So… greydogtales is back. Which means that despite age, disease, general incompetence, and Biscuit the Dog eating all his shoes, John Linwood Grant still strides the earth like an arthritic, unimportant colossus! He’s done a ton of books since he was last here, fought a losing battle with the bindweed in the garden, and had to start using a cane. Sadly not a sword cane, spoiling any chance of being mistaken for a dashing Edwardian gentleman. Still, you takes what you can gets…

Time being our Harsh Mistress, we start off in a rush with a review by Dave Brzeski of a collector’s item which is about to be released from publishers Meteor House, but in the coming months we hope to bring you explicit photographs of how much damage the dog has done that week, chilling interviews and articles, and news of forthcoming weird and wonderful books. But what do we know?

SAVAGEOLOGY

Author: Philip José Farmer and Others

Publisher: Meteor House

Page Count: 340

Format: Hardcover/Paperback

Price: $70/$25

ISBN: 978-1-945427-33-6

Publication Date: August 2025

Website: meteorhousepress.com

Reviewer: Dave Brzeski

This is a collection of writings concerning Doc Savage, and can be considered a companion volume to Doc Savage:His Apocalyptic Life, which Meteor House previously published in 2013.

For those not in the know, DS:HAL was the second of Farmer’s fictional biographies (the first being Tarzan Alive). These books were where Farmer’s Wold Newton Family concept was first seriously explored. In these volumes Farmer shows how Tarzan and Doc Savage came to be who they are, and how they’re related to many other exceptional heroes and villains.

The book opens with “Philip José Farmer: An Anaglyphic Look” by Chuck Welch, which was originally published in the Bronze Gazette #80—an issue devoted to Philip José Farmer, one of the key writers who helped shape the character of Doc Savage. It’s only a few pages, but Welch does a good job of answering the grievances of Doc fans who took Farmer’s A Feast Unknown (1969) as an insult to Doc’s legend. Doc Caliban is a stand-in for Doc Savage in that book, but it was never supposed to actually be Doc Savage. Later in The Monster on Hold, completed by Win Scott Eckert from Farmer’s unfinished work, we learn that Caliban is an alternate world version of Savage.

Welch also covers Farmer’s writing of the story of young Clark Savage’s first meeting with his regular team of companions (Escape From Loki) – which again upset purists for daring to suggest that Clark had ever had sex – and of course the magnificent job he did on DS:HAL, including the sterling effort Farmer put into making a workable timeline for all 181 Doc Savage novels (updated, and revised since its initial publication).

This handful of pages is preceeded by cover reproductions of all the various different covers for DS:HAL, and embellished with the cover of that issue of Bronze Gazette, and scans of the dedication page of the copy of DS:HAL that he inscribed for Dent’s widow, Norma Gerling Dent, and a postcard he sent her.

The book is in fact peppered with such images throughout; not only cover repros, but relevant letters and documents. They all appear in greyscale in the paperback edition, but the hardcover presents them in full colour.

This short, but useful introduction is followed by the first Farmer contribution. “Writing Doc’s Biography” has appeared previously in numerous other publications, two of which I already owned, but there’s no denying that it also belongs in this book – in fact I’m mildly surprised that it wasn’t included in Meteor House’s hardcover edition of DS:HAL.

This is a seriously interesting read. Farmer gives much detail of the trials and tribulations he faced in writing DS:HAL. Some things were improved from his experiences of writing the earlier biography, Tarzan Alive, but it was still far from a perfect situation.

Farmer expresses a rather low opinion of Bantam books, who ignored his enquiries for information, and also completely ignored his letters about books he’d paid for, and never received. He concludes that whoever was in charge of the Bantam Doc Savage reprints at that time had no interest in the character whatsoever. It may surprise many people to discover that Farmer disliked the Bama covers that Bantam had on those books, which so many fans love. This was because they bore no resemblance to Dent’s descriptions of Doc Savage. He much preferred the covers by Baumhofer and succeeding artists for the original pulp magazines.

The piece goes on to talk about the herculean task Farmer took on in attempting to compile that logical timeline for the 181 adventures, and how he almost gave up. It also covers the way he laid the book out, and how and why it differed from Tarzan Alive. I’d read this before, but it was well worth a reread. It finally convinced me to invest in a copy of Rick Lai’s The Revised Complete Chronology of Bronze, for the definitive final version of Farmer’s Doc Savage chronology. If you’re tempted to feel, after reading “Writing Doc’s Biography” in this book, that you now have a handle on just how huge and difficult a task creating a workable chronology was, let me suggest you read Rick Lai’s 14 page introduction to The Revised Complete Chronology of Bronze. Farmer was only willing to devote so much space to that subject. Lai gives us a pretty comprehensive report.

I confess that Win Scott Eckert’s “Book of Magic” (first published in the Meteor House 2013 hardcover edition of DS:HAL) left me feeling quite emotional. I well remember those heady days when we had no internet, and no Amazon. Finding the books I loved relied on frequently fruitless searches in as many second-hand bookshops, market stalls and charity shops as I could get to, and even new publications often involved paying import prices for American editions. Eckert writes with feeling about the days when he first discovered the world of pulp heroes, and even states that finally finding the final volume he needed to complete his Bantam Doc Savage collection via the Internet still left him with some regrets that he didn’t get over that finish line the hard way.

He also reminisces about the way Farmer’s two fictional biographies led him to searching out and reading many many books that he may have otherwise never even looked at. I can claim him as a kindred spirit in this, and I have often stated that Tarzan Alive: A Definitive Biography of Lord Greystoke, and DS:HAL were the two most expensive books I ever bought, in that they’ve never really stopped leading me to other books I needed to buy.

Eckert goes on to relate how all of this eventually led to his meeting Farmer, starting the Wold Newton Universe website, and finally working with Farmer on uncompleted works – and continuing to do so after Farmer passed.

In “The Kindly Author and His Avid Fan”, first published in the Bronze Gzette #80, alongside his previous piece in this collection – but updated slightly here – Chuck Welch returns to share the story of how he thought he’d found an error in the aforementioned chronology, and desperate for a way to let him know about it, he actually wrote to Farmer at the address he found in a reproduction in DS:HAL of a letter Farmer had written to the Empire State Building management offices, requesting tenant information about the 86^th floor. Not only did Chuck’s letter actually get to Farmer, but he responded just a couple of days later. This is another very moving story, which I won’t spoil further. The letter, Farmer’s reply, and the reply Farmer received from the Empire State Building management offices, are all reproduced here.

Then, we come to something that was actually new to me. I saw the Doc Savage movie, starring Ron Ely, at the cinema when it was first released in the UK. I had no idea that a sequel was even considered, and that Farmer had written the treatment.

I need to confess a couple of things about me at this point, that I know an awful lot of fans will disagree with: At age 10, I was so excited to hear about the Batman TV show, but disappointed that it was initially only bought by certain ITV regions. We had Anglia ITV, who hadn’t bought it. However, my grandparents, who lived fairly close, had Midlands ITV (now Central) who had, and I walked to their house especially to watch Batman – maybe three times. Even at that age I found it to be disappointing, too camp and played for laughs, and to my mind cementing the adult view that comics were childish nonsense. I did come to quite appreciate the show for what it was in later years, but I never loved it like many fans.

The 1975 Doc Savage movie was obviously very influenced by the camp attitude of the Batman TV show, and again I really wasn’t overly impressed.

I hoped to enjoy Farmer’s treatment for an unmade second Doc Savage film more, and I did, but with caveats: firstly, this is a treatment, never intended to be read as a story, but rather to simply lay out the details of the proposed movie plot for the benefit of the producers. Secondly, Farmer was aware that he was writing a proposal for a follow-up to that original movie, and so he did rather lean into the cheesy aspects. Some of it made me cringe, and other parts made me laugh out loud. I couldn’t help but wonder if the relationship between the Thing and the Human Torch in Lee and Kirby’s Fantastic Four wasn’t heavily influenced by Monk and Ham.

That’s not to say that Doc Savage and the Cult of the Blue God wasn’t interesting, it was. I have to say that the action sequences did rather make me think that Farmer considered the budget their problem, not his, and the first battle sequence was so complex I can’t see most of it not having being cut, had the film gone into production. But overall, it had a lot going for it.

I think, if Farmer had been writing the treatment for a standalone film decades later, it would have been very different, and a lot better. For one thing, Pat Savage’s part would likely have been a little more substantial than it was. I really wish I’d had the time to read the supersaga, Murder Mirage, upon which this treatment was primarily based, before this review is due. I will certainly read it as soon as I get the chance – the comparison could be rather interesting.

While some of us know that Farmer did actually meet and interview the man the world knows under the fictionalised name of Tarzan, he did sometimes obfuscate matters intentionally with pieces of obvious fiction. “The Grant-Robeson Papers”, and the story it serves as an introduction to, “Savage Shadow”, are cases in point.

“The Grant-Robeson Papers” tells us how a Mr D*** paid Maxwell Grant and Kenneth Robeson a serious amount of money to write unique stories that no one but he and they would even know existed until after his death. We are told that they wrote sixteen short stories and novelettes for Mr D***, and decided to make each other the heroes of their respective tales.

Why do we know that Farmer was playing with us on this occasion? For one thing, it is well known that Dent and Grant were pseudonyms mainly used by the creators of Doc Savage and the Shadow, but also used by several other writers who contributed to the two long-running series. Other than that, the idea that the characters of Doc and his aides were inspired by a group of helpless drunks is patently absurd.

“Savage Shadow”, as by Maxwell Grant, however, is wonderful. Kenneth Robeson, down on his luck, and desperate for the series idea that will save his career as a pulp writer, gets involved in the problems of a young woman who believes something is very wrong at the sanitarium that her father had escaped from. Along the way, they meet other residents of the sanatorium – six men and one woman, who are drunken analogues of Doc, his five aides and his cousin Pat. They mean well, but they’re all bombed out of their skulls. We get an hilarious adventure that reads like a sozzled Keystone Kops Kaper, with added pulp thrills. It previously appeared in Weird Heroes Vol. 8 (1977), and Pearls from Peoria (2006).

“The Monster on Hold” is an excerpt from the 4^th book in the Secrets of the Nine series that was published in the World Fantasy Convention Program (October 1983), then reprinted in Win Scott Eckert’s Myths for the Modern Age (2005) and Pearls from Peoria (2006).

Farmer opens with a precis of the first three books: A Feast Unknown, Lord of the Trees and The Mad Goblin (the latter also published under the title Keepers of the Secrets). This is followed by the first draft of one of the weirder chapters of the novel, which Farmer never finished. If you find this interesting, you’ll be happy to know that it was later completed by Win Scott Eckert from Farmer’s written material and notes, and published by Meteor House in 2022. Last year they also published Secrets of the Nine as an omnibus hardcover, and I recommend it, and The Monster on Hold, very highly. Eckert did Farmer proud.

On rereading this part I felt that the Lovecraftian elements of the story owed as much, if not more, to William Hope Hodgson. It would be fascinating to read a version from the point of view of Caliban’s “Other” one day, but this would require the agreement of Condé Nast, and they seem more inclined these days to allow their intellectual properties be rebooted beyond all recognition by James Patterson, and his co-authors.

“Philip José Farmer: His Apocalyptic Life” is a much more complete version of an over three hour interview that Will Murray – himself author of several authorised Doc Savage novels – recorded with Farmer at PulpCon 18, (July 7-9, 1989), where Farmer was guest of honour. It was originally published over two issues of Starlog (#155 & #156), almost a year later, but it somehow passed me by, even though I worked in a comic shop back then which stocked the magazine. Running over fifty-five pages in the book, this was a highlight for me. Murray’s insightful questions led to one of the most fascinating author interviews I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading.

This is followed by Farmer’s afterword to the final Bantam Doc Savage reprint volume in 1990. It’s a little jarring as Farmer opens with references to Will Murray’s afterword that immediately preceeded it, which isn’t reprinted here, but it’s an interesting overview of what that first issue of the Doc Savage pulp magazine meant to a fifteen year old Farmer, and how it led to his writing the character himself many years later, and how his approach differed from Dent’s.

Christpher Paul Carey’s “Farmer’s Escape from Loki: A Closer Look” follows, and presents us with strong evidence to prove his claim that Escape from Loki was much more than the hard-boiled adventure novel many fans took it to be. He also points out examples of fictional characters Farmer referenced that were obscure enough for most people to miss, and suggests that there are doubtless more that even he hasn’t yet spotted.

This is immediately followed by an exchange of letters between Carey and Farmer, which detail how Carey was unwilling to publish his article without giving Farmer a chance to say no, if he wished, and/or to suggest corrections. It’s truly fascinating to be allowed to witness the beginnings of friendship, back when they still called each other Mr Farmer, and Mr Carey.

If Farmer had a superpower it was in the way he attracted people who would go on, through their friendship, to become not only collaborators, but great writers in their own right. I said in my review of Carey’s Hadon, King of Opar that I considered him to be “quite possibly the best writer currently working in the classic Heroic Fantasy genre,” – an opinion I still stand by. If you’re one of those readers for whom fantasy meant fairly short books that could be read in one, or two sittings, often featuring series characters – as opposed to the habit of producing endless 500+ page doorstops, which still seems to be the favoured format of most fantasy authors, then Carey is someone whose work you’ll like. I can’t help but wonder where authors of the calibre of Carey (currently the Vice President of Publishing at Edgar Rice Burroughs Inc.) and Eckert would be now, had it not been for the way Farmer gave them his time and friendship back then.

Carey’s contributions continue with “The Green Eyes Have It—Or Are They Blue?”, yet more literary archeology in which Carey presents evidence to show which characters are actually other characters under a different name – or even gender – and which other works of fiction reveal yet more connections. I have nothing but admiration for this sort of thing. I love to read it, but I absolutely could not do it. I just can’t juggle all these ideas in my head – it gives me a headache. Not only are these essays periodically updated when the author discovers new data to work in – just as Farmer himself did in his own “fictional biographies” and essays. but one also has to accept that Carey, Eckert and others don’t always agree with each other’s theories. This is what makes it so much fun. You get to decide for yourself which theory works for you, and change your mind a week later. The bibliography of source material accompanying this much longer essay lists no less than twenty works, all of which are well worth reading in their own right.

“A Wild Woman” by Win Scott Eckert tells the tale of how Win was invited to visit Phil and Bette Farmer in 2005, staying in their basement guest room. He goes on to tell how he found a folder labelled “Pemberely House” in Farmer’s “Magic Filing Cabinet” which contained several typed chapters and an outline. This led to Eckert being allowed to complete what would become The Evil in Pemberley House, featuring Patricia Wildman – a sort of “what if Doc Savage had a daughter?” The title immediately gives away the fact that this is very much a Wold Newton Universe book. Eckert went on to write a second Pat Wildman book – The Scarlet Jaguar, and further adventures are planned.

Reprinted from Farmerphile: The Magazine of Philip José Farmer No. 14, we next get the story of the creation of Doc Wildman’s (AKA Doc Savage) Coat of Arms. Plus the final image by the wonderfully talented Keith Howell. This is one example where the hardcover illustrations all being in colour, rather than the greyscale version in the paperback makes a huge difference.

Also reprinted from an issue of Farmerphile (this time No. 6) “Through the Seventh Gate: Pursuing Farmer’s Sources in Savageology”, by Christopher Paul Carey gives us much information about the various works that he used to research DS:HAL. Carey posits that Farmer must have had access to more information about Doc than he could have possibly gleaned from his 1970 interview with Tarzan, or his later meeting with Patricia Wildman. If anyone reading this is of the opinion that Farmer simply invented it all, I will simply quote Carey’s comment in this short article – “To believe that Farmer made it all up is, of course, absurd.”

“The Ultimate Forbidden Doc Savage”, by R. Paul Sardanas, and “My Feast Unknown: Or how I Adapted an Unreadable Book into an Unwatchable Multi-Media Theater Piece that Crashes DVD Recorders” by Iason Ragnar Bellerophon, combine to describe the effect the Doc Savage pulp tales, and Farmer’s infamous A Feast Unknown, had on a young literary writer and an artist who went on to devote years attempting to adapt it into a mix of pulp, literature, art and music – truly fascinating and an invitation to the reader to step into yet another rabbit hole of exploration. I hadn’t previously been aware of Sardanas’ Doc Talos writings, but I suspect I will investigate.

We return to more familiar ground with Win Scott Eckert’ “Spoilers of the Nine: Completing Philip José Farmer’s The Monster on Hold”. This was a recent reread for me, it having appeared as the Afterword to Meteor House’s 2024 omnibus edition of Secrets of the Nine. Those who have yet to read the book should note that “spoilers” does indeed mean spoilers.

Here Eckert writes about the myriad works by Farmer and others that tie in to his completion of The Monster on Hold, from the several chapters and notes that Farmer left. Many of these connections more or less wrote themselves, Eckert claims. I’m again left awestruck by the sheer amount of data Eckert somehow keeps straight. I could never do this.

When I reviewed The Monster on Hold, I read a great number of the works Eckert lists here, but there are still several that I have yet to get to. You can find out which of them I have read by reading my review, which was published under the title, The Secrets of the Nine. http://greydogtales.com/blog/the-secrets-of-the-nine/

I have yet to complete my reread of the core three novels – comprising A Feast Unknown, The Mad Goblin (AKA: Keepers of the Secrets) and Lord of the Trees – for my review of the omnibus version of The Secrets of the Nine, part of the reason being that I’d read them so recently.

Most of the material in this collection has seen print before, and I’d previously read a few of the pieces, albeit the original printings of many of the articles were somewhat too obscure for me to have come across at the time. The one piece that I have read at least a dozen times before was “After Kong Fell” by Philip José Farmer, a truly moving retelling of the true events leading to the death of King Kong as witnessed by a thirteen year old boy, who is sharing the story decades later with his six year old grandaughter. It’s included here because Doc makes a cameo appearance, as does another famous pulp hero. I love this story. Few authors would have thought to have the grandfather confuse the characters of Roadrunner, and Wile E. Coyote, when he’s explaining the difference between real life and scripted shows to his grandaughter. It’s little details like this that show what a great writer Farmer was.

“Was,” is a word which leads us neatly into the final offering here. “Doc Savage Loses an Author”, Win Scott Eckert’s moving obituary for Farmer on his passing in 2009, originally published in The Big Book of Bronze No. 2 (2009) and very much deserving to be seen by many more people. It’s a very fitting way to end this book.

Finally, it would be seriously remiss of me to end this review without mention of Keith Howell, who was responsible for the beautiful cover, internal illustrations and book design. Well done that man!

The question is: Is this a worthwhile publication for those that don’t have a copy of DS:HAL – and indeed is it worthwhile for those who do, considering that most of the material presented here has seen publication before? I’d say a resounding yes to both. Nothing in this book relies on any prior knowledge of DS:HAL, albeit it is quite likely to tempt people to seek out a copy. And having the most up to date versions of all this material collected together under one cover cannot fail to be very useful for both Farmer fans, and Doc fans.

Savageology – Discourses on Doc Savage by Grand Master Philip José Farmer and His Fans

Silence indeed, for goodness me, we’ve been away a while. But we’re sort of back, so let’s kick off with an open call for writers. This is quite  time sensitive – mid-July – and not one of ours, but a project from Belanger Books, being edited by Dave Brzeski. We’re very much looking forward to what turns up, however. Here we go…

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SILENCE: Untold Cases of Algernon Blackwood’s Psychic Doctor

An Open Call by Dave Brzeski/Belanger Books

We have some great stories for this forthcoming anthology, but as of early June 2024, we now think we can still squeeze in another couple of tales. So we’re extending the deadline until July 15th. We’re no longer looking for longer stories, so all submissions should be in the 6,000 – 10,000 word range. $150 for accepted works. The Kickstarter for this project, from Belanger Books, will open in July 2024.

PLEASE NOTE: For this project, it is essential that you read or have already read all six of Algernon Blackwood’s John Silence stories from 1908. Five of these were published in John Silence, Physician Extraordinary, and are available to read or download free through Project Gutenberg:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49222

A sixth story from 1914, ‘A Victim of Higher Space’, is included in the Algernon Blackwood collection, Day and Night Stories, which is also available to read or download free through Project Gutenberg:

https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45964

All of them can be found in Dover’s The Complete John Silence, edited by S.T. Joshi (this is the recommended option) and in various other collections — do try to avoid the assorted sub-standard POD, or Kindle versions that can be be found on Amazon, as they tend to be somewhat typo-ridden.

THE CHARACTER

Dr John Silence did not consider himself, or describe himself as, an occult detective. He was a ‘psychic doctor’, seeking to alleviate distress, and to free people from unusual and traumatic situations. He operated as an independent consultant, charging no fees, and was helped by various assistants at different times, usually someone who had at least a basic sensitivity to psychic phenomena. Two of these men are mentioned in the original stories, the earliest one — Hubbard — being a sort of ‘Watson’ to his ‘Holmes’.

His outlook and his abilities are frequently described by Blackwood, sometimes with specific mentions of his own extensive psychic training (without details), his unusual awareness and abilities, and his view on ‘Higher Planes’, the nature of Good and Evil, and the condition of human soul. Unlike Holmes, he recognises the existence of malign psychic forces, though he tends to consider these as part of an orderly universe where logic can still be of value.

SUBMISSIONS

Stories should have all the following elements:

1. John Silence as a key element. In keeping with the original stories, Silence does not have to be the main protagonist throughout. He may, for example, be the authority of last resort, the deus ex machina who saves the day, the instigator of events, etc. Removal of Silence from the story, on the other hand, should significantly detract from it.

2. Silence as the canonical psychic doctor in the style that Blackwood envisaged, with the same general nature and modus operandi. Writers are welcome to add to aspects of the character (within sensible limits) but should not deduct from his already stated characteristics.

3. Setting, societal and technological aspects in keeping with the Edwardian period, or any reasonable period up to the late nineteen thirties, remembering that Silence would be getting on a bit by then.

4. A decided psychic, paranormal, supernatural or occult problem. Unusual psychological problems or issues may also qualify. Stories about general monster hunting and classic monsters are unlikely to be chosen, unless their approach is particularly innovative and relates to Silence’s established range of activities.

One thing that struck us on rereading the original tales was the sheer diversity in the stories. Smoke, and Flame, Silence’s animal helpers only appear in one story. The narrator isn’t always the same. One story is almost mad science, rather than supernatural, and another has Silence not even turn up until close to the end. So we stress. Do read the Blackwood stories before submitting.

With the above in mind, we welcome a wide range of submissions, including:

• direct canonical pastiches
• explorations of Silence’s failings or failed cases
• imaginative new angles on his consulting work
• Silence visiting countries not already covered by Blackwood
• tales of his early life, and how or why he took up his profession
• crossovers with other historical or literary characters in the public domain
• crossovers with series characters of your own creation are neither banned, nor encouraged.

We do NOT want time-travel stories, alien Dr Silences, or steampunk. We probably don’t want Lovecraftiana, unless the latter is very clever, subtle and original, in which case we might have a glance. Draw on Blackwood’s general canon and the background work of other period weird fiction authors (Machen, Hope Hodgson, James et al) as required.

TECHNICAL DETAILS

Use any standard 12 point font, and general Shunn guidelines*. Indents by style, not by Tab or Space-bar. Submit in .doc, .docx or .odt format, with your submission attached to your email, not pasted in it. No .pdfs, Google Docs links or anything like that. Please include a brief cover note only — there is no need for bios or achievements at this stage.

Submissions MUST have the subject line Silence-Author’s name-Story title. You can trim your story title down if it’s rather long.

Submissions MUST have the author’s name, email, and the word count of the story ncluded at the top of the document.

NO REPRINTS; simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but please inform us immediately if your story sells elsewhere.

*Shunn formatting can be found summarised here: https://www.shunn.net/format/story/all/

A NOTE ON INCLUSIVITY AND DISCRIMINATION

We welcome stories from writers in all sections of society and from all parts of the world, and we actively encourage contributors from traditionally less-published backgrounds of any nature. As for the content itself, non-white characters and settings are also welcome, as are stories with LGBTQ+ characters, and those with differing levels of physical ability. No token figures, though, please.

Whilst limited situational discrimination may occasionally be relevant in the context of the period – in order to reflect characters’ life histories or traumas – sexism, homophobia, racism etc. in general will not be accepted.

Payment: Authors shall receive a payment of $150, and a paperback copy of the anthology. The Kickstarter for the book will run in July 2024.

Email all submissions to dave@cathaven.co.uk by July 15th 2024.

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LATEST FROM JOHN LINWOOD GRANT

Out NOW from Mocha Memoirs Press, a unique collection of weird/folk horror tales featuring the formidable conjure woman –  hoodoo, haints, and the struggle for justice in 1920s USA.

AIN’T NO WITCH: The Wanderings of Mamma Lucy

“Beautifully written. Authentic and true. A new heroine set in the past, in this modern age. More please!”

“A tapestry made of legend, poetry and bone-chilling apparitions, with a stubborn and somehow unknowable Mammy Lucy always at the center. Among the best fiction inspired by the Southern Highlands in years.”

“The writing is wonderful. the setting and atmosphere is terrific, heartbreaking and tough and loving and beautiful. I want more!”

AIN’T NO WITCH: The Wanderings of Mamma Lucy is available (Kindle and PB) from Amazon and from Mocha Memoirs Press.

In the States:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CZ9YWMCB

In the UK:

Direct from Mocha Memoirs

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More news soon…

Happy birthday to poet Robert Burns and author Willie Meikle! For two hundred and twenty three years, the faithful have celebrated the life and writings of poet Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) on or around this day. And this day is also, as it happens, the birthday of Scottish* horror writer Willie Meikle, our inspiration for this series of peculiar Scottish supernatural tales and trivia, and who is still around, thank goodness.

*’Scottish’ and ‘Scots’ are both permitted and respectable; ‘Scotch’ is frowned upon, except when referring to specific items, such as Scotch eggs, Scotch whisky and so on.

Burns Nicht, or even Burns Day in some parts of the Scottish diaspora, is a time for haggis, whisky and verse, the traditional Burns Supper. And on the way to supper, we encounter a bridge, an abandoned church, , and Game of Thrones — because we’re like that…

Each in its cold hand held a light:
By which heroic Tom was able
To note upon the holy table,
A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons;
Two span-long, small, unchristened babies;
A thief just cut from his hanging rope –
With his last gasp his mouth did gape;

(‘Tam o’ Shanter’)

Yesterday’s story here, ‘The Eyes of Doom’, featured the small town of Arrochar, and if you drive for about an hour and half due south (trying not to drown in the Firth of Clyde), you will come to Alloway, the village where Robert Burns was born. Apart from its historical relevance as his birthplace, Alloway has two sites of of particular interest to us — the ruins of Alloway Kirk, and the Brig o’ Doon, a fifteenth century bridge located south of Alloway.

Brig o’ Doon, built somewhere between 1420 and 1465, still stands, though it has been repaired many times. It was by riding madly over this bridge that Tam o’ Shanter escaped the witches who pursued him, as described in the eponymous 1790 poem by Burns. Does its name sound familiar? Yes, that’s where the 1947 Brigadoon musical (and the subsequent 1954 film) got the title, though unlike Alloway, Brigadoon is a mysterious Scottish village that appears for only one day every 100 years — a common enough element of European folk-tales.

The idea of a place cursed to have only a day or a few days in ‘normal’ space has become such a trope that it even occupies a whole Deep Space Nine episode — ‘Meridian’. Jadzia Dax encounters a whole planet, albeit with no more than a small village-sized community which disappears for decades and is only in phase with the usual DS9 universe for short periods. And it involves a love story, as usual, though not quite as successful a one as in Brigadoon.

Alloway Auld Kirk also still stands, but only as a well-kept ruin, and was built about a century later than the bridge. Robert Burns’s father is buried there (under the surname ‘Burnes’), and it is this church which is central to ‘Tam o’ Shanter’.

Burns himself told a friend that he drew upon a folk tale told to him to construct the poem, a tale which began (in his words):

“On a market-day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order to cross the River Doon, at the old bridge, which is almost two or three hundred yards farther on than the said old gate, had been detained by his business till by the time he reached Alloway it was the wizard hour, between night and morning.

“Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet as it is a well known fact, that to turn back on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and entertained, thorough the ribs and arches of an old gothic window which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their old sooty black-guard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe.”

In 1910, it was recorded that Burns had a snuffbox made from wood out of the kirk ruins, on which was inscribed the marvellous verse:

“Frae the oak that bare the riggin’,

O Alloway’s auld haunted biggin’,

Frae the thorn aboon the well,

Whaur Mungo’s mither hanged hersel’.”

TAM O’ SHANTER

So, to the poem itself, which is a grand horror tale of a man who observes a ‘Witches’ Sabbath’, and is pursued by sundry hags until he finally wins free at the last minute, courtesy of the Brig o’ Doon and his faithful mare, Maggie. That Game of Thrones connection? James Cosmo, who played Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, has delivered perhaps the best aural version of ‘Tam O’Shanter’ yet. Born James Ronald Gordon Copeland, he’s been in too many film and TV series to list, everything from Dr Finlay’s Casebook, UFO, Gladiator, and the Chronicles of Narnia, to His Dark Materials. Here he is in very fine form:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pU_Lbdy3Ud8

And here is the full poem in Scots, as written. For those of the faint at heart, an English translation can be found here:

http://www.robertburns.org.uk/Assets/Poems_Songs/tamoshanter.htm

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! had’st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi’ the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on;
That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown’d in Doon,
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming saats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white—then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.—
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow’rin round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze,
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil!
The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,
Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish’d,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,
She ventur’d forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.—
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.

As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
The reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A’ plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!—
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o’ guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies!
But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an’ flinging on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken’d on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish’d mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc’d,
And thought his very een enrich’d:
Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,
And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi’ mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin!
In hell, they’ll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o’ the brig;
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie’s mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:
Whene’er to Drink you are inclin’d,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o’er dear;
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

---

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More SCOTLAND THE STRANGE in a couple of days. Previous article here: 

SCOTLAND THE STRANGE: THE EYES OF DOOM

This week, in honour of Burns Night, which celebrates Scottish poet Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796), our greydogtales site begins a ramble through the subject of Scottish supernatural/horror and related cultural stuff. We’ll have some classic tales, new material, guest reviews of some really bad films set in Scotland, and all sorts, alongside which we will also celebrate veteran storyteller Willie Meikle’s forthcoming book of his own weird fiction, ‘Haunted Scotland’ — the other reason for staging this event.

And we should we, Yorkshire folk born and bred, be doing this? Partly because our friend Willie has had some very rough health problems this last couple of years — and partly because we are terribly Northern at heart. Remember, if you skin a Scotsman, you will find a Yorkshireman underneath, going through the Scotsman’s purse.

Dour, careful with money, generous with food, and sometimes incomprehensible to outsiders (there are elements of the Scots language and the old Yorkshire dialects which are mutually recognisable), the people of the Scottish Lowlands and Northern England have a long history of raiding each other and burning each other down, but both are rightly suspicious of the English in the South, where everyone lives on caviar and champagne, bought with the stolen wealth of the North. Or something like that.

So, rather than rattle on further today, we start with a tale which may be less well known, one of the 1920s  supernatural stories of writer Ella Scrymsour, set in Scotland, of course. If you simply want a ‘good’ read, the first of Scrymsour’s six ‘Shiela Crerar’ tales is presented in full below. If you want more background, this post from a while ago may provide some enlightenment.

http://greydogtales.com/blog/shiela-crerar-clay-corpses-psychic-investigation-girls/

And more detail of the six tales themselves, but with spoilers, can be found here:

https://darkworldsquarterly.gwthomas.org/the-ghostbreakers-shiela-crerar/

‘Eyes of Doom’ is classic fun, and though not without its faults and oddities, is a rare example of a female writer of those times writing a female ‘occult detective’…

---

THE EYES OF DOOM

by Ella Scrymsour

 

SHIELA CRERAR FELT VERY LONELY as she sat in her tiny sitting-room in her dreary lodgings. She was tired, too, mentally as well as physically, and she tried to forget the misery of the past six months.

An orphan, she had been brought up by an uncle who idolised her. For twenty-two years she had lived in happiness in their home in the Highlands. She could visualise it now. A smallish house for a laird, built in the true Scottish baronial style, with turreted roof and pepper-box corners and a tiny courtyard. ‘Kencraig’ was built on the top of a high eminence overlooking Loch Lubnaig, and it had been one of her chief delights to sit among the heather and watch the rippling waters of the lake beneath. To her left was Ben Ledi, and she revelled in his rugged beauty. He stood for strength and chivalry in her young mind, and she always thought of him as a rough but courteous Bruce, with shaggy locks and tartan kilts flying in the wind. It was only a girlish fancy, but to her the Ben was a living personality – nature’s gentleman – a Highland chief.

For twenty-two years she had bid him good morning and waved him a good night. For twenty-two years she had wandered among the heather, bathed in the Loch, and driven into Callender once a week to do her shopping. And now – she wondered why this sorrow should have come to her. Six months ago she had been out in the woods gathering rowan berries. She had gone home gay and bright, but there was no welcoming figure of Uncle John waiting at the door for her. She went into his study – and, oh, the horror of it! He was sitting at his desk, his eyes open wide, his mouth twisted sideways, his hands cold. He did not answer her call. She knew he was dead. ‘Heart failure,’ the doctor said, and Shiela felt that the light had gone out of her world.

The funeral over, she had gone into the library with Mr MacArthur, her uncle’s attorney. At first Shiela did not understand what Mr MacArthur was trying to tell her. She couldn’t realise that she had been left penniless, with only a heavily mortgaged estate as a legacy. Mr MacArthur advised her to sell Kencraig, pay off the mortgage, and with what little remained over fit herself to take her place among the workers of the great world. But Shiela refused to sell her home. Every stone was precious to her, every corner was a dear, living friend.

At last she agreed to let it on a five years’ lease to a rich American widow.

‘What do you intend doing now?’ he asked.

‘I shall have about a hundred pounds. I shall go to London, and try and get something to do there.’

She was obstinate. She procured cheap rooms in London in a road derisively called Air Street. Her hundred pounds did not go far. In vain she tried for work in the great Metropolis; no one wanted her. Depressed and silent, she sat in her little room, and wondered what would happen when her scanty money gave out. She was a petite maid, with nut-brown hair and grey eyes that looked all too trustingly at a cruel and heartless world.

She had no money to spend on amusements, and as she walked the streets of the great city she saw visions of the long ago. She wandered in Lincoln’s Inn, and saw the passing of sedan chairs; watched gallants, with silken coat and jewelled sword, bend low before their lady loves. She sought out ‘old London’, and lived alone in the seventeenth century. Always psychic, her gift seemed trebled in her sorrow and loneliness, and her only friends now were the dim ghosts of the past.

She was sitting in the gardens of Lincoln’s Inn one day, when she suddenly became aware of a quaint figure beside her – a wizened man of perhaps sixty years, in a dark, claret-coloured suit, with a black three-cornered hat upon his knee. And as she looked, he took a pinch of snuff from a beautifully enamelled box, and applied it to his nostrils, his little finger delicately poised like a bird on the wing.

‘You are sad and lonely, little lady,’ he said suddenly. ‘Why not help those that are sad and lonely too? You have a gift – a most wonderful gift of sight. Use that sight for your own benefit and the benefit of mankind. I promise you, you will not fail.’

‘But how?’ she began, but the quaint little figure had gone; and there was only a fat old woman, with an untidy dress and a rusty black bonnet, watching her curiously from the further corner of the seat.

Shiela felt dazed. She rose and looked round. No, she was still in the bustling world of taxis and motor-buses. The picturesque past had vanished. She smiled a little, and went home, but her brain was working hard. She slept well that night, and when morning came her mind was made up.

For the next three days an advertisement appeared in the agony column of The Times:

Lady of gentle birth, Scottish, young, penniless, possessing strong psychic powers, will devote her services to the solving of uncanny mysteries or the ‘laying of ghosts’. Offer quite genuine. Reply, with particulars and remuneration offered, to S. C. c/o Mrs Barker, 14b Air Street, Regent’s Park, London.

And now she was waiting – waiting. Two days had passed since her advertisement had first appeared. A double knock sounded. The postman! A footstep sounded outside, and Mrs Barker appeared.

‘A registered letter for you, my dear,’ she remarked cheerily. ‘I’ll be bringing yer supper in ‘alf a tick. See, it’s a bloater tonight, ain’t it? A poor man’s steak, I calls it.’

And Shiela shuddered slightly. The well-meant vulgarity repelled her; the stench of cooking fish nauseated her. She felt nervy, restless, ill. The Highlands were calling her – she longed to feel the springy heather under her feet – to drink in the strong air. It was the call of the hills!

She looked at the thick, crested envelope curiously. It was certainly an answer to her advertisement, for it was addressed to her initials – S. C. Slowly she read it, and a flush of excitement crept into her cheeks.

Dunfunerie,
Loch Long, N.B.

If S. C.’s offer is really genuine, will she accept the enclosed £10 on account for immediate expenses, and wire Lady Kildrummie that she is prepared to try to solve, and perhaps lay for ever, the very unpleasant mystery known as the ‘Kildrummie Weird’? If S. C. states the time she will arrive at Arrochar Station, Lady Kildrummie will see that there is a car sent to meet her.

Shiela’s eyes glowed. Arrochar! Scotland! Her luck had turned at last. She was going back to her beloved Highlands. But would she succeed in her undertaking? Then she remembered the ‘little old man’ in Lincoln’s Inn. ‘You will not fail,’ he had said. Of course, she had heard of the ‘Kildrummie Weird’. Who had not? Was it not as much speculated upon as the hidden mystery of Glamis? Was it not even as mysterious? What was the story – did not some great calamity happen when the Weird appeared?

 

Next day she wired Lady Kildrummie that she would come at once, and she caught the night train to Glasgow where she changed for the West Highland line. At Arrochar Station, over which Ben Lomond towers, she looked round eagerly.

A tall man in the late thirties came towards her – a handsome man, rugged, strong, in a kilt of the Cameron tartan, his mother’s clan.

‘Miss Crerar?’ he asked, raising his bonnet. ‘I am Stavordale Hartland. My aunt, Lady Kildrummie, asked me to meet you.’

His voice was pleasantly tuneful, and the wholesome admiration in his eyes could do nought but please her. Instantly she compared him to rugged Ben Ledi, and, had the man at her side but known, it was the greatest compliment she could have paid him.

Dunfunerie was situate on the Argyllshire side of Loch Long, nestling under the great shoulder of ‘The Cobbler’ himself. Lady Kildrummie met her with outstretched hands. ‘How good of you to come, my dear. Are you by any chance related to Crerar of Kencraig?’

‘He was my uncle.’

‘Then you are doubly welcome, for Kencraig was my late husband’s greatest friend. Now, Stavordale, you can leave Miss Crerar and me to have tea together.’

It was not until they had finished their tea that her hostess commenced her story.

‘My dear, I am in great trouble,’ she said, by way of starting. ‘Your advertisement interested me, and I wondered if you could “lay for ever” the Weird that haunts this place. Up to now the story has been kept absurdly secret – I think none of us wanted to believe in it. Since the time of Coinneach the Strong, in the latter part of the sixteenth century, Kildrummie has been cursed by this Weird. Every twenty-three years some terrible calamity has occurred in the family, preceded for about six months by “The Eyes”.’

‘The Eyes?’

‘Yes, the “Eyes of Doom” they are called. The Kildrummie Weird takes the form of eyes that appear and disappear, and are mainly seen in the west wing. In recent years calamity has fallen on this house after the Eyes have been seen. In 1874, the year I was married, my husband’s two elder brothers died – each by his own hand. One was found drowned in the Loch, the other was shot on the summit of the “Cobbler” yonder. At both inquests the verdict was “accidental death”, but we all knew better. It was “the Eyes” that had driven them mad. My husband became heir to the title, and in 1897 my eldest son poisoned himself. Again it was put down to an accident. He was dabbling in photography, and it was supposed that he took some cyanide by mistake for his medicine. But it was no accident – twenty-three years had passed, and he had seen “The Eyes”. This is 1920, Miss Crerar; it is twenty-three years since Diarmid died, and I am afraid. My son Duncan, the only one left to me, is now twenty-six years old. Lately he has complained of being kept awake at night by curious creakings. He has seen strange lights, and, oh, he is changed. I can’t explain what I mean; you will see for yourself; he is all nerves. I am convinced he has seen “The Eyes of Doom”. Will you try and solve the mystery for me, Miss Crerar? What the cause is I don’t know, but the hideous waiting for some tragedy to fall is terrible.’

‘I’ll do my best, Lady Kildrummie. I can promise you no more.’

That evening Shiela met Duncan Kildrummie. Although young, he was a distinguished soldier – had won the D.S.O., and been mentioned several times in despatches, and had the reputation among his friends of being a regular dare-devil. But Shiela had a shock when she saw him. His hands were restless, the flesh under his eyes was puffy and dark, and if he was spoken to suddenly his whole body would respond with nervous twitchings.

‘Lady Kildrummie,’ she said after dinner, ‘will you put your son into another room to sleep, and leave his empty for me to examine? I can see he is in a state of great mental distress. Can’t you get him to go away for a change?’

‘It’s no use, Miss Crerar. I have begged him to go away, but nothing will induce him to leave.’

 

That night Shiela changed into a dark rest-gown, and when everyone had retired to bed she prowled up and down the long corridors armed only with a tiny flash-lamp. She unlocked the chapel door and went inside. Suddenly she felt an icy blast that seemed to pierce through her, and the heavy door closed silently behind her. She felt startled, and tried to open it, but the catch was down on the other side. She was locked in! The sudden gust of wind was not repeated, yet she found she was shivering with cold from head to foot. Always venturesome, the thought never entered her head to find a way of rousing the household. If she was unable to get out, then she would stay in the chapel till day came.

She sat down in one of the old-fashioned pews and looked about her. The moon was conveniently bright, and she could distinguish objects quite clearly by its light.

As she sat she became aware that someone was looking at her, and she turned sharply round.

A pair of eyes was gazing at her, eyes so mournful, so full of grief that Shiela felt her own fill with tears of sympathy.

And as she met the piteous gaze she became suddenly conscious of the fact that the eyes were not framed by a face! She rose with a startled exclamation of horror, and turned away, but to her right another pair of eyes appeared, eyes this time that were mad with hate; eyes so filled with loathing and malevolence that Shiela backed away from them in fear. But now the whole chapel seemed filled with the ghastly sight. Eyes with expression, eyes without! Eyes kind, eyes cruel! Eyes imbecile, eyes fanatical! Eyes with every expression in them that man could conceive.

Shiela put out her hands to beat the swelling mass away, but even as her arms were extended in front of her they were caught in a ghostly vice, and she was dragged to the vestry door.

She was drawn by unseen hands – hands that possessed an unseen body. All that she could see of her captor was two eyes, eyes that shone in the moonlight and that looked at her with cruel menace.

The vestry door swung silently open, and she was dragged through, followed by the eyes. She had no time to look round, for the door that communicated with the west wing, which was always doubly locked and barred, now stood open wide, and through it Shiela was taken.

The west wing was partly a ruin, and the wind whistled through glassless windows and roofless halls. Then the grip of iron relaxed, and she found she was in a small turret chamber, and around her were twenty-three pairs of eyes – all baleful and cruel, except one, and that one pair seemed as if they might belong to a wounded deer, so plaintive were they, so mournful and sad.

Shiela moved towards the door, but the eyes surrounded her. She tried to dodge them, tried to get away from them, but it was impossible. She was as keenly guarded as if by living bodies. Then she grew really frightened, terrified, her brain seemed to go numb, her teeth chattered, and she cried aloud in her agony of dread. But the eyes grew fiercer and more cruel – they seemed to menace her. With a cry she threw herself at the bodiless terrors, and all became dark.

For awhile she remembered nothing, then she was conscious that she was being carried down long corridors and up steep stairs. There was the sound of a click, and a voice said, ‘Do you want anything, Miss Crerar? I heard you call out, so I came across to you.’ It was Lady Kildrummie.

‘I’m thirsty,’ cried Shiela, ‘and, oh, please, Lady Kildrummie, will you put the light on.’

But Lady Kildrummie stared in amazement, for she had switched on the electric light as she entered the room! She bent over the girl. Here eyes were open wide, but they met her gaze with a cold stare. The sight had gone!

‘My dear, my dear,’ she breathed, ‘what has happened?’

‘I – I hardly know. I – I was in the chapel – oh, do please put on the light. It is so dark here.’

Tenderly the elder woman put her arms about the girl.

‘Tell me first what is the matter,’ she said gently. ‘The dark is so peaceful, and I am here with you.’

Incoherently Shiela spoke. ‘I was in the chapel – through the turret room. There were twenty-three eyes – ‘ The girl’s voice trailed off. She seemed to be in a stupor, but her eyes were still wide open. Lady Kildrummie rang a bell.

‘Tell Doctor Graeme to come here at once,’ she said to the startled maid. ‘Miss Crerar is ill.’

The genial doctor, a guest in the house, came hurriedly and examined the girl.

‘She’s had a shock,’ he said.

‘Her eyes! Her eyes!’ cried Lady Kildrummie, distractedly.

‘My God! Blind! But she was all right at dinner!’ said the doctor.

That night a watchful vigil was kept over Shiela, and when the sun rose she awoke from her torpor and looked at Lady Kildrummie in amazement.

‘What is the matter?’ she asked, curiously. ‘Why are you here?’

And her hostess realised that she had regained the power of sight. When the doctor saw her he stared at her in amazement.

‘My dear young lady, why, I – I – bless my soul – there’s nothing wrong with her!’

Shiela told Lady Kildrummie of her experience in the night, but her hostess smiled.

‘You have certainly described the turret room, Miss Crerar, but you couldn’t have got into it last night, as I hold the key.’

‘But I did,’ protested Shiela. ‘The door was open wide.’

‘Well, we will go and look at it as soon as you are up, but I assure you it would be quite impossible for anyone to open the door without my key.’

 

‘Now,’ said Lady Kildrummie later, ‘you see this door is twice bolted and twice locked.’

The bolts were stiff and the key turned with great difficulty, but the nail-studded door swung open at last. Shiela gave a little cry of triumph. The floor, thickly coated with the dust of ages, was marked by freshly made footprints – footprints of long, pointed boots that crossed and recrossed each other – and among the old-fashioned prints were some made by a little, light modern shoe.

Shiela took hers off, and bent down to the mark nearest the door. It fitted exactly!

‘I was here last night,’ she whispered, hysterically.

But Lady Kildrummie was almost speechless, and terror shone in her eyes. ‘The Eyes of Doom,’ she muttered, hoarsely. ‘God help us, for our troubles are beginning.’

That night as Shiela was preparing for bed again the melancholy eyes appeared. She looked at them fearfully. It was an awe-inspiring sight to watch those expressive eyes move about, propelled by an unseen force. They seemed to float in the air, and she knew their power of locomotion rested in the bodies that were hidden from her sight. And even as she waited the other eyes manifested themselves. She tried to resist, but the ghostly hands were too strong, and again she was taken to the turret room. A circle of eyes was around her – eyes on a level with her own, but only space above them and space below. But they seemed less malignant, less cruel, though terrifying nevertheless. They seemed to be trying to tell her something, but she was unable to read their message. She was nervous, she was on the defensive, and unconsciously she rendered herself out of tune with the Weird. She was not in a fit psychic state to understand them. She was in too material a condition. The eyes seemed to realise this, and they grew menacing again, fretful, impatient. Again there came to the girl a space of forgetfulness, and when she awoke to realities she was back in her room, and she realised she was blind!

She moved uncertainly about the room. Everything seemed unfamiliar to her, unreal. Her eyes hurt her, they seemed inflamed, they were sore. All night long the pain was unbearable, and she sat on a chair, helpless and miserable. But as the dawn came so a veil seemed to be lifted from her eyes, and she could see once more. It was a blindness that came with the darkness and went with the morning light.

During the day Shiela was trying to get into communion with the astral world. She was trying to fit herself to ‘see’ even deeper into the mysteries of the ‘unknown’. It was her first trial alone, and she was gradually becoming fitted for the task she had set herself.

Daily Duncan Kildrummie grew more silent, more morose, more taciturn. The Kildrummie Weird was trying to claim him as its victim, and he realised it and knew he was too weak to hold out against it for long. Soon he, too, would die – and die ‘accidentally’, as so many members of his family had done.

The eyes grew more venturesome. One night a pair hovered over the dinner table, and gazed at Duncan intently. All saw them, and as Lady Kildrummie screamed in terror they disappeared. But Duncan rose, and stumbled blindly out of the room. Stavordale went quickly after him, and found his cousin staring at the cold waters of the Loch. He was staring, staring, and there was a look of madness in his eyes. The next night several pairs circled round him. He tried to beat them off, but they seemed always just out of his reach, and their expression mocked him.

Stavordale Hartland attached himself to Shiela, and she found his strong personality a great help to her in the nerve-racking time she was going through. Night after night when the eyes claimed her she found she was a helpless entity in their grasp. And in the turret room they supplicated, entreated, menaced her, and still she was unable to read their meaning.

And daily the eyes seemed to appear more often. They followed Duncan from room to room, they drove him out of the house, and he would disappear for hours at a time, and his mother’s heart would ache with apprehension.

One night Shiela resolved not to go to bed, and Lady Kildrummie and Stavordale agreed to sit up all night with her in the library. For Shiela had come to dread the period of blindness that was forced upon her in so mysterious a way, and she wondered if in company she would be strong enough to resist the ghostly hands.

First one pair of eyes appeared, and then another, until all twenty-three pairs surrounded the trio. As if turned to stone, Lady Kildrummie and Stavordale Hartland watched Shiela forcibly dragged out of the room. They could neither move nor speak, and when Shiela returned to them she found that three helpless people would have to stay in the library until dawn, for this time they were all blind!

Next night Shiela and Stavordale were standing together watching Duncan walking restlessly up and down the terrace.

‘Don’t you think you had better give all this up, little girl?’ said Stavordale Hartland, and his voice held a tender, caressing note.

‘I can’t’ she said, passionately. ‘Look at him. He is all his mother has. Can’t you see the Eyes are driving him mad? The Weird will claim another victim unless I can prevent it.’ And even as she spoke the evil eyes appeared, phosphorescent in the darkness, and with a wild shriek Duncan Kildrummie fled into the blackness of the night. Until the morning he roamed the country at large, and when he appeared at breakfast he was haggard and worn, and the most inexperienced eye could tell that he was really ill.

 

Shiela alone seemed to have a soothing effect upon him, and when later in the day Dr Graeme administered a sleeping draught, he suggested that Shiela should sit by his bedside until it took effect. Lady Kildrummie left her for a moment, and immediately Shiela was conscious that the Eyes were watching her.

Before she realised it she was in the turret room, and she found she was numb from head to foot – she was powerless to move. As she watched, the eyes suddenly materialised into men. Gradually their bodies appeared until twenty-two men in doublet and hose stood before her. Their garments were of silk and velvet – rich, costly, gay. And the twenty-third of that ghostly company was a girl, almost a child of not more than fifteen years. Her hair was unbound and her face distorted with grief, and she clung piteously to a black-bearded man of middle age. A ghostly play began, and all the while Shiela watched with increasing horror. Others appeared on the scene – men in kilt and plaid, with dirks drawn, dirks red with blood. Roughly the girl was torn from the arms of her father and bound with hempen ropes.

The scenes that followed were hideous to behold, and Shiela knew that there was a power at work that compelled her to watch. The captive girl writhed and tore at her bonds, but all to no purpose – they were too cunningly tied. Not a word was said aloud, but the agonised expressions, the black terror spoke louder than words.

Two ghostly figures in black carried in a red-hot brazier; the coal burned and seemed to splutter, yet made no sound. Two long irons were placed in the glowing coals. The prisoners made a desperate effort to overpower their captors; for a few moments the whole place was in confusion, but gradually their efforts were subdued, and one by one they were dragged to the fire. One by one the red-hot iron was plunged into their eyes, one by one they were blinded and flung aside to die.

Shiela watched twenty-two men done to death in this awful way. She watched their agonies of pain, their writhings, their torments, and the scene was all the more horrible because of the deathly silence that accompanied it.

There was but one more victim – the girl. Roughly she was dragged to the brazier, but a merciful Providence intervened, she stumbled and fell, and when a man roughly turned her over with his foot he found the gentle spirit had fled.

The assassins looked round the room at the dead, and even as they did so the scene changed, and Shiela found she was out in the chestnut avenue, standing before the giant tree, the pride of Dunfunerie. The rain poured down in torrents, the wind blew hard, her dress clung to her figure and chilled her, her shoes were covered with mud. A black-cowled monk approached, with beads and breviary. Horror came into his countenance as he stumbled over the still warm bodies. He touched the girl in gentle pity, but he was jostled away rudely. He opened his book, and Shiela could see that he was pleading to be allowed to say a prayer over the bodies. A huge man struck him, and as he picked himself up he silently cursed the murderers. He cursed them on the Holy Book, but they jeered in his face and continued their nefarious work.

There under the spreading chestnut tree a pit was dug, and, with neither prayer nor priest, into it the girl was flung. Then followed the other twenty-three. The hole was small – the bodies protruded above the sides. With a ribald smile on his cruel face, the menacing figure in black forced the ground to receive them. The pit was covered in with earth, the murdered ones were safely hidden away, and Shiela realised she had witnessed a scene that had taken place some three hundred years before, a scene that had been re-enacted for her benefit. At last she knew what ‘the Eyes’ had tried to tell her.

The figures died away, they seemed to be absorbed into the atmosphere itself, and once more only twenty-three pairs of eyes were left, but they were eyes that looked at her with gratitude. They knew she understood.

And as she watched them, too, fade away she was conscious that her limbs were once more warm. She looked round in bewilderment – there on the bed lay the sleeping form of Duncan Kildrummie. She was back in his room. She felt her dress – it was quite dry. Her shoes had no trace of mud upon them. Lady Kildrummie entered.

‘My dear, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I am afraid I have been rather a long time. Why ‘ she broke off, ‘what’s the matter?’ For Shiela was gazing at the open door, and her expression was soft and pitiful. But Lady Kildrummie could not see the figure of a frail young girl, dressed in a soft homespun with a white kerchief round her shoulders, a girl who looked at Shiela with thanks in her soft brown eyes.

‘I think I shall be able to help you lay your “Weird” successfully, Lady Kildrummie,’ said Shiela. ‘I’ll tell you later, after I have had time to think.’ Next day a small party gathered underneath the chestnut tree. The turf was smooth and velvety – it had grown undisturbed for many centuries, but now it was being removed.

‘Ah!’ said Shiela, suddenly, for as the spade dug deep into the rich brown earth a skeleton arm appeared. Reverently the mould was moved. Twenty-two skeletons were unearthed, twenty-two skeletons of full-grown men, but at the bottom of the pit was a tiny skeleton, a skeleton crushed and broken. And Shiela knew it was the last remains of the girl – the Weird with the mournful eyes!

Reverently the bones were placed in an empty stone sarcophagus in the little chapel, and reverently the minister spoke the prayers for the dead. And as the last amen was said, Shiela heard an unseen choir burst out in song. It was the ‘Gloria in Excelsis Deo’.

Lady Kildrummie drew her cloak about her shoulders. ‘Do you hear the wind whistling?’ she asked. Shiela smiled. She knew.

 

Six weeks later Duncan Kildrummie was up for the first time, after a serious attack of brain fever, during which for some days his life had been in the balance. But now the nervous twitchings were entirely gone, and his eye was clear and steady.

‘And you think we are free of the “Weird” at last?’ asked Lady Kildrummie, as she was bidding Shiela goodbye.

‘I hope so. I don’t know the history of the turret room, but I should say the twenty-three were trapped there, and perhaps for religious reasons were foully murdered by some of your forebears. They were refused a Christian burial, and that accounted for their hatred and their hauntings. Their poor spirits were unable to rest in peace. Every twenty-three years – their number – they returned, but they could not make themselves understood.’

Stavordale accompanied Shiela to Glasgow. He was very silent during the journey, but as the train was drawing into the city he suddenly took one of her hands.

‘Miss Crerar – Shiela – I – I – won’t you give all this up?’ he urged.

‘I – I can’t,Mr Hartland.’

‘But why? Shiela, won’t you be my wife?’

‘I – I can’t explain, but I have a mission to fulfil. I have set myself a task, and I must complete it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Won’t you wait a little?’

‘Then you do care,’ he said, triumphantly, as he sought to draw her towards him, but the train had already stopped at the platform of the Glasgow terminus. Then all was bustle and rush, and it was not until he had said goodbye to her as she left for Edinburgh, where she had engaged rooms, that he realised she had not replied to his question!

Well, perhaps the time was not yet ripe for his love-making, but he realised whate’er might befall he had met his fate. And, like a knight in the ‘days of long ago’, the wish of his lady was his law. He would bide her time, impatient though he might be.

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Lots more SCOTLAND THE STRANGE over the next couple of weeks, so do check back again!