All posts by greydogtales

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.

The Science of Deduction and Stranger Logics

November 30, 2019 greydogtales Leave a comment

In which we look at the pocket watch of Dr Watson’s late brother, Holme’s secret worries, the nature of the Science of Deduction, and the realm of the almost impossible – including the occult.

Let’s start with the obvious. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective of 221b Baker Street, London, never knowingly encountered the occult, nor did he undertake any case in which he anticipated the solution to involve occult, psychic or other paranormal phenomena. He faced no genuine ghosts; he laid no malevolent spirits, and he had no encounters with demonic forces.

With that in mind, today we probe the question of Sherlock Holmes and the uncanny, the supernatural, or whatever you care to call it. And before anyone groans, we neither question the canon nor do we belittle less canonical interpretations. The original stories can stand proud, yet there is no doubt that variations on the theme interest a number of readers – and writers. So do bear with us…

As stated above, Conan Doyle made it clear in his stories that Holmes’s cases did not involve the psychic or supernatural. This might seem odd in some ways, given Conan Doyle’s personal belief in psychic matters, and the fact that spiritualism, mysticism and theosophy were common currency in late Victorian society. However, in the process the author did:

ensure that the stories could be read by the widest possible audience;
give himself a clear distance from the character he had created;
replace one ‘magic’ with another – the preternatural deductive abilities of Holmes.

We tease with the word ‘magic’, because Holmes’s deductions are, at times, more accurate than should be possible. That Holmes should be correct so many times borders on the preternatural – and in some cases his approach is not deductive reasoning but inductive reasoning which ignores less probable options. For the purposes of the fictional narrative, he makes observations from which he comes to conclusions that are only likely to be valid – such as when he examines the watch of Watson’s late brother:

“Look at the thousands of scratches all round the hole—marks where the key has slipped. What sober man’s key could have scored those grooves? But you will never see a drunkard’s watch without them.”

The Sign of Four

In stating confidently that Watson’s brother had an alcohol problem, he does not consider the possibility that the man was extremely short-sighted, or that the brother or the father who owned the watch beforehand had a palsy which meant he could not easily get a key into a small hole. Such inductive reasoning, which occurs a number of times, means that Holmes need not be correct, but for him to be incorrect would not suit Conan Doyle’s purpose.

On a grander scale this leads to what has been called the Holmesian fallacy – a logical fallacy arising from the inability to absolutely rule out all other possible explanations. Which is relevant to the other meat of today’s piece….

The Ghost Elephant in the Room

Holmes’s stance on the world of the “supernaturalists” was a very particular one which is sometimes misinterpreted. Conan Doyle’s approach was rather clever in one sense – he used brief references to remove his consulting detective from the argument. Holmes did not say, as is often believed, that there was no such thing as the supernatural. He was occasionally dismissive of such things, yes, but there was a common theme to his few statements on the subject:

“If Dr. Mortimer’s surmise should be correct, and we are dealing with forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature, there is an end of our investigation. But we are bound to exhaust all other hypotheses before falling back upon this one.”

The Hound of the Baskervilles

And again, in another story of the original canon, ‘The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot’:

“It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!” cried Mortimer Tregennis. “It is not of this world. Something has come into that room which has dashed the light of reason from their minds. What human contrivance could do that?”

“I fear,” said Holmes, “that if the matter is beyond humanity it is certainly beyond me. Yet we must exhaust all natural explanations before we fall back upon such a theory as this.

In essence, Holmes (when he was not just being sarcastic) was expressing the view that if such phenomena existed, then his logic, his ratiocination, were of neither value nor use. Psychic gifts and wandering wraiths were beyond the Science of Deduction. Conan Doyle has this echoed in another comment of Dr Mortimer’s:

“There is a realm in which the most acute and most experienced of detectives is helpless.”

In Holmes you have a man who prides himself on his gift of reasoning; if he were to be presented with situations where that gift could be of no use, where would that leave him? Such situations would challenge his very identity. Bluntly, it is not in the interests of the detective’s mental health even to acknowledge the occult.

“This Agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.”

Sussex Vampire

“The world is big enough for us” – that is, there are more than enough conundrums and problems in everyday existence without delving into spiritual or mystic matters and potentially discovering more cans of worms – or a whole field of endeavour where he is of no use.

There is, however, a step that can be taken once Holmes’s statements have been processed. In using the phrase “forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature” and “beyond Humanity”, he raises interesting alternatives, even as he refuses to consider the matter as part of his own practice – or even existence.

The alternatives are that the paranormal might have its own rules, its own principles, ones to which men such as Holmes are not privy, or that it might operate without rules, where effect precedes cause, where there is no rational set of sequences or motives, and evidence is mutable or utterly unreliable. A terrifying thought to Holmes, who lived by earth-bound logic.

As the intrusion of the paranormal must have its effect upon the normal to be observed at all, a genuine occult mystery therefore suggests that two different approaches might be needed at once – the ‘logic’ of the normal, and the ‘logic’ of the paranormal. Any truly successful occult detective must surely have to marry both of these in order to succeed. They must be at least a half-Holmes.

The Science of Deduction

Logic has been described as reasoning conducted or assessed according to strict principles of validity, and that process of reasoning in which a conclusion follows necessarily from the premises presented, so that the conclusion cannot be false if the premises are true. The Science of Deduction is seen as the process of observation, hypothesis, prediction, experimentation and conclusion.

From this, we can see that both Sherlock Holmes and a skilled occult detective can apply the science of deduction to cases.

CASE A: Let us suppose that Holmes observes a mist-like human figure arise within an ancient manor house’s oak-lined dining room. He hypothesizes that this is due either to natural causes such as gas released from underground pockets, or a man-made phenomenon, utilising lanterns and mirrors. He draws on his initial observations and knowledge of the sciences to predict that evidence will be found of one of these, and experiments by altering the conditions, observing under different circumstances, or taking samples, etc. He gathers further background evidence, adds in his knowledge of human behaviour, and concludes that a brother and sister have sought to fool their dying uncle into making a new will.

CASE B: Now let us suppose that an occult detective comes across a similar initial situation. She hypothesizes much as does Holmes. She predicts and experiments, but finds neither original hypothesis holds up. Therefore she forms another hypothesis, that this is an ab-natural phenomenon with a quite different source. She draws on her initial observations, and on knowledge of the ab-natural, to predict that a particular type of presence has taken up residence there. She then experiments with wards and remedies against specific entities, takes samples and so forth. She gathers further background evidence, adds in her knowledge of human behaviour, and concludes that there is a genuine non-corporeal entity which seeks vengeance on the brother and sister for their involvement in a murder.

The difference is not in the process of reasoning, but in the underlying premise. If Holmes starts from the premise that the supernatural or ab-natural cannot and does not exist – that it is ‘impossible’ – he must pursue the mundane route, however complicated or potentially fruitless. The occult detective, on the other hand starts with the premise that the supernatural may exist, and therefore has two routes open to her.

In theory, Holmes could choose to do the same, but in canonical terms, he would lack any orderly body of knowledge about these improbable possibilities. He would have no card index, Burke’s Peerage, Bradshaw or network of contacts and informants which might offer useful clues as to which lines to pursue. Therefore, even if he could embrace a “supernaturalist” philosophy, he would need to amass an entirely new body of knowledge.

The Detectives in the Shadows

We can see various interpretations of the ‘occult Holmes’ option in three fictional characters who were contemporaneous with the Great Detective’s adventures – Thomas Carnacki, Dr John Silence, and Flaxman Low. Readers in the Edwardian era could have easily picked up stories by Conan Doyle and by the creators of each of these occult detectives.

We often describe Thomas Carnacki, created by William Hope Hodgson, as the first true occult detective, and also as the only one who is likely to have appealed to the canonical Holmes. Carnacki was no psychic, and would therefore not be ‘tainted’ in Holmes’s eyes by pretensions of mystic gifts. There were ab-natural phenomena and presences, in Carnacki’s view, but many supposed manifestations were perfectly natural in origin, and were explainable as based on either ignorance or deceit. He utilised scientific method in order to exclude these deceits before he accepted the possibility of a genuine supernatural event. In practice, Carnacki tended towards the tools of the mundane detective – cameras, hairs used as motion sensors, scientific apparatus etc. – rather than taking Holmes’s more intellectual approach.

(For more on the enduring appeal of Carnacki the Ghost Finder, see here: carnacki-the second great detective)

Dr John Silence, on the other hand, created by Algernon Blackwood, was a man of psychology and mysticism, employing spiritual insights and gifts to probe unusual situations. His was a world of ascetic pursuits and moral clarity, with a touch of Holmes’s distance from the ‘common man’ and more of the intellectual standing. He favoured the mental struggle with dark forces, rather than carting around a load of paraphernalia. Silence’s mind at least would have caught Holmes’s attention, but Holmes may well have dismissed Silence’s psychic abilities.

And then there was Flaxman Low, created by E & H Heron – the joker in the pack. If Holmes might occasionally have approved of Low’s penchant for direct action rather than psychic flim-flam, he would have put his head in his hands at the distinct lack of logic in either Low’s cases or his actions. Low comes to conclusions before gathering sufficient evidence, and blasts away at whatever foes he perceives. If Holmes says, as he does in ‘The Sussex Vampire’,

“What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It’s pure lunacy.”

then Flaxman Low surely replies: “Worry not, Holmes. I’ve already shot the walking corpses and am about to set fire to them.”

For devotees of the canon, Low would, we suspect, be the least appealing of the trio.

(We look deeper into the bizarre world of Flaxman Low here: flaxman low triumphant)

In a forthcoming anthology Sherlock Holmes and the Occult Detectives (edited by old greydog and coming from Belanger Books in 2020), we hope to demonstrate the many ways in which Holmes’s logic and the occult investigators’ willingness to embrace another set of rules entirely might work alongside each other. In the process, we hope to portray how Holmes and Watson might choose to adjust to – or reject – the presence of “forces outside the ordinary laws of Nature”.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world,” said he. “In a modest way I have combated evil, but to take on the Father of Evil himself would, perhaps, be too ambitious a task.”

The Hounds of the Baskervilles

For musings on other matters related to 221b, we also recommend an extensive and fascinating recent post by noted Sherlockian writer and editor David Marcum, in which he covers the role of numbers, and the range of untold cases mentioned in the canon (amongst other things):

a seventeen step program

And for those who openly embrace the occult detective concept, Occult Detective Magazine #6 should be out before the end of the year.

Share this article with friends - or enemies...

THE CHILD AND THE WASP KING

November 28, 2019 greydogtales Leave a comment

Today, dear listener, something for everyone. We are proud to bring you more fascinating folklore of the Christmas Wasp or Wasp King, thanks once more to the industry of Professor Ernst Stellmacher, author of Insekten-Archäologie für Frauen (1873). Professor Stellmacher collected the story below somewhere in Bavaria in the 1860s, and suggested that it echoed a much earlier tale, ‘The Little Tailor and the Dragonfly’ (Mały krawiec i ważka), which was well known in 17^th century Poland.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Professor Stellmacher could suggest no specific moral to this traditional tale, which has fared better than most concerning the Christmas Wasp. The practice of wasp-mumming has sadly faded in most counties (the Yorkshire Wolds may be an exception), and the last recorded mummers’ performance, involving ten men dressed in black and yellow with buckets on their heads, and one man with a gigantic sting made out of whalebone, occurred in Whitby in 1922. In the 1970s, the British group Fairport Convention did produce a seventeen minute folk ballad based on this story. Unfortunately it was dreadful.

Our version has been edited for modern comprehension, as some of the expressions were in an obscure 19th century Bavarian dialect…

THE CHILD AND THE WASP KING

There was once, long ago and suitably far away, an old couple who had five children. Poorer than poor, this family lived in a sad hovel far from the wealth and laughter of the Queen’s castle. Their one cow gave only semi-skimmed milk, and to make their bread they were forced to collected the grain that spilled from the wagons of passing ottermongers. They were pitied by their neighbours, who would sometimes creep to their doorstep at night, and leave small gifts such as empty paper bags, or notes saying ‘Go away,’ and ‘We won’t miss you.’

After some time the ill-favoured old couple became weary of such a miserable existence, and so they sold four of their children to the local glue factory – which slightly improved matters for a short while. The one child who remained was clever, kind, and fair of face, with curls of golden hair, and was either a boy or a girl, but the parents had lost interest in which. Day after day this child played innocently in the sunshine, eating unwary bees, whilst their father threw stones at idle house-elves and their mother employed her wondrous talent for spinning gold into straw – a talent not unconnected to their continuous dire poverty.

Thus it was that when the Queen’s beautiful daughter, Princess Kevin, came riding along the very road by which the hovel stood, the old man and the old woman rushed out to abase themselves, beg, and generally be a nuisance. The young Princess looked down from her gaily-caparisoned horse, pushing some of the caparisons to one side so she could examine the two snivelling elders.

“Why, how sad it is to see such want and sadness in our fair kingdom!” she cried, her pretty eyes filling with tears. “Quickly, get these dotards off the road so I don’t have to look at them.”

Princess Kevin’s guards, who had grown up on the wrong side of the rutted tracks, obliged by beating the couple up and throwing them into a ditch. Satisfied, the little princess was about to ride on when she saw the golden-haired child playing before the hovel. A quick glance at their drowning parents gave no clues, so she had one of the guards scoop up the child.

“Bring that one back to our enormous and badly planned castle,” said Princess Kevin, “And I shall have them raised to be as a sister to me – or a brother. Whatever.”

And so it was that the child, whose name was Alefumble, was taken to the nicest rooms in the castle and dressed in whatever caparisons wouldn’t fit on the horses, including fine silks from the more agreeable parts of Araby and quite a lot of satin. Now that the child had a more varied and plentiful diet than just the weaker or less cautious local bees, they grew swiftly, becoming fairer with every day. In only a few years, Alefumble was almost as tall as Princess Kevin, who they loved dearly, and could hold their tongue no more.

One crisp winter morning, not long before the realm held numerous feasts to celebrate the wrong date for the birth of the Messiah, the youngster went up to the princess’s chamber. All around hung holly red with berries, wreaths of ivy, and badly-drawn pictures of a pregnant woman complaining about the lack of affordable housing in Bethlehem – all the sundries which spoke of Christmas soon to come. Alefumble knelt before Princess Kevin.

“I love you, dearly,” said Alefumble, in case anyone had missed that fact.

“You’re not bad yourself,” replied the princess. “Although I keep pointing out that my name’s Kevin. Now that we are vaguely a lot older, I’d probably marry you. And my mother the Queen would give you half the realm and so forth, but alas, all who seek my affection have to complete three tasks.”

Princess Kevin recited the great challenges which any suitor had to face, and Alefumble listened with much attention, nodding at key points and making bullet-point notes on a handy blackboard.

First, said the princess, the suitor had to venture far into the wastelands, accompanied by no more than a cheap donkey and a packed lunch. Once there, they had to slay a hundred wicked bandits from the Forest of Already Far Too Many Bandits. Then, returning with the ears, the bold hero had to plough the nearby sheer cliffs, doing so without using oxen (previous attempts at vertical ploughing had severely depleted the realm’s oxen holdings), and plant the bandits’ ears in the furrows they had made.

“And after that–”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with mysterious tunnels and dogs who have eyes the size of dinner-plates, does it,” interrupted Alefumble. “I was bitten by a dachshund once, and I still have a weak ankle…”

Princess Kevin laughed merrily, which she had learned in classes when younger. “Why no, dear Alefumble. How silly you are, beloved. You see, the ears of bandits will each grow into a mighty armoured skeleton, and then–”

“I get it,” said Alefumble, choking on chalk dust. “Your mother doesn’t fancy the cost of wedding banquets.”

“Actually, she’s allergic to prawn cocktail, but close enough.”

At this, Alefumble fled the castle – which took some time, given its size. They fled weeping through the snow, down to the frozen brook which ran by their old hovel, and there they threw themselves down. Next to the brook, that is. Otherwise they would have come a cropper, the ice being quite thin. Nor is it clear why they couldn’t have found somewhere warmer to throw themselves down, so you can probably ignore this detail entirely.

“Woe is me,” they cried. “My brothers and sisters are glue; my parents are dead – and if they’re not, I think I’ll leave it at that, anyway. How can I, a mere boy or girl, conquer a hundred fearsome bandits, plough sheer cliffs, and then the… the other thing?”

All at once there came a mighty buzzing to their ears, and Alefumble looked up through teary eyes. Maybe there was a late bee to munch, one which might comfort them? To their astonishment, they saw not a convenient flying snack, but a wasp of enormous proportions, its shimmering wings spread as wide as those of an unfeasibly large albatross. Or a pterodactyl, but those hadn’t been invented yet.

“Fear not, child,” buzzed the airborne monstrosity. “For I am the Christmas Wasp. And when you were little, I saw how you always took care to eat bees, not any of my kin, and how, when you came across an injured wasp, you would splint up its antennae and suchlike. Which was pointless, and mostly a hindrance, but well intentioned, I suppose.”

“Oh, great Christmas Wasp, King of all your people, can you help me with my tasks, that I might win the princess’s hand in marriage.”

“Not bloody likely,” said the huge hymenopterous monarch, when the challenges had been explained to it. “Have you seen the size of those bandits?”

As Alefumble began to weep again, the face of the Christmas Wasp softened. Not that you could tell with all that chitin, to be honest.

“Listen, fair Alefumble, this is my season, and I am Lord of it. If you wish, I can pierce this Queen with my stinger, letting her die an agonising death as my potent venom first paralyses her and then liquefies her flesh, until after pain beyond comprehension she is left a husk, lifeless, upon the floor of her very own castle.”

“That seems reasonable,” said the young man or woman, cheering up. “After all, she’s quite annoying, and doesn’t even have a name in this story. If she was gone, Princess Kevin would be mine at last!”

“It’s possible,” said the Christmas Wasp. “But who knows? What am I, a fortune-teller?”

Alefumble rushed back to the castle, and after getting lost a few times, announced their plan to the Princess Kevin, who was shocked at such a dark and terrible suggestion. Also at the amount of snow which the youngster had deposited on the carpets.

“Dearest Alefumble, how could you come to me with such a dark and terrible suggestion?” she cried. “I haven’t checked mother’s will, or made sure there are no idiot half-brothers roaming around the realm who might question my inheritance – or want a cut of the loot.”

Chastened, the youngster made the exhausting journey back outside and down to their ancestral hovel, where the Christmas Wasp was idly stingering a random miserable peasant.

“Oh King of Wasps,” said the youngster, “I know nothing about solicitor’s fees or inheritance tax, and I fear that I shall never hold the princess in my arms. What should I do?”

“Ow!” said the peasant, putting as much expression into the exclamation as possible, given that they might have to be content with a walk-on part.

The Christmas Wasp rose into the air, its wings beating so fast that a veritable snowstorm arose around it.

“Look, in days gone by, I would have given you a spool of red thread, a magic hazelnut, and a sweet bird in a silver cage, that you might venture forth and make your fortune, returning to your princess many years hence and claiming her hand in marriage through your own endeavours.” The enormous insect hovered closer. “Today, as it happens, I’m in a bad mood, and you’re near to getting spiked in the eye, wasp-lover or not. Count yourself fortunate you aren’t being used to stick things in scrapbooks, like your brothers and sisters, or drowned in a ditch like your parents.”

Just then, two ragged figures shambled out from the remains of the hovel, awoken by the thrum and tumult of the Wasp King’s wings.

“Alefumble!” cried the old woman. “My only son – or daughter! Give thanks, for we are not dead, my child. Your father and I were sustained in that ditch by a kindly frog, who had once been a prince, and now we shall have our Christmas here, all three of us together again at last–”

“One last favour?” asked the youngster of the great insect.

After the Christmas Wasp had finished terminally skewering the old couple, Alefumble – wiser now, thanks to this unexpected twist – returned to the castle. There they decided to live in comfortable sin with Princess Kevin for the rest of their days, agreeing that marriage was an outmoded institution for free-thinking spirits such as themselves.

And as they kissed, outside the castle a troop of carolling waifs trudged across the landscape, singing of the joyous time to come, whilst many fattened geese dug cunning escape tunnels. All the realm rejoiced, even the Christmas Wasp.

“Now, where was I?” it said, its many-faceted eyes scanning the horizon.

“Oh, bugger,” said the miserable, half-stingered peasant, who had almost managed to crawl under a heap of discarded mistletoe…

THE END

More background to the legend of the Christmas Wasp can be found here: http://greydogtales.com/blog/folklore-origins-christmas-wasp/

Share this article with friends - or enemies...

WEIRD COLLECTIONS FOR THE WINTER KING

November 25, 2019 greydogtales Leave a comment

Do you like single author collections ? We do, partly because we rarely have time for full novels, partly because we have the attention span of a bee with anxiety problems who has just swallowed a load of amphetamines. And anyway, as we enter the last days of the Autumn Boy, the dread Winter King awakes! Which means it is the season for people to start recommending recent weird/horror collections, jostling for recognition, trying to get onto lists, and all that kettle of herrings…

Naturally, the Winter King has noticed that the Bram Stoker Award nominations are still open for a short while, and key editors will have started considering their ‘Best of…’ anthologies or articles. So today, dear listener, we bow to the inevitable, and mention what we literary scholars like to call “stuff we have noticed”, including a whole raft of suggestions from one of our guest reviewers, S L Edwards.

It’s been a jolly lively year, and there are many collections we haven’t had time to sample properly yet. In addition to Sam’s mini-reviews below, we also have in hand Andrew Freudenberg’s debut collection My Dead and Blackened Heart (Sinister Horror Company), awaiting Django’s attention. Good dog. Catherine Lundoff released Unfinished Business (Queen of Swords Press), which is on the pile to read, and Caitlin Kiernan delivered a massive selection from her Lovecraftian stories to date, Houses Under the Sea (Subterranean Press).

Then came On the Night Border (Raw Dog Screaming Press) from James Chambers, and Growing Things and Other Stories (Titan) by Paul Tremblay.

There’s Book Haven: And Other Curiosities by Mark Allan Gunnells (Crystal Lake), and Matt Bright has just had his Stories to Sing in the Dark published by Lethe Press… or how about The Night Doctor and Other Tales (Centipede Press) by Steve Rasnic Tem?

We’ll probably have to add to the list another day, but in the meantime, below we have details of a few more releases of 2019…

SIDE-NOTE: Having tragically lost Sam Gafford of Ulthar Press to a heart attack this year, it seems a shame we can’t re-recommend his excellent collection The Dreamer in Fire. But we can say that the last book he worked on, the unusual concept anthology Hell’s Empire, is a 2019 release which is eligible for listing and nominating, so please do recommend that around.

A Year of Songs and Wounds

2019 and Weird Fiction Collections – A Review

Howdy y’all, S. L. Edwards here. Many of you reading this are writers, and are all too familiar with the amount of anxiety that comes with having your work out there. To be sure, there are ups and downs. There is an instant sense of relief in seeing that people have your book, but a major sense of trepidation when even your close friends (who you trust to blunt their criticisms) start reading it.

Then there is a dread, panic and in my experience a bit of depression, when things go silent. Awards season is nearly upon us. And, if you know me, I’d like to think you know how important promoting other writers is to me. This year Gehenna and Hinnom Books released my debut short story collection, Whiskey and Other Unusual Ghosts. So, I made an effort to scrape and save so I could know who was in the trenches with me. In the process of learning about the short story collections released this year I was honored, surprised, humbled and excited. The best part about being a writer, in my experience, is the company you keep. In my case, it’s pretty damn good company.

This year has seen the publication of a few debut collections. Betty Rocksteady, who has been at the top of my collection wish list since forever, released In Dreams We Rot. Laura Mauro’s Sing Your Sadness Deep is one of the most impressive debuts I have read yet. There were also two very notable omnibus collections, Matt Cardin’s To Rouse Leviathan and Peter Rawlik’s Strange Company. On top of all of this, more familiar names such as Nathan Ballingrud, Paul Tremblay and Joe Hill also released new collections. 2019 then has been a very good year for weird fiction.

What follows is a list of collections I read this year and a commentary on them, sort of very mini-reviews. I’ve included two that I’ve received recently, Sarah Read’s Out of Water and Scott R. Jones’ Shout Kill Revel Repeat, both from JournalStone/Trepidatio Publishing. I am reading Sarah’s collection as we speak, as I continue to spend most of my day on Mexico City’s sprawling public transport system. I have also read many of the story’s in Scott’s collection, having been an admirer of his writing for some time now. Look out for fuller reviews from me of both.

This is not a complete list, so please do not feel wounded if your collection or another collection has not made an appearance. It is only that with a limited amount of time and money there is only so much I can do. Also, you may note that some of these works have not made their way to certain awards lists. Active members of relevant organizations should be encouraged to read these works, as should all horror readers in general.

With all of this said, here is 2019 in retrospect: a hell of a year.

1. Sefira and Other Betrayals by John Langan: I confess that John Langan is my favorite weird writer. There is John Langan, and then there is everyone else. This latest collection does not disappoint. In this collection, John has given us longer stories. “Sefira,” the titular novella, concerns succubi, the collapse of a marriage, hard women and bug demons. It is fun, gory, literary, thoughtful and tragic. The sort of story only Langan could give us. Other standouts (in my opinion) included the steampunk-esque “The Unbearable Proximity of Mr. Dunn’s Balloons” and “At Home in the House of the Devil.” Speaking of the devil…

2. To Rouse Leviathan by Matt Cardin. I first heard of Matt Cardin when Vastarien began coming together. Jon Padgett’s Secrets of Ventriloquism gave myself and other readers an opportunity to learn about one editor, and now we have this one. As with Jon, Matt Cardin certainly demonstrates that he is far more than a “Ligotti student” in this collection. Two things make this work unique, its length and its theme. Leviathan is an omnibus. Make no mistake. It includes two previously published collections and a new third. The other thing that is quite striking is how thoughtful, philosophical and analytical Cardin’s horror is. Much of it is textual analysis, in this case The Bible, and a recurring theme is that the gospel is a hidden truth in plain sight. That there is a darkness, an emptiness, just beneath the verses. Now, understandably, a few readers might dismiss this with little interest. I’ve met more than a few justified folk who simply don’t want to read anything having to do with angels or demons, fire or brimstone. The prose is here, the talent is here, and I promise you this work is hardly going to convert you. This is an enjoyable, comprehensive book and I urge you to spend time with it.

3. Sing Your Sadness Deep by Laura Mauro: This book made me have feelings. This book made a grown ass man sniffle on a cross-country flight. The offending story? “Looking for Laika,” concerning the Soviet launching of a dog into space for…reasons? But beyond this, Laika should be familiar to any older sibling or cousin who grew up with a desire to protect their younger sibling or relative. As someone who told stories themselves as a very young person, it definitely resonated with me. Remarkably, “Laika” does not fit into any one genre. It could easily be “realistic” or “fantasy” depending on your interpretation of events. Beyond this treasure of a story, Mauro demonstrates a Gaiman-esque ability to find comfort weaving multiple genres together. “The Pain-Eater’s Daughter” is another supernatural tale of intimate family secrets, and “In the Marrow” is another heart-rending story about childhood illness and changelings. You can’t miss this one. You just can’t (covered in more depth here: http://greydogtales.com/blog/laura-mauro-sacrifice-and-transformation/

4. In Dreams We Rot by Betty Rocksteady: We finally have a Rocksteady collection! We’ve got it! And it does not disappoint. Betty’s writing can be summarized with the three B’s: Bugs, Botany, Bodies. But of course there’s more than that. Betty’s horror is squelching and gross, but also thoughtful and mournful. “Postpartum” and “Dusk Urchin” both concern the heartbreak of motherhood. “Crimson Tide” is a coming of age horror story about coming of age, bullying and the unjust stigma of menstruation. And of course, “Elephants That Aren’t.” I love this story, where someone struggling to become an artist finds their bleak inspiration in cartoon elephants. Betty’s is one of the most unique voices in our field, and this collection will show you why.

5. Song for the Unraveling of the World by Brian Evenson: What Evenson does is unrivaled. Period. And this is his best collection yet. I’ve plenty to say about it, but here I’ll say that Evenson is the master of short fiction. Very short fiction. Writers looking for what good flash fiction, what profound flash fiction looks like, should pay attention.

6. The Unnamed Country by Jeffrey Thomas: Thomas made something very special here. I love shared-world stories, but they’re very rare. More often, they’re not that well-done. Modeled after Vietnam, The Unnamed Country is a place of loving sex workers, abandoned theme-parks, heroic monkey gods, silent psychics who can predict the lottery and more. Fans of Thomas won’t need selling, as his fans tend to know that everything he does is essential. But this is interesting, to see a short story collection that comes together and even has a clear beginning, middle and end.

7. Out of Water by Sarah Read: I confess I had not read any Sarah Read. This is I mistake I am so glad I got to correct. These are stories that, and this is such a cliché expression but I don’t know how else to articulate it, paint an extremely vivid picture. Of grief. Miscarriage. Water monsters and haunted deserts. Read presents some of the coolest concepts I’ve seen, from “Gennies” who lure grieving mothers to the water with the promise of children, to a mysterious rider chased by birds, to a couple who makes their own monsters to pass off as “the real deal.” Within all of this, she manages to include a few pieces that are short, vivid, and slide away from plot to evoke a strong response in the reader. If you are like me, and had not read any of Read, it’s time to correct that.

8. This House of Wounds by Georgina Bruce: This is a brutal collection, about the horrible things that can be done to a body. Genre here is not a mold, but a scalpel or drill. Never before have I read anything that so aptly seems fit for the description “slipstream.” I’ve said a lot about this collection, and I do hope people listen. Buy immediately (see also http://greydogtales.com/blog/georgina-bruce-her-body-a-temple-of-hurt/

9. Wounds: Six Stories from the Border of Hell by Nathan Ballingrud: Speaking of “wounds!” A post about weird fiction in 2019 wouldn’t be complete without mention of Nathan’s collection. Like Thomas’ collection, this one presents an interconnected mythology that slowly comes together. This is a terrifying mythology of hell, where the demons are tempting and the angels…the angels are horrifying. Just, awful. And the collection ends with a considerable novella with satanic cannibal pirates. You wouldn’t have had me convinced that such a thing could be smart, well-written, gross, thoughtful and entertaining all at once. But here we are.

10. Strange Company and Others by Peter Rawlik: For some reason, someone thought it was a good idea that my own collection follow Peter Rawlik’s. Peter has been a mainstay in the Mythos fiction stories for a long time, and justifiably so. Like Cardin’s, this is a book divided into three sections, the first covering “classic mythos,” the latter original weird fiction, and the final one “remixed” or “alternate” mythos. My favorite story had Santa meeting Frankenstein. Again, I’m just so envious of how smart, well-written and original stories like this can be. This is a must for both mythos fans and those who need a reminder that there is still good, original work to be done with all of Lovecraft’s monsters.

11. All the Things We Never See by Michael Kelly: Michael Kelly is one of the best author-editors in the field. And this collection shows it. From homelessness and poverty to more supernatural subjects, Kelly’s stories are those of tragedy, transformation and grief. I was struck that often one story ended and the next story seemed to open with lines that immediately echoed what came before, allowing for easy continuity and flow for a reader like me who binges collections. This, to me, demonstrates Kelly’s prowess as an editor in how carefully the collection was assembled. But the stories are great in their own right! And what I cannot shake is Kelly’s vivid descriptions of winter, which is something of an existential dread to Texans such as myself.

12. Shout Kill Revel Repeat by Scott R. Jones: Speaking of editor/authors. Jones is someone I have been waiting for, for a long time. As the editor of Martian Migraine Press, he demonstrated an excellent ability to anthologize, select and assemble stories. But his own writing has been under-sung, though it has appeared in many notable markets. Jones makes use of hard science fiction, high-concept psychological fantasy (think Grant Morrison) and good old-fashioned roll-up your sleeves horror. There are treats for those who have been waiting for this collection, new stories unavailable anywhere else. When it releases next month, strongly consider picking up your copy.

Honorable Mentions

This category is a little funny, but I only make it to add a few disclaimers.

Bedtime Stories by Russell Smeaton: The reason Russell is in this section is because he is one of my best friends in the writing community. That said, I also adored his writing before I became his friend. But do keep this in mind when you read the following: “The Street” alone makes this collection well worth the price of entry. Other entries include interesting takes on Lovecraft, a resounding condemnation of xenophobia, and a series of cat mythos tales. My copy of this book is one of my prized possessions, and it is evident in every part how hard and how well Russell worked to make this collection happen. I’m glad it has gotten the attention it has, but it deserves a lot more.

To Wallow in Ash and Other Sorrows by Sam Richard: The reason Sam is in this section is I have not yet had a chance to read it all. But it is a very notable collection, and the story about its release is a sad and brave one. Many of the stories were written shortly after a tragedy, and Sam poured his heart out in making them.

Lots of books are inevitably missing from any round-ups. The first task of any writer, when the Winter King speaks, is to pore over the lists and yell “The bastards, they’ve missed MY book out!”

Poor greydog does this regularly – for starters, that pup Edwards doesn’t mention A Persistence of Geraniums & Other Worrying Tales (IFD Publishing), by that debonair and astonishing author John Linwood Grant. Yeah, it’s not the same sort of weird fiction as the rest, and yeah, it’s a much expanded second edition, but this isn’t Logic City – what ever happened to good old fashioned nepotism, huh? Last time Edwards gets on here…

IF YOU HAVE/have had a weird or strange single author collection out in 2019 and we haven’t covered it here, feel free to contact us. We can’t cover everything, but we’ll try to mention it, especially if it’s odd.

greydogpress@virginmedia.com

And for more reviews, including lots of horror stuff, do also visit places like ginger nuts of horror book reviews

Share this article with friends - or enemies...

Georgina Bruce: Her Body a Temple of Hurt

November 19, 2019 greydogtales Leave a comment

Yes, dear listener, today we should be doing lurchers, or supernatural fiction, or something else odd, but we are fortunate to have a hot-off-the-press review of Georgina Bruce’s new collection This House of Wounds (Undertow, 2019), by fellow author S L Edwards. So we ran with that, because it makes us look as if we’re hip, cool and ‘in the scene’. Like that’s ever going to be the case.

“This is an outstanding, important debut.”

We’ve been aware of Georgina’s powerful writing for a while, and met her at last year’s Fantasycon, where we were impressed by her thoughtful and incisive contributions to a panel, so much so that we had a brief chat afterwards. And she didn’t say “Go away, strange ragged old person,” or “Here’s 50p for a cup of tea,” which was a nice change. We were also impressed by her ace hair cut and colour, which is perhaps rather less relevant to the field of weird fiction. As we trim our own hair with blunt scissors when we can’t see properly, and would describe it as a ‘dumpster carpet colour’, we notice these things. Greydog himself has a forty year old ponytail which would make most self-respecting ponies seek asylum with another species.

Anyway, we at the kennels have been wowed by the book so far, but haven’t yet had time to finish it, so when Sam Edwards offered to share his first thoughts, we squealed “Yes.” We may add our pitiful, personal murmurs on the book in a later post, but here’s a great take on a very promising collection…

Her Body a Temple of Hurt

by S. L. Edwards

I don’t recommend reading Georgina Bruce’s This House of Wounds the way I did. During an early, short flight to Mexico City, I binged the entire collection. The prose is swift, melodic and pleasing. But the subject matter is another thing entirely, and since bingeing the collection I have not been able to shake it. This is an outstanding, important debut; I recommend readers pace themselves and take in the work, and consider what Bruce has to say, far more slowly than I did.

There is a robust debate these days about the utility of genre and genres. What is “literary” vs. “horror.” What is “slipstream” vs. what is “speculative.” Certain authors are more comfortable with genre and subgenre than others, and perhaps readers have grown more trusting of the presses that publish books vs. how they are shelved in stores and libraries.

All of this is to say that This House of Wounds is easily in the Weird-with-a-capital-W camp. There are elements of all sorts of genres and subgenres here. Science fiction, horror, a smattering of magical realism. And what is most remarkable about the collection is the way Bruce uses genre as a tool. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that she uses genre as an “approach,” an approach to explore the hyper-sexualization of women’s bodies and a culture of abuse that has and does dehumanize women.

The opening story is a prime example. “The Lady of Situations,” consists of a swirl of shifting, inconsistent memories. The protagonist of the story has been utterly destroyed, remade. Think perhaps of the Stepford Wives, the frightening idea that people could build, destroy or remake other people from the ground up. This is an idea revisited, at a slower pace, in “The Book of Dreems.” And while the theme of abuse is not the centerpiece of “Kuebiko,” it is another story where Bruce shows how the growth of technology could overtake people.

“Her Bones the Trees” is an even more brutal story. At least, it certainly twisted in my guts on my short flight:

“The woods are so beautiful,” she said.

“They’re full of dead girls.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Oh no, don’t get me wrong. I’m agreeing with you.”

“Beautiful dead girls. Exquisite misogyny.”

The story concerns a director and his actress, and concerns the ever-growing and worrying trend of what I call with no small amount of disdain “torture porn.” The actress, portraying a woman who was raped and killed, begins to experience the role more intensely, and when the supernatural does intervene it is as a tsunami. The story is nightmarish and memorable, a glove of knives raked across the readers brain.

In a word, certainly not for the faint of heart.

“Cat World.”

Good Lord, “Cat World.” An absolutely devastating story about a young girl nearly swallowed alive by sex trafficking. “The Queen of Knives” is another brutal story concerning children, this time detailing the unnatural animosity between a mother and daughter.

Other stories explore trauma more generally, the loss of a loved one or the repercussions of a particularly horrible event. Stories like “White Rabbit,” “The Art of Flying,” and “The Shadow Men.” A final grouping of stories are something of extended prose-poems, where Bruce seems to let go of genre concerns and just write exquisite prose for the sake of exquisite prose. “Red Queening,” “Crow Voodoo,” and “The Seas of the Moon” are prime examples of stories where the trauma and abuse and horror coalesce to form things reminiscent of the most striking childhood fables. A melding of fantasy and horror that cautions against what people can do to each other, to hurt and to retaliate.

The result is one of the most impactful collections released this year, certainly one of the most powerful debuts in recent memory. These are stories of pain, dystopia and fantasy. They do not fit easily into one genre, but make delicate and careful use of nearly all of them. Some stories are lighter on plot than others, but I would hardly call this a detriment. Instead, Bruce makes good use of every digression to show us the horror of exactly how many dead girls are in the woods.

This House of Wounds is available now.

“An astonishing, totally absorbing debut collection. Edgy, disturbing and delicious in equal parts. Georgina Bruce plays with myth and horror beautifully.”
-Kerry Hadley-Pryce, Author of Gamble, and The Black Country

amazon uk

amazon us

We covered Laura Mauro’s powerful debut collection, also from Undertow, recently here: