John Linwood Grant writes occult detective and dark fantasy stories, in between running his beloved lurchers and baking far too many kinds of bread. Apart from that, he enjoys growing unusual fruit and reading rejection slips. He is six foot tall, ageing at an alarming rate, and has his own beard.
For one day only, a lurcher post to break up the horror!
Autumn, then. Yes, it’s that wondrous mellow season when enough leaves fall off the trees to make every longdog and lurcher aware of their ancient foe. Camouflage lost, the plume-tailed rats from Hell descend to wreak havoc…
The squirrels claim, of course, that they’re quietly collecting nuts and other goodies for the long winter ahead. They’re not. Having had lurchers for many years, I know only too well that the squirrel army is beginning its winter campaign.
The little cute ones appear first, munching on an acorn. People go, aw, that’s so sweet. The grizzled squirrel elders, perched high above, observe our every movement. It’s the film Zulu all over again:
Lieutenant Linseed Grant: Adendorff, what’s wrong with them? Why don’t they fight? Adendorff: They’re counting your londgogs. Lieutenant Twiglet (too old for active service): *What?* Adendorff:Can’t you see that old boy up in the tree? He’s counting your longdogs. Testing your biting power with the lives of his warriors.
“Come on then, I can take you!”
Our response is initially muted. A start of Chilli’s head and stretch of her neck, the famous longdog ‘point’ as she stiffens in the face of the enemy, ready to charge. Django trips over his paws, notices an interesting snail and finds part of a Greggs pastie. He is brought into line by the alpha, told that there are no conscientious objectors in this war.
Lieutenant Twiglet sits down and refuses to go on. She isn’t against the fight, but she’s 93, her bum hurts and she hasn’t had a cup of tea for hours. Adendorff, who is only there in the tortured mind of J Linseed Grant (Officer Commanding, Dork’s Drift), decides to be someone else’s imaginary friend and disappears.
Chilli prepares herself.
She is, to be frank, a distinct improvement on our late lurcher Jade, who was incapable of planned action or wise restraint. I once let a friend walk Jade with me in autumn. Once.
“She’s fine, but you’ll have to watch out for squirrels. She really will go mental.”
Friend nods knowingly, confident in his dog-experience. “No problem.” he says.
Ten minutes later, friend is hauling desperately on a heavy leash, rope burns on his hands and his heels dug into the turf. At the other end is 30 plus kilos of Bedlington x greyhound x wolfhound, shrieking insanely and incessantly at the top of her voice and in the process of clawing apart a 200 year old sycamore. One small squirrel sits at the top, quietly enjoying the scene.
“I didn’t realise.” sobs friend, handing me the lead afterwards. “I thought you were joking!”
He took Twiglet the next time.
October is when the larger warrior squirrels begin to emerge, bold and not so cute. They have already scared off the neighbourhood cats, stripped down the few walnuts we had waited ten years for, and generally ruined my pickling plans. I thought that when my partner and I saw a squirrel carting a large banana around, way back, that we’d seen how far they would go, but no, this year they have assaulted the fig tree. My beloved fig tree!
“Look, I can grow figs in Yorkshire.” says I. “Look, the squirrels are eating them all.” says my best beloved.
Squirrel scout tests local supplies
So today I took our two best troops into the woods and let them loose. It was a sort of reconnoitre, testing the enemy strength in return. Just how many prime warrior squirrels do they have up there? It didn’t do much good, of course, because even Chilli can’t get eighty foot up an oak, no matter how hard she tries. But she did try, and she scared the little buggers, at least. Unlike dear old Jade, she gives a sharp bark and then gets down to it with agility and cunning. Good dog.
Django found a discarded packet of crisps, and peed on a birch tree.
I don’t think we’re going to win.
Back to the weird and wonderful world of October Horror in a couple of days; more longdogs after everyone is scared enough…
I did think that I’d finished the October Frights blog-hop, but it seems not. After many requests from the general public (and certain ‘suggestions’ to my solicitor), I am able to release just a fragment from the scorched manuscript draft of my banned work Sandra’s First Pony. Fortunately this is not the version with the dripping skin…
The evening sun slumped on the horizon, lighting the high moors with all the vigour of a badly-poached egg. It was going to rain as well, despite what the barometer at home had said.
That’s not going to help, thought Sandra. She knew that every delve and hillock of this God-forsaken landscape held one or more of her foul adversaries. Such long shadows were their comfort, their slippers, pipe and fireside…
She smoothed a faint crease from her jodphurs, and reloaded the pump-action shot-gun.
“Well, Mr Bubbles, this is jolly annoying. I’m out of cheese and ham sandwiches, the dog’s run off and we only have seventeen cartridges left. What are we going to do, boy?”
The pony stared at her. His mane still shone, despite the incompetent light, and the ribbons from his big red rosette flapped in the growing wind. Second Place in the Ripon and District Pony Show. Second Place! Primordial evil wasn’t going to take that away from him.
He turned his head and saw the first glistening figures began to crawl from their hiding places. There was only one possible response. He scraped one front hoof against another, checking that there was still an edge on them.
“Kill.” said Mr Bubbles. “Kill them all!”
I think we’ve all been there, haven’t we, listeners?
An absolutely packed post this time, with many wonders of the airwaves for you to try out. Yes, your minds will reel, your ears will bleed, as we look at William Hope Hodgson and audio horror, plus even some pieces of weird Hodgson-inspired music as well…
(Note to consumers: greydogtales.com accepts no legal responsibility for sanguinary orifices or other side-effects of engaging with this blog. Your blood pressure may go up or down.)
I’m always looking out for tracks and readings which bring a shiver to the spine. I collect, in a haphazard manner, audio horror. To be more precise, I collect audio unease. It doesn’t have to be that horrifying, but it has to make the back of your neck feel suddenly cold. Some of the links below certainly do that.
The Voice of Horror has many delights. We’re missing Wayne June this week, sadly, which we hope is only temporary, but we are delighted to have been joined by Morgan Scorpion, who has narrated a whole host of WHH and H P Lovecraft stories, amongst other pieces. Read her interview later in this article. And so to that question which people ask me constantly:
“Mr Linseed Grant, sir,” they ask, “You must tell us, you must. Will your legendary and terrifying tale Sandra’s First Pony ever be released as an audiobook?”
“No,” I answer, a sad catch in my voice. “The Office of the Public Prosecutor has forbidden it. However, I do have loads of William Hope Hodgson sounds which you can enjoy instead.”
You should be able to access all of the following, in various states of commerciality and interpretation. If I’m wrong on any of the details or links, then I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I’m a writer, damn it Jim, not an archivist!
Ghost Pirates (novel)
The House on the Borderland (novel)
Boats of the Glen Carrig (novel)
The Night Land (novel)
Carnacki the Ghostfinder (collection)
The Voice in the Night (short)
A Tropical Horror (short)
The Derelict (short)
The Stone Ship (short)
The Thing in the Weeds (short)
Captain Dan Danblasten (short)
Inhabitants of the Middle Islet (short)
And for you alone, dear listener, dozens of greydogtales staff have worked night and day to provide you with more details and direct links. Don’t forget that if you want to know when our next WHH blog articles are out, you can always subscribe! We’re just an e-mail address away (that’s not a threat, honest)…
Librivox, the free audio provider for public-domain works, is a good source, as Librivox provides the first seven in the list above straight away, and for nothing. Some Carnacki stories have also been recorded separately.
Of the non-Librivox recordings, The House on the Borderland is the choice pick. The incomparable Wayne June has produced an excellent version, which we recommend highly:
Wayne, of course, has narrated some fantastic Lovecraft tales as well, and his TheDark Worlds of H P Lovecraft readings are superb. You are, quite simply, missing out if you’ve not heard them.
I also thoroughly enjoyed Jim Norton‘s four part version of HoB, available on Youtube:
Or if you want a real marathon, you could check out the 18 hour (!) full audiobook of The Night Land from Dreamscape, read by Drew Ariana:
It’s a shame that more Hodgson short stories haven’t been recorded yet. A Tropical Horror has been adapted by Julia Hoverson to provide a spiffing dramatised version which can be found here:
And the last short, Inhabitants of the Middle Islet… OK, I cheated here. There is an audio version of this story, but it’s in French. I quite enjoyed it, but then I only understood about half of it. French speakers may be able to report back to greydogtales.
In the process of checking sources, I also came across a great podcast site which was new to me, Tales to Terrify.
Not only do they have all sorts of audio goodies, but they have a double podcast perfect for our WHH month – The Horse of the Invisible paired with Willie Meikle‘s Treason and Plot. Willie is, of course, featured in an interview in next weeks Hodgson – The Inheritors, so this is a great link. The host is the late Larry Santoro, who gives a detailed introduction to Hodgson (before you ask, the WHH death details given are corrected on the site) and the narration is by Robert Neufeld:
This Hodgson blog-fest is a collaborative venture, and so our interview this week is with Morgan Scorpion, a stalwart of Librivox but more importantly for our purposes, also a lover of the weird. Morgan has narrated at least fifteen Lovecraft stories, for example, and covered many other examples of ghostly and strange fiction. Rather than rattle on, I’ll let Morgan have her say:
greydog: Welcome, Morgan, and many thanks for contributing to this week’s section. I understand that you began narrating stories for Librivox because you were already a fan of their free audio?
Morgan: That’s true, I love audiobooks and couldn’t resist free ones. After listening to about 70 free audiobooks I began to feel I owed them something in return, so I decided to record a few chapters until I felt I had repaid them, only I discovered I enjoyed doing them. It’s good to feel useful.
greydog: I have to ask, given this month’s theme – what do you think about William Hope Hodgson’s writings on a personal level, as a reader? Or are they relatively new to you?
Morgan: I have enjoyed WHH’s stories since I was about eleven, on a personal level, I find them deliciously horrible, especially when fungi are involved. He has a great sense of the grotesque.
greydog: Yes, the grotesque and the unknowable. Which links nicely for us, as you’ve also recorded a heck of a lot of H P Lovecraft for Librivox. Can you tell us which piece of his stands out for you?
Morgan: With Lovecraft, almost all of it stands out. My love for his writing is pretty much hero worship, and I couldn’t chose a favourite of his without pointing out that a different tale would be my favourite next week. So it would be a choice between The Music of Erich Zann, The Dunwich Horror, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, The Rats in the Walls, or maybe…
greydog: I suppose the end result is more important to most greydogtales readers than the process, but I always ask recording artists this – do you mull over the piece first for a while and make notes to yourself, or do you throw yourself straight into the recording?
Morgan: I rarely record a story without having read it first, often several times. So although when it comes to recording, I just pick it up and read it without any notes or mental preparation. I make lots of mistakes while recording, and edit them out afterwards, I’d be terrible if I had to read out loud to an audience. Reading a story out loud is a very different experience from reading it silently to yourself, so no matter how many notes I made in advance, I doubt they’d be much use to me when it came to vocalising it.
greydog: So who is your own favourite narrator in this field?
Morgan: Vincent Price! He recorded lots of Poe, alas no Lovecraft, and you may find some online if you look. Roddy McDowall has also done a couple of horror tales by Lovecraft, and who could top Christopher Lee! I wish they had been able to do more. Of course there’s Jeffrey Combs, whose recording of Herbert West, Reanimator is wonderful. I also wish John Lithgow would record some horror tales. In a different genre, I love the audiobooks of Elizabeth Klett, so far she has done no horror that I know of, but she has recorded Edith Wharton, and done it perfectly.
greydog: Ah, the wonderful Vincent – great choice! And is there anything in the weird/occult domain that you’ve not narrated yet but which you really want to have a crack at?
Morgan: So many! In time I want to do more Lovecraft, more Poe, more E F Benson and more M R James. And there are so many that are in are in the public domain that I have been unable to get permission for, namely J B Priestley’s The Grey Ones, Anthony Boucher’s They Bite, Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived at the Castle, oh and quite a few things by Thomas Ligotti or Ramsey Campbell. I’d also love to record Agatha Christie’s The Seance. Quite the nastiest short story imaginable, but I have no hope of being allowed to do that!
greydog: We should surround the Agatha Christie Estate with villagers and burning torches, demanding it. But to finish for now, a deliberately unfair question – what’s your favourite horror story of all time?
Morgan: I’d have to refer you to answer number three for that, but must also name Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, M R James’ An Evening’s Entertainment, T E D Klein’s The Events at Poroth Farm, Michael Shea’s The Autopsy and R Chetwynd Hayes The Day Father Brought Something Home.
greydog: Thank you, Morgan Scorpion, and we look forward to your next recording! In the meantime you can hear Morgan in action across a number of genres by following either of these links:
As we near the end of this week’s offerings, here’s a couple of extras, to show how much I care about my listeners. Hodgson and Lovecraft have inspired a number of musicians, so let’s check out two entirely different pieces of work.
The first, which I must admit I loved, is Jon Brook‘s Cafe Kaput album Music for Thomas Carnacki.
“Utilising banks of oscillators, tape edits and analogue delays, Brooks created themes, cues and abstracts to depict the dark Edwardian setting of the story”.
Do call in and have a listen – it’s very atmospheric:
If that’s not to your taste, then you might prefer The Boats of the Glen Carrig by ‘funeral doom’ metal group Ahab, who take inspiration from a number of maritime sources in their albums. I’m not up on Ahab, so you’ll have to find out for yourself. I’m a Metallica fan, but not sure what ‘funeral doom’ heavy metal is, so don’t ask me. The link takes you to a review and samples from the album.
And that’s almost as much ear-bending as anyone can take in one post. As Morgan mentioned Vincent Price, who could charm the birds from the trees (or just knock them off their perches), I had to add one last recent find, nothing to do with WHH but new to me:
Vincent Price: A Hornbook for Witches – Stories and Poems for Halloween. This a recording from the 1976 Caedmon LP:
Love that voice.
Please join us in a few days for some audiovisual treats, and then Hodgson -The Inheritors, in which we present a two part look at those who have grasped the torch and lifted it high again, commencing with an interview with the prolific and excellent Willie Meikle. Asbestos gloves will be available at the door…
Don’t forget, by the way, we’re heading into the last day of the October Frights blog-hop. And here’s the list for the last time. Have a browse while you can…
So, it’s day ninety three of the October Frights blog-hop, we’re five months into the William Hope Hodgson celebration, and I have at least fifteen longdogs needing a walk. No, something’s wrong there. Never mind. A bit of fiction and a bit of art in today’s short post.
The fiction is from me. I thought I’d share a little dark fantasy/folk horror piece of mine for fun. My hard disk is getting very heavy, and I need to take some files off it before it goes through the floor.
But you, my best beloved, come first, and so here’s the latest from Hermida Editores of Madrid, who publish Spanish editions of William Hope Hodgson. Alejandro of Hermida Editores contacted me with mention of their new illustrated edition of The House on the Borderland, and I thought it would look nice here. I’m wondering if the illustrations are by Sebastian Cabrol, who we mentioned in the last post, as I know he’s done at least one Borderland illo before (if I’m wrong, someone will tell me, I’m sure). Might see if we can get a copy of the interior art to share as well.
And on to a bit of free fiction for the October Frights blog-hop. For some time I’ve been drafting a piece which nowadays might be called either dark fantasy or folk horror, concerning the Cunning Folk. I also like the Italian term benandanti, or ‘good walkers’. Christian or non-Christian, they stood mostly on the side of their villages and villagers against darker practices, and were healers, hex-averters, midwives and the like. The book isn’t finished, because I write too many short stories at the moment, but here is the standalone piece which introduces one of the sections, for amusement.
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The old woman stiffened in her chair.
She knew that something was coming, could hear the wrongness in the corners of the room. The sign that one of them was near. She reached to turn the television down, but the remote control evaded her, slid from arthritic fingers. It fell to the floor.
“…With a chance of heavy rain in the Southeast. Moving on to the rest of the November forecast, we expect to see…”
The set went dead.
“An end to the game.” said a voice to one side of her.
She turned her neck, wincing at the pain. She saw what she’d expected, so she turned back to the blank screen. There was a cobweb between the television and the plant stand, a dusty strand connecting the two. The home help had missed that, the lazy beggar. Not that it mattered now.
“I don’t have it. I sent it somewhere safe. Safer.” she said, clutching at her pinafore.
A sigh. She could hear the silence now. The refrigerator had stopped its low gurgle, the kettle had stopped mid-boil. All those tiny humming noises that you got used to had gone. A dead house.
“Unfortunate.”
It moved softly, slipping round the high-backed chair and standing in the middle of the room. It was a male. She didn’t want to say ‘he’. Wrong to use a normal word like that.
“Who, and where?” It didn’t raise its voice, or threaten, because it didn’t need to.
She had always wanted to die with dignity. No tubes, she’d told her family. None of those machines, pumping things in and out of me, beeping and hissing. I’ll face it myself, as God made me, however it comes…
And here she was, on the edge of wetting herself and begging to be spared. She was ashamed. A couple of years ago, there wouldn’t have been a cobweb, either. She’d have seen to that straight away. The spark of other days flared up inside her, and she felt a flush of real anger.
“It was never yours to use.” she said, her lips dry. Hard to get the spittle up these days. “It was a trust, and you broke that trust a long time ago. So the burden passed to us.”
“We will have it again. And use it.” Cold eyes stared at her, but she managed to meet them.
“You can do what want, but you’ll get no help from me. I’ve dusting to get on with. If you don’t mind.”
She pressed both hands to the arms of the chair, pushing herself up…
It was next to her, over her, moving in that way they had, that way where limbs did things they should not. Its narrow, almost triangular face was painted with hatred.
“Who and where?” it repeated.
She knew then that it would look into her, its eyes so sharp that they would slice her memory open. And they might still see what she had done, even if it was only a hint. She did not have the strength any more.
“I have something, maybe…”
Its head moved, tilted.
“What?”
The old woman reached into the pocket of her pinafore, the same frayed, flowery pinafore that her mother had worn until she died. It had poppies and corn-cockles on it, but the bright reds and blues had faded. All colour in her life had faded. She drew out the Card, the only one she had kept. The one which would never fail her.
The intruder hissed as it saw the green and gold of the Card’s back, its stick-thin fingers clutching at the air in anticipation.
“Give.” it said. “It is ours.”
“It is mine.” she replied, and drew on her old heart for one last effort. She felt vessels burst, valves flutter and tear from one final surge of blood, but she turned the Card to face her enemy…
The room around them was flooded with the scent of honeysuckle, of blackberry ripeness and summer still high and fine. Soft feathers brushed her skin, easing her pain, and she smiled.
“Remember me.” she whispered, knowing now that her people would sense this too, and share her life, not her death. Each holder of the Deck of Seasons would know that a Card had been used, and why.
The creature before her shrieked as it sought the corners and angles of its escape, but it was too late. A more terrible presence silenced it, and her last sight was of the Summer Rook, his gentle black eye on her as he tore the intruder apart in a scream of stabbing obsidian beak and claws.
The authorities could never explain, even months later, why the dead woman’s house smelled so sweetly of honeysuckle and wild roses…
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Countdown now to the next large part of our WHH blog-fest. Part Two: The Voice of Horror is coming in a few days, and will feature audio horror and its implications for our earholes. Tune in, or… well, just tune in, eh?
