth reservation” – who asks questions, has dreams, and regularly helps out her friend Wheaton, the cop who is her family by choice rather than blood, as he solves crimes. These books deliver on mood and atmosphere while also telling difficult, important, meaningful stories. Here is one of Cash Blackbear’s vivid and haunting dreams: Cash pulled herself up and out of her window. Her heart beat in her ears and she shivered uncontrollably. Her eyes darted left and right as she ran barefoot across the damp ground. She reached the plowed field. Her foot sank into the cold, damp dirt. When she tried to pull her foot up, her front leg sank further into the earth. She threw herself forward, clawing with bare hands, hearing the heavy, labored breathing of the person chasing her. Fear forced her from her body so that she was soon flying above herself. She looked down to see her body stretched out in the mud below, buried to her knees, arms flailing, hair catching in her hands. Instantly, the body in the field changed from herself struggling to two paler, longer-legged, blonde women. The young women looked up at Cash. They mouthed, “Help me, Help me.” - from Marcie R. Rendon, Girl Gone Missing (2019) View the full post.

Halloween 2020, Day 4 The ghost knew his master was about to die, and he wasn’t exactly unhappy about it. He knew that sounded bad. You’d think, after all those years together, that even he might have felt a twinge of sadness about the whole situation. But it’s hard to feel sorry for someone when: a) you’re a ghost, and everyone knows ghosts don’t have hearts, and b) that someone made her living out of forcing you to make other people miserable. He stared at her now as she lay on the narrow bed, gray and gaunt in the light of the full moon, her breath rasping and shallow. Watching her teeter slowly toward the end was a bit like watching a grape slowly become a raisin: the years had sucked the life and vitality out of her until she was nothing but a wrinkled shell of her former self. “Well,” she wheezed, squinting at him. Well, he said. “One more for the road, eh?” she said, nodding to the full moon out the window. And she grimaced as she offered him the ring finger of her right hand, as she had done so many times before. The ghost nodded. It seemed frivolous, but after all, he still needed to eat, whether or not his master lay dying. As he bent his head over the wrinkled hand, his sharp little teeth pricking the skin worn and calloused from time and use, the witch let out a sharp breath. Her blood used to be rich and strong and so thick with her magic that the ghost could get himself drunk on it, if he wasn’t careful. Now all he tasted was the stale tang of age, the sour notes that came with impending death, and a bitter aftertaste he couldn’t quite place. Regret, perhaps. It was the regret that was hardest to swallow. The ghost drank nothing more than he had to, finishing quickly and sealing the tiny pinpricks of his teeth on her skin with spit. It is done, he told her, the words familiar as a favorite song, the ritual as comforting as a warm blanket. And I am bound to you, until the end. The witch patted his horned head gently. Her touch surprised him—she had never been particularly affectionate. “Well,” she said, her voice nothing more than a sigh. “The end is now.” – from The Girl and the Ghost by Hanna Alkaf (2020) This year I fell in love with the middle-grade novel The Girl and the Ghost, which is based on Malaysian folktales about the pelesit, a shape-shifting spirit bound to serve a single master. In the novel, young Suraya inherits such a ghost from her witch grandmother and learns that this pelesit is loyal – and jealous. Hanna Alkaf offers genuine chills as well as laughs, but most importantly she delivers a thought-provoking, heart-warming, life-affirming story of loss, grief, friendship, and family. The characters feel so real! Don’t let the middle-grade classification of this story fool you; The Girl and the Ghost has much to offer readers of all ages, including plenty of ghosts, graveyards, and spookiness. You can read a longer excerpt from The Girl and the Ghost here or listen to sample from the audiobook here. View the full article

(Photo by Yours Truly. Skulls from Toscano.) Today I bring you several recent articles that are perfect for getting into the Halloween spirit. 1. From Danielle Trussoni for The New York Times: “Grisly Slabs of Gothic Horror.” 2. From Marc E. Fitch for CrimeReads: “Literature Is Built on a Foundation of Horror.” 3. From Dr. Sam Hirst for Tor.com: “More Thrilling than Fiction: The Real Life Heroines of the Early Gothic.” One of the heroines mentioned in the article above is Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800). Here is an excerpt from her poem “The Haunted Beach” from Lyrical Tales (1800): And often, while the moaning wind Stole o'er the summer ocean, The moonlight scene was all serene, The waters scarce in motion; Then, while the smoothly slanting sand The tall cliff wrapp’d in shade, The fisherman beheld a band Of spectres gliding hand in hand– Where the green billows play’d. And pale their faces were as snow, And sullenly they wander’d; And to the skies with hollow eyes They look’d as though they ponder’d. And sometimes, from their hammock shroud, They dismal howlings made, And while the blast blew strong and loud, The clear moon mark’d the ghastly crowd, Where the green billows play’d. And then above the haunted hut The curlews screaming hover’d; And the low door, with furious roar, The frothy breakers cover’d. For in the fisherman’s lone shed A murder’d man was laid, With ten wide gashes in his head, And deep was made his sandy bed Where the green billows play’d. Read the complete poem here. View the full article

(Artwork is “Autumn” by lunarhare.) Today’s reading recommendation list is “Joke’s on you: Five parodies of the ghost story” by Lewis Hurst for Sublime Horror. In Hurst’s words, “I used to avoid ‘funny’ ghost stories. Humour seemed at odds with the effect I sought from reading about the supernatural. It dispelled the atmosphere, leaving the stories, and the reader, disenchanted. Later on, I learned that horror could be funny, and that funny things can be horrific.” And here is an excerpt from one of the stories Hurst mentions, “The Open Window” by Saki (1914): “Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady. “Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation. “Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.” “Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place. “You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn. “It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?” “Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window—” The short story is online (in Saki’s collection Beasts and Super-Beasts) here at Project Gutenberg. View the full article

Star Wars is all about Halloween! Are you in the mood for some Star Wars Halloween goodness? 1. If you’re feeling crafty, learn how you can make a creeptastic Darth Maul bookmark here! 2. Check out the General Grievous Halloween audiocast! This was an audiocast recorded by Matthew Wood as General Grievous and released on StarWars.com for Halloween of 2005. It was re-released on October 31, 2014. Today you (or your trick-or-treaters) can feel the Force of fright! Download this free audiocast to bring Star Wars scares to your October! 3. Did you know that Halloween was part of the classic Star Wars Expanded Universe? According to Wookieepedia, Halloween, or Hallowe'en, was a festival held in certain locations in the galaxy, including the Jedi Temple on the planet Coruscant and the settlement of Bright Tree Village on the Forest Moon of Endor. For the Jedi, the festival entailed decorating the temple with carved pumpkins and cobwebs. For the Ewoks of Endor, the festival was an annual highlight characterized by revelry, costuming, laughter, and a large feast. During the Halloween of 3 ABY, a predatory creature known as a hanadak attacked Bright Tree Village but was coaxed into leaving when Wicket W. Warrick and other Ewoks placed pacifying blue dlock leaves upon it. Later during that same Halloween, a band of Duloks kidnapped the Ewoks’ leader, Chief Chirpa, but Warrick and his friends Teebo and Kneesaa rescued the chief and allowed the Halloween festivities to continue. 4. Check the official Star Wars site’s Halloween Hub for a “ghoul-actic collection of articles, crafts, and more”! In particular, don’t miss the chance to hang around with mynocks! 5. In 2018, Star Wars knocked it out of the ballpark with new publications Are You Scared, Darth Vader?, one of the best Star Wars picture books I’ve ever read (and a terrific tribute to Halloween!), and the Tales from Vader’s Castle limited comic series, inspired by classic Hammer Horror films. I can’t recommend these enough! Last year, we got the Return to Vader’s Castle series. This year, both Tales and Return will be combined into the single-volume Beware of Vader’s Castle! But wait, there’s more! October is the annual Star Wars Reads celebration. Star Wars Reads combines the love of a galaxy far, far away and the joy of reading. Star Wars Reads Printable Activity Kit and Posters: Plan your own Star Wars event with this amazing party kit, complete with party invitations, posters, and activities for kids to adults. Click here for goodies! There will be events around the world sponsored by Star Wars publishers, so keep your eye on the Star Wars Reads Facebook page for more information. View the full article

(Artwork is “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” by theycallmedanyo.) For today I have an article/reading recommendation list to share by T. Marie Vandelly for Crime Reads: “Domestic Horror: A Primer.” And here are some atmospheric quotes from some of the novels that appear in the list: “It’s bad when the dead talk in dreams,” said Odessa. ― Michael McDowell, The Elementals (1981) “The origins of the bottle tree were African, Helen had once told her; it was a folk tradition brought to this country by slaves, who, working with whatever materials were at hand, devised a crude method of catching and trapping malevolent spirits, to prevent their passage through human doors.” ― Attica Locke, The Cutting Season (2012) “In folktales a vampire couldn’t enter your home unless you invited him in. Without your consent the beast could never cross your threshold. Well, what do you think your computer is? Your phone? You live inside those devices so those devices are your homes. But at least a home, a physical building, has a door you can shut, windows you can latch. Technology has no locked doors.” ― Victor LaValle, The Changeling (2017) View the full article

(Photo by Yours Truly. Poe by Dellamorteco.) On this day in 1849 – 171 years ago – Edgar Allan Poe died at the age of forty under mysterious circumstances. For more information, read “Mysterious for Evermore” by Matthew Pearl, an article on Poe’s death from The Telegraph. Pearl is the author of a fascinating novel about the subject, The Poe Shadow. (Photo by Yours Truly.) The following are some of my favorite links about Edgar Allan Poe: PoeStories.com: An Exploration of Short Stories by Edgar Allan Poe Poe-Land: The Hallowed Haunts of Edgar Allan Poe (I highly recommend this book by J.W. Ocker, and I suggest that you enter “Poe” into the Search feature at his Odd Things I’ve Seen site, as well, for many Poe-riffic posts!) The Poe Museum of Richmond The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore Hocus Pocus Comics is Poe-centric to the max, and I invite you to visit the site! In addition, check out this beautiful time-lapse video of David Hartman drawing an exclusive Kickstarter cover for The Imaginary Voyages of Edgar Allan Poe – and subscribe to the Hocus Pocus Comics YouTube channel while you’re at it! The Caedmon recordings – that’s 5 hours of Edgar Allan Poe stories read by Vincent Price & Basil Rathbone – are now available on Spotify (download the software here). (Thanks, Jessica!) And now, here is one of my favorite readings of Poe: Gabriel Byrne’s narration of the pandemic-relevant and all-too-timely “The Masque of the Red Death.” The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal – the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were incidents of half an hour. But Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his crenellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.” – from “The Masque of the Red Death” by Edgar Allan Poe (1842). Read the complete story here. View the full article

(Art is “The Innocent Abandoned” by ExDolore.) For today’s spooky reading recommendation list, check out “Five Haunted House Books Written By Women” by Lisa Kröger and Melanie R. Anderson for Tor.com. Here is an eerie snippet from one of the novels in the list, The Graveyard Apartment by Mariko Koike (U.S. edition 2016). It’s pretty close to perfect, Misao thought. What more could anyone want? Two LDK (real-estate shorthand for two bedrooms, living room, dining area, and kitchen); nearly a thousand square feet, including the balcony; a building that was only eight months old; full-time resident managers, right on the premises. For a family in search of a wholesome, peaceful life, it was really quite ideal. Not bothering with a tablecloth, Misao laid out two coffee cups on the bare dining table, along with Tamao’s mug, which was adorned with a picture of a cartoon bear. When she happened to glance toward the balcony, a fleeting wave of misgivings about the location washed over her. Shaking it off, she made a conscious effort to focus on the positives. Beyond the sliding-glass doors, the verdant-smelling March air was whipping around, and there were no buildings nearby to obstruct her field of vision. If only the sublime greenery belonged to a park, and not a graveyard … Misao gave her head a quick, purposeful toss, as if to banish such futile thoughts, then laughed out loud. There she went again, fretting about minor drawbacks and useless hypotheticals. As if she had time to waste on that kind of nonsense! Cut it out, she told herself sternly. The percolating coffee began to fill the room with a delicious aroma. Misao grabbed a frying pan that had just been unpacked a few moments earlier and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. She heated the pan on the stove and added a splash of cooking oil. When the oil began to sizzle, she dropped in three of the eggs she had brought from their previous place—painstakingly packed to make sure they wouldn’t get broken in transit. As she worked, Misao couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering to the living-room windows. The nearly perfect apartment was partially surrounded, from the south to the west side, by a vast graveyard that belonged to an ancient Buddhist temple. To the north were some uninhabited houses, long since fallen into ruin and engulfed in weeds, while on the east side there was a patch of vacant land. Beyond that empty field the smokestack of a crematorium was clearly visible, and from time to time the tall, cylindrical brick chimney would belch out a billow of thick black smoke. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, it wasn’t inconceivable that some of that mortal smoke might waft in through the apartment’s open windows from time to time. A longer excerpt is available online from Macmillan here. View the full article

One of the coolest new-to-me discoveries of this year is The Black Vampyre; A Legend of St. Domingo (1819), which Andrew Barger (in The Best Vampire Stories 1800-1849: A Classic Vampire Anthology) credits as quite possibly “the first black vampire story, the first comedic vampire story, the first story to include a mulatto vampire, the first vampire story by an American author, and perhaps the first anti-slavery short story.” Common-Place: The Journal of Early American Life has a “Just Teach One” page devoted to The Black Vampyre, including the complete text with introduction and notes prepared by Duncan Faherty (Queens College and the CUNY Graduate Center) and Ed White (Tulane University), and several illuminating essays written by teachers who have included this text in their classes. You can read or download The Black Vampyre and these additional resources for free here. Here is a spine-tinging excerpt from The Black Vampyre: When reason and sense returned, she [The Lady] found herself in the same place; and it was also the midnight hour. She was laying by the grave of Mr. PERSONNE, and her breast was stained with blood. A wide wound appeared to have been inflicted there, but was now cicatrized. Imagine if you can, her surprise; when, by a certain carniverous craving in her maw, and by putting this and that together, she found she was a—VAMPYRE!!! and gathered from her indistinct reminiscences, of the preceding night, that she had been then sucked; and that it was now her turn to eject the peaceful tenants of the grave! With this delightful prospect of immortality before her, she began to examine the graves, for subject to satisfy her furious appetite. When she had selected one to her mind, a new marvel arrested her attention. Her first husband got up out his coffin, and with all the grace so natural to his countrymen, made her a low bow in the last fashion, and opened his arms to receive her! View the full article

(Artwork is “Jack-o-lanterns” by NocturnalSea.) If you’re looking for more Halloween festivities, check out the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s 2020 Halloween Poetry Reading, which is already underway and will continue updating throughout the month. Images! Audio! Spooky poetry! And speaking of poetry… Oh, heard you that deep hollow sound, That seem’d to shake the troubled ground? And heard you that low rust’ling sweep, Which seem’d across the grass to creep? ’Tis hapless Henry’s restless shade, Which nightly walks the silent glade. Unhappy youth! a maid he lov’d Who false to his affections prov’d; The morn she promis’d him to wed, That morn she with another fled: ’Twas then that Henry, on his heath, His God forgot – and rush’d on death. Unhallow’d here, his body’s laid; O’er him no burial prayer was said; But on his grave the rank weeds grow, And o’er the place the loud winds blow; Whilst on the stake the rav’nous bird The long drear night is screaming heard…. - excerpt from “Henry’s Shade” by “Susan,” originally from October 1894, as published in Schabraco and Other Gothic Tales from The Lady’s Monthly Museum 1798-1828, edited by Jennie MacDonald (2020). View the full article

Here’s a Halloween-relevant article by Kim Taylor Blakemore at CrimeReads: “The New Gothic: Feminist and Unapologetic - Tracing the Evolution of Gothic Heroines from the Mid-20th Century to the Present Day Through 7 Novels.” On a related note, this is a timely reading list from Emily Wenstrom at Book Riot: “5 Modern Authors Upholding the Gothic Feminist Tradition in 2020.” One of the works recommended is one of the stellar “must read” novels of the season, Mexican Gothic by Sylvia Moreno-Garcia. Here, have a taste: Catalina slowly leaned closer to her, whispering in her ear. “It’s in the walls,” she said. “What is?” Noemí asked, and the question was a reflex, for she found it hard to think what to ask with her cousin’s blank eyes upon her, eyes that did not seem to see; it was like staring into a sleepwalker’s face. “The walls speak to me. They tell me secrets. Don’t listen to them, press your hands against your ears, Noemí. There are ghosts. They’re real. You’ll see them eventually.” - from Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia (2020) Chilling, no? A longer excerpt is available here: “Read an Excerpt from Mexican Gothic, Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Haunted House Mystery.” View the full article

(Art is “Jack O Lantern” by TheArtistJW.) It seems like 2020 hasn’t just been a year, it’s been a decade! The next few weeks won’t be easy, either. But I won’t let 2020 rob me of my very favorite holiday ― or of the chance to celebrate it with my friends throughout the whole of October. This is the fifteenth year I’ll be counting down to Halloween with daily posts. I look forward to sharing quotes, images, links, book reviews, reading and viewing recommendation lists, and various creepy odds and ends with you. I hope you will consider every post a spooky moment of escape, a bite-sized treat (not a trick!) each day. (Source is “The Hooting Of The Owl” by Yesterdays-Paper.) Because 2020 marks the 100th birthday of Ray Bradbury, it seems fitting to start this countdown with the words of that great October Ambassador himself. So welcome to my October countdown… and welcome to the October country… “…that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and mid-nights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain…” ― Ray Bradbury, The October Country (1955) Also… “For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth….Such are the autumn people.” ― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962) And… At the edge of the deep dark night ravine he pointed over the rim of the hills and the earth, away from the light of the moon, under the dim light of strange stars. The wind fluttered his black cloak and the hood that half shadowed and now half revealed his almost fleshless face. “There, do you see it, lads?” “What?” “The Undiscovered Country. Out there. Look long, look deep, make a feast. The Past, boys, the Past. Oh, it’s dark, yes, and full of nightmare. Everything that Halloween ever was lies buried there. Will you dig for bones, boys? Do you have the stuff?” He burned his gaze at them. “What is Halloween? How did it start? Where? Why? What for? Witches, cats, mummy dusts, haunts. It’s all there in that country from which no one returns. Will you dive into the dark ocean, boys? Will you fly in the dark sky?” ― Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree (1972) (Source is “Imps And Pumpkins” by Yesterdays-Paper.) And from one of my very favorites, “Usher II” (1950)… “Let me out, let me out!” There was one last brick to shove into place. The screaming was continuous. “Garrett?” called Stendahl softly. Garrett silenced himself. “Garrett,” said Stendahl, “do you know why I’ve done this to you? Because you burned Mr. Poe’s books without really reading them. You took other people’s advice that they needed burning. Otherwise you’d have realized what I was going to do to you when we came down here a moment ago. Ignorance is fatal, Mr. Garrett.” Garrett was silent. “I want this to be perfect,” said Stendahl, holding his lantern up so its light penetrated in upon the slumped figure. “Jingle your bells softly.” The bells rustled. “Now, if you’ll please say, ‘For the love of God, Montresor,’ I might let you free.” The man’s face came up in the light. There was a hesitation. Then grotesquely the man said, “For the love of God, Montresor.” “Ah,” said Stendahl, eyes closed. He shoved the last brick into place and mortared it tight. “Requiescat in pace, dear friend.” He hastened from the catacomb. ― Ray Bradbury, “Usher II” (1950) View the full article

Tomorrow is October! This will be the fifteenth year I count down to Halloween with daily “spooky posts.” I hope you’ll join me. Throughout October I will also be rereading one of my all-time favorite books, Roger Zelazny’s A Night in the Lonesome October (1994). It recounts (from the point of view of the dog Snuff) the story of a very eventful October and has 31 chapters, one for every day of the month. In recent years I’ve started treating it as an advent calendar of sorts for Halloween. It’s simply brilliant. Here are a few atmospheric quotes. “Such times are rare, such times are fleeting, but always bright when caught, measured, hung, and later regarded in times of adversity, there in the kinder halls of memory, against the flapping of the flames.” ― Roger Zelazny, A Night in the Lonesome October “I felt a strong desire to howl at the moon. It was such a howlable moon. But I restrained myself.” ― Roger Zelazny, A Night in the Lonesome October “I took Jack his slippers this evening and lay at his feet before a roaring fire while he smoked his pipe, sipped sherry, and read the newspaper. He read aloud everything involving killings, arsons, mutilations, grave robberies, church desecrations, and unusual thefts. It is very pleasant just being domestic sometimes.” ― Roger Zelazny, A Night in the Lonesome October And here’s one of my favorite passages. Snuff is describing Sherlock Holmes, disguised for his investigation as a woman, playing his violin with Romani travelers in their temporary camp: “He played and he played, and it grew wilder and wilder– “Abruptly, he halted and took a step, as if suddenly moving out of a dream. He bowed then and returned the instrument to its owner, his movements in that moment entirely masculine. I thought of all the controlled thinking, the masterfully developed deductions, which had served to bring him here, and then this ― this momentary slipping into the wildness he must keep carefully restrained ― and then seeing him come out of it, smiling, becoming the woman again. I saw in this the action of an enormous will, and suddenly I knew him much better than as the pursuing figure of many faces. Suddenly I knew that he had to be learning, as we were learning other aspects, of the scope of our enterprise, that he could well be right behind us at the end, that he was almost, in some way, a player – more a force, really ― in the Game, and I respected him as I have few beings of the many I have known.” ― Roger Zelazny, A Night in the Lonesome October View the full article

Today is the anniversary of the Long-Expected Party celebrating the eleventy-first birthday of Bilbo Baggins and the coming of age of Frodo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings. It was on this day that Bilbo gave his infamous birthday speech, saying “I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve,” before disappearing from the Shire forever. Also on this day, according to the Appendices of The Lord of the Rings, 99-year-old Samwise Gamgee rode out from Bag End for the final time. He was last seen in Middle-Earth by his daughter Elanor, to whom he presented the Red Book. According to tradition, he then went to the Grey Havens and passed over the Sea, last of the Ringbearers. And now, in honor of the Baggins Birthdays, the departure of Samwise, and Hobbits in general, here is the song of one of J.R.R. Tolkien’s (and, for that matter, world literature’s) greatest heroes, Samwise Gamgee, when in Cirith Ungol. In this very difficult times, I find myself returning to these verses in particular. They are the epitome of Hobbits and of hope. In western lands beneath the Sun the flowers may rise in Spring, the trees may bud, the waters run, the merry finches sing. Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear the Elven-stars as jewels white amid their branching hair. Though here at journey’s end I lie in darkness buried deep, beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell. - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King View the full article