The Cthulhu Mythos is a dark and twisted place in which unpronounceable deities scheme endlessly for dominion over the unsuspecting world of ordinary, everyday speech therapists. Ftaghns and Ia!s lurk in the depths of the earth, or brood inside distant stars, waiting to insert themselves into conversations about washing machines. And even when humans manage to get their tongues around the non-Euclidean terminology, who are these deities really?

H P Lovecraft didn’t know, because he made them up and then altered them as it suited him; Clark Ashton Smith had some spare letters in his Scrabble set, and added his own contributions. August Derleth, having worked in a canning factory, liked everything neatly packaged and labelled, so whilst he added his own beings, he also tried to sort the others into orderly groups which could be represented by elements, nature, and weight of contents when drained.

Hence his identification of Cthulhu as a water deity, despite Cthulhu’s known dislike of its enforced holiday in the oceanic depths. And Derleth’s creation of Cthulhu’s bad-tempered brother-in-law, Cthugha, when it was pointed out that he’d missed Fire out.

Writers continued to pile on long after Lovecraft, Ashton Smith and Derleth – Brian Lumley alone created eight hundred and seventy three Mythos deities, all of whom were surprisingly describable, and interactive. Ramsey Campbell attempted to stem the flow by developing a more modest number of well-characterised deities, most of these restraining themselves to British waterways and the less popular bus routes, but despite his brave efforts, things were getting out of hand.

So we realised that we should shoulder some of the organisational burden, being uniquely placed to do so. We once read some Lovecraft stuff, we can spell (mostly), and we have a Scratch’n’Sniff copy of ‘The Li’l Old Ones Go To the Seaside’. But what could we add? Is there any real agreement as to how the Mythos gods should be organised, unionised, and provided with an adequate dental plan? Not really.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Real Cthulhu Mythos deities don’t care if you know what they’re called, or if you can pronounce them. Only their obsessive human enthusiasts bother with that stuff.

The current broad – if inadequate – hierarchy has emerged over decades:

A. THE OUTER GODS

Attended by the Lesser Outer Gods, the Really Unimportant Outer Gods, and an extremely bad woodwind section.

B. THE ELDER GODS

Less powerful than the Outer Gods, but less nuts, and occasionally willing to help out humanity in return for worship and spare change.

C. THE GREAT OLD ONES

Not quite as Great or as Old as the Outer Gods, and in a mood with the Elder Gods. Mostly locked in their bedrooms or on curfew, thus rather resentful when encountered at all.

D. THE GREAT ONES

Not terribly great. The deities of Earth’s Dreamland. Looked out for by some of the other gods, like you would keep an eye on a dim but earnest little brother.

E. THE DISPOSABLE ONES

Sundry entire populations of Mi-Go, Moon-beasts, Yithians, Deep Ones, Serpent People and others, all appearing, or being wiped out, as required.

F. THE YOUNG ONES

A British comedy series from the eighties.

Z. HUMANITY

Of limited value and interest to any of the above. Even more disposable than Deep Ones.

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That Cthulhu Mythos

Undaunted, we spared no effort in our research, apart from the effort of doing much of it. And after months of painstaking work, examining mouldering, yellowed tomes, certain obscene woodcarvings, and inscribed metal sheets hauled from abyssal depths, we can offer you the first entries in our easy-to-use guide to some of the key Cthulhu Mythos deities:

AZATHOTH

The speech impediment at the heart of the cosmos, driven insane by living next door to an inconsiderate and talentless flute ensemble. Father of Nyarlathotep, hence latter painting his bedroom black and staying away from home as much as possible.

CTHUGHA

Highly irritated being stuck inside the star known as Fomalhaut. Offspring are vampires on fire, and are therefore also highly irritated at their situation.

CTHULHU

Asleep.

GLAAKI

A more ambitious slug than most of its kind, which – after an unexpected meteor ride – managed to get itself pimped with some rad spikes and extendable wing mirrors. Prone to make embarrassing revelations on lakeside visits.

HASTUR

The Unspeakable, Unknowable, Never to be Named. Bored with being a minor shepherd deity, he stole some tattered robes from a nearby washing-line, went mad and became amorphous. And very yellow. Often seen shopping for masks in Carcosa.

ITHAQUA

Father of a Thousand Refrigerators, and Lord of the Snow Day, with a tendency to pick people up and then drop them at the wrong destination. Suffers from perpetual wind and red eyes.

NODENS

Primal music-loving pensioner, whose sea-shell chariot is powered by legendary beats, he is served by hordes of nightstands. Often confused with the god of Celtic travelling salesmen.

NYARLATHOTEP

Like a black Hermes who has attitude, but with his face pulled off. The only Outer God who likes riding camels and visiting Luxor, with more air miles than most Mythos deities, and may thus be encountered in places where jazz musicians or Goths hang out.

SHUB-NIGGURATH

Dark Mother of Malevolent Shrubberies and dedicated goat fancier. Prone to having children when disturbed or invoked without sufficient warning, hence her Thousand Young and constant headache. Also major ingredient in Caribbean curries.

TSATHOGGUA

Either a bat who ate a toad or a toad who ate a bat. Spends most of his time trying to get his Formless Spawn to stay in their basins, and stop messing the place up, godammit.

UBBO-SATHLA

Oozing, grey primordial porridge, without salt or syrup, and thus relatively inedible. Doesn’t get out of its grotto much, due to its habit of shedding amoebae at parties. Goes by name of Abhoth when trying to gatecrash.

YIG

The sound a serpent makes when stepped on.

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There. Now you know everything you need to know about the Chtulhu Mythos. Really. For unrepentant readers, John Linwood Grant, the greydog himself, writes the occasional bit of post-modern-neo-deconstructed Mythosian fiction.  Or something like that.  Weird stuff, anyway.

You can find such work in various odd corners, including:

• ‘Messages’, in Cthulhusattva, Martian Migraine Press 2016
• ‘With the Dark & Storm’, in Equal Opportunities Madness, Otter Libris 2017
• ‘Where All is Night, and Starless’, in Chthonic, Martian Migraine Press, 2018
• ‘Strange Perfumes of a Polar Sun’, in The Mountains of Madness Revealed, PS, 2019

The Mythosian tales ‘Songs of the Burning Men’ and ‘The Yuggoth Club’ are also on their way this year.

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And before you run away shrieking, why not take our ‘What Kind of Cthulhu Are You?’ quiz, a firm family favourite.

1. The vibrations of a human submersible are detected close to R’lyeh, intruding on your realm. Do you:

a) Use unspeakable protoplasmic servants to investigate and update you on the level of technology that the humans have achieved, making careful notes on their propulsion and weaponry?
b) Rise in majesty from the depths to tear the thin shell of the submersible asunder?
c) Turn over on your hideously carved obsidian couch and let it go?

2. The fungoid hordes of the Mi-Go have gathered in the void beyond Earth, threatening to come to the planet in large numbers. Do you:

a) Tell the Deep Ones and any other followers of Mother Hydra and Father Dagon that the Mi-Go are delicious, especially fried lightly in butter?
b) Thrash your tendrils violently and threaten the Mi-Go with immediate obliteration if they proceed?
c) Write it off as another boring alien experiment with humanity and brain cases?

3. Some Massachusetts academics complain that your vile emanations are causing their more artistic students to descend into madness. Do you:

a) Suggest that their students apply for Arts Council grants and call their work ‘installations’?
b) Obliterate the entire east coast of America with vast tidal waves?
c) Sink back into slumber and try to emanate less?

4. Human writers are publishing an increasing number of stories about your malign and eldritch reality. Do you:

a) Encourage these amusing fictions in order to disguise your true purpose on Earth?
b) Destroy their puny minds and leave them hollowed-out shells whose eyes reflect only the abyss?
c) Read a couple of their stories and doze off halfway through?

5. Hastur rides the storm above your Dread House at R’lyeh, complaining that he is the true heir of Yog-Sothoth. Do you:

a) Calm him down by pointing out that he has Carcosa to himself, and at least his place isn’t under water and leaking badly?
b) Invoke Azathoth, who blasphemes and bubbles at the centre of infinity, in order that Hastur be rended into vaporous nothing?
c) Write it off as another of Hastur’s tantrums and go back to sleep?

Your Answers

Mostly a)s. You are an imaginative thinker with a good sense of delegation. Well done. You are a CREATIVE CTHULHU.
Mostly b)s. You have spawning issues, and need to look into anger management therapy, as well as counting to ten before you act. You are a DESTRUCTIVE CTHULHU.
Mostly c)s. You may have narcolepsy, vitamin deficiencies or a number of under-active thyroid glands, and should seek medical help. Or, you are just a LAZY CTHULHU.

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Further Lovecraftian/Mythos articles can be found on greydogtales across the years, such:

https://greydogtales.com/blog/cthulhu-may-not-live-here-any-more/

https://greydogtales.com/blog/cthulhu-for-girls/

https://greydogtales.com/blog/krakens-and-cthulhus-squids-no-more/

https://greydogtales.com/blog/paul-stjohn-mackintosh-on-lovecrafts-legacy/

https://greydogtales.com/blog/lovecraft-lee-and-the-elder-gods/

 

Extend your lobes and indulge yourself, dearest listener, for today we return to that classic weird fiction author, William Hope Hodgson, and the world of audio, with a host of clickable links. Yes, The Voice of Horror returns! Many moons ago, we covered some of the recordings of WHH’s work, but that post is rather out of date now. So we thought we’d head there afresh, and at the same time include a short tribute to Hope Hodgson kindly provided by writer S L Edwards, thus extending the range of pieces which we published during last year’s centennial of WHH’s death.

Whilst we’re updating on WHH matters, we can add that the British Library will soon be publishing a collection of Hope Hodgson’s fiction, edited by Dr Xavier Aldana Reyes, Senior Lecturer in English Literature and Film at Manchester Metropolitan University and a founder member of the Manchester Centre for Gothic Studies. He tells us that the collection is intended as a ‘best of’ intro for new readers who may never have heard of Hodgson. We hope to interview Xavier later this year in order to discuss Hope Hodgson, Gothic fiction and supernatural literature in general.

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A related audio experience we must mention as well today is this album by Jon Mueller, originally released on CD as accompaniment to the book The House on the Borderland by Hope Hodgson, published by Swan River Press, Dublin, 2018. The album can be purchased as a digital download here:

https://rhythmplex.bandcamp.com/album/the-house-on-the-borderland

And at time of writing, it looks like there are a few copies left of that printing of The House on the Borderland. This was published in an edition of 300 signed copies and 50 unsigned, which contains:

• “Fear of a Porous Border: William Hope Hodgson’s Liminal Masterpiece” by Alan Moore
• “The House on the Borderland” by William Hope Hodgson
• “An Aberrant Afterword: Blowing Dust in the House of Incest” by Iain Sinclair

Swan River Press productions are always excellent, so grab them while you can.

http://swanriverpress.ie/title_borderland.html

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THE VOICE OF HORROR

Here we go with some links to audio recordings currently available, with the hope that the links work in most regions across the globe. It’s a varied pick, with very varied voices, and we’ve indicated the general origin of the narrator in each case.

We commence with an unusual one, which we haven’t heard recorded before. This is ‘The Seahorses’, from Hope Hodgson’s collection Men of the Deep Waters, (British/Irish narrator)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVI0OdQyyl8

To go to the other extreme, why not spend a week driving yourself mad by listening to the entire The Night Land, with all its fantastical imagery and all its dubious archaisms. This is a straight reading of The Night Land from Audiobooks Unleashed, some eighteen hours worth! (US narrator)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4eNRcXbYpk

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Less time-consuming, we can suggest some more shorter pieces, such as those recorded by HorrorBabble, in association with Rue Morgue, which include a series of Carnacki the Ghost Finder tales, narrated by Ian Gordon (British narrator):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GP9_W6Xtyp4

And one of Hope Hodgson’s better known non-Carnacki tales, ‘The Voice in the Night’, from the same people (British narrator):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASIfPcyTAH0

Or you could go for ‘A Tropical Horror’, from By the Fireside (British narrator with regional accent)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVxpr3GlpX8

‘Captain Dan Danblasten’, not horror, is a Tales from the Potts House podcast (also has a podcast of ‘The Voice in the Night’):

http://thepottshouse.org/pottscasts/hodgecast/Captain%20Dan%20Danblasten.mp3

You can hear the short story ‘Inhabitants of the Middle Islet’… but not in English, only in French, as far as we can determine. We quite enjoyed it, but then we only understood about half of it. Fluent French speakers may be able to report back to greydogtales on its quality.

http://www.litteratureaudio.org/mp3/William_Hope_Hodgson_-_Les_Habitants_de_l_ile_du_milieu.mp3

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Of the more substantial works (though none so substantial as The Night Land), there are some nice audio versions. Jim Norton’s House on the Borderland, in four parts, is excellent (British narrator):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frg7ZLFVMQM&t=3s

The Boats of the Glen Carrig (British narrator with regional accent):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6rg7SO-84g

And Librivox’s The Ghost Pirates (US narrator):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qey9YfCjxBU

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Returning to Carnacki the Ghost Finder, these classic occult detective stories have, as you might expect, been recorded often. In addition to the HorrorBabble versions mentioned above, the most impressive arrival since we last visited is the magnificent Big Finish production of six Carnacki tales. If you are a fan of the Ghost Finder, this production is an absolute must-have, with British actor Dan Starkey proving a superb, definitive voice for our hero. Outstanding.

https://www.bigfinish.com/releases/v/carnacki—the-ghost-finder-1416

We interviewed Scott Handcock, the producer, here:

https://greydogtales.com/blog/carnacki-lives/

And we talked to the talented Dan Starkey himself here:

https://greydogtales.com/blog/doctor-who-and-the-detective-its-the-starkey-stratagem/

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The Big Finish set did not, alas, cover Hope Hodgson’s longest Carnacki tale, one which take the Ghost Finder deep into the realm of weird fiction, ‘The Hog’. However, Otis Jiry’s recording of ‘The Hog’ (US Narrator) can be found here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ipm8bv-fCM&list=PLSKVMK38zV9hu8Zx6OMR2GKSccYjdszOW

Carnacki is still very much alive in fiction, kept sleuthing through the stories of authors such as Willie Meikle, Brandon Barrows, Joshua M Reynolds, Chico Kidd and a number of others – and through certain entries in John Linwood Grant’s own series Tales of the Last Edwardian.

Morgan Scorpion’s recording of ‘The Hellfire Mirror’, a new Carnacki adventure by Willie Meikle, from his collection Carnacki: Heaven and Hell (British narrator) is here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9co2iqJDTO0

And Tales to Terrify recorded ‘The Horse of the Invisible’ paired with Meikle’s ‘Treason and Plot’. 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 (US narrator)

http://talestoterrify.com/tales-to-terrify-show-no-47-william-hope-hodgson-and-william-meikle/

Finally for our audio sampling, one for our Spanish and South American friends – a Spanish language version of The House on the Borderland:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_JS4wxWRc8

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Foremost amongst those individuals and presses who have not only kept WHH in the limelight, but championed the Hodgsonian Revival, are, of course, Sam Gafford and his Ulthar Press.

We will be saying more about Ulthar’s expanding range of publications soon. We had the pleasure of interviewing Sam on Hope Hodgson last year, as well as hosting his poignant story about WHH’s last days, ‘The Land of Lonesomeness’, which no Hodgsonian should miss:

https://greydogtales.com/blog/the-land-of-lonesomeness/

You can find more out about Ulthar here:

https://ultharpress.com/

From one veteran and well-established Sam to an up-and-coming one, to end today’s feast, here’s that short tribute to WHH we promised – yes, it should have gone up in 2018, but Time whipped us into the New Year before we could get it done…

Voices in the Night and Other Stray Songs

by S. L. Edwards

Like many other readers, I came to Hodgson by way of Lovecraft. This isn’t entirely fair to Mr. Hodgson, who wrote earlier than Lovecraft and by all accounts established his own style and thoughts regarding weird fiction independent of his peers. Like many writers, Hodgson put himself into his characters. Unlike Blackwood or Machen, the characters in Hodgson’s fiction are kinetic doers. They pack meaningful punches, interacting with their world as adventurers and victims alike.

I have no doubt there is plenty to be said of Carnacki. Carnacki is unquestionably Hogdson’s most widely known contribution to weird fiction, no doubt a part of the spiritualist zeitgeist that also bred Dr. John Silence. The House on the Borderlands likewise sets Hodgson apart. Like Blackwood and Machen, the story revolves around a revelation, and what begins seeming as a haunted house story becomes cracked wide open. For me, the most terrifying moment of Borderlands comes as time passes on, as the narrator is made to watch the world freeze and is unable to do more than sit back and passively fade to darkness. I can think of no more terrible immortality. The story stands out as the most in dialog with other weird fiction writers, notably catching the attention of Lovecraft and no doubt influencing his own depictions of otherworldly horrors.

However, the story which stands out to me is ‘The Voice in the Night.’ Here we get a view of autobiography, no doubt informed by Hodgson’s background as a sailor. Through the fog of a sea-salt night, a voice explains to sailors that though he needs help, he cannot come aboard their ship. For those of you who haven’t read the story, I won’t go any further, but I will say that it reminds me of Clark Ashton Smith and other American weird authors dealing with the concept of plague. The characters regret their inability to help the voice, and again we see that these are so-called “men of action,” men who want to reach out and help the world much like Hodgson himself.

Hodgson, while a writer, was no man of letters. He was a fighter, a sailor and (if I understand correctly) even provided boxing lessons at one point in his life. Perhaps this why he could not stand by as WWI spread on, and why in turn died at 40 as the war began reaching an unsustainable status quo. Like too many of his peers, he died younger and sooner than expected, and we can only speculate the sort of way that his final experiences in the war would have shaped his fiction. Would he have maintained a presence in “Weird Fiction,” or would he follow other veterans-turned-writers such as Vasily Grossman and Hemingway, turning to more philosophic and literary themes mostly devoid of the supernatural? I would like to think some amalgam of both, that he could have been content writing ghost and war stories in the sort of safety provided be a glass window to an English garden. But knowing Hodgson, the man of action, such an end seems just as unlikely as a ghostly hog.

As a voice in the night.

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S L Edwards is an American weird fiction writer whose first collection Whiskey and other Unusual Ghosts is due out Summer 2019 from Gehenna and Hinnom. You can read the original Hope Hodgson story ‘The Voice in the Night’ in a number of places, such as here:

The Voice in the Night

END-NOTE: Some might call Hope Hodgson a minority interest, so we were surprised that one of our most popular articles last year was our reprint of an unusual find – a long magazine piece on WHH from 1977, by veteran author and historian Peter Berresford Ellis (aka Peter Tremayne), reproduced with his permission. Which was nice. https://greydogtales.com/blog/william-hope-hodgson-essex-born-master-horror/

As the pitches for the forthcoming Belanger Books anthology ‘Sherlock Holmes and the Occult Detectives’ roll in, we offer a warped coming together of two masters of their craft, and some dreadful cheap humour, as usual. We point out that the strangest collaborations are chronologically feasible, and we mention a brand new Holmes book due out soon, plus an open call for Holmes tales…

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EGYPT, 1893: WHEN TITANS MEET

Holmes stepped off the almost empty felucca, and drew the warm, heavy Luxor air into his flaring nostrils. Despite the bustle at other jetties, here there was only a single figure besides himself – a small, slightly rotund young man, who had clearly been waiting for him.

“M’sieur Holmes?”

The Great Detective inclined his head slightly, and the young man smiled with relief.

“M’sieur, I am sent by the Sûreté de l’État, on behalf of the Belgian ambassador in Cairo. I have certain papers for you, of the gravest–”

Holmes would have placed the man’s accent as that of peasant stock, probably from French-speaking Wallonia in the south, but the clothes were immaculate, despite the heat and dust – a touch affected, even.

“No doubt, no doubt. What is your name, sir?”

“Agatha, sir. My parents were too poor to afford a boy’s name at the time. Agatha van Wimsey, of the Antwerp van Wimseys.”

Holmes felt an icy touch upon his neck. It seemed that despite all sense and logic, Watson’s premonition of an appalling pastiche was indeed coming to pass. Taking a Reichenbach fall had not saved him; neither the hastily arranged operation on Holmes’ hiatus, nor his disguise as an elderly Persian brush-salesman, had averted the Hand of Fate…

He would face this horror, though, and trust to his keen mind, as ever. He rounded on the little Belgian official.

“You are currently charged by the Sûreté with an investigation into the death of a Bohemian at a builder’s house not far from Bruges, but were posted to Egypt by mistake, and had the most dreadful sea journey. You own a cat called Marple, you plan to grow a small, neatly-waxed moustache, and quite fancy a career as a refugee. When not about your police work, you divide your time between assessing the relative size of soft-boiled eggs, knitting cardigans, and reading travel brochures for Hastings.”

The Belgian looked shocked. “But yes, M’sieur! You are correct in all particulars”

Holmes sighed, knowing that one last act had to be played out. He glanced towards the towering stone pillars of the nearest temple, and considered a more recent addition in their shadow – a row of what might be mean, windowless dwellings, constructed of dull river mud dried hard in the sun.

“Tell me, then, if this must be. What is the purpose of those small buildings?”

The Belgian raised both eyebrows. “Why, M’sieur, did you not know? They are the famous little grey cells…”

Somewhere in the distance, atop a magnificent sand dune, a camel was sick into a fellahin’s hat.

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For those who like to explore this sort of thing, Sherlock Holmes would have been in his late thirties in 1893, at the time of his absence from Britain and the Great Hiatus; Hercule Poirot would have been in his late twenties by the most common reckonings.

The date of Poirot’s birth is speculation, though, and does vary between 1864 and 1884 – that latter end would, of course, make it unlikely that Poirot would have had a chance to meet the Great Detective professionally until the early Edwardian period, when Holmes was contemplating retirement. But if there were only ten years between them, what curious events might have occurred?

Crime writer Julian Symons considered this topic, and wrote a short story ‘Did Sherlock Holmes meet Hercule’, published as a limited edition in 1987.

A brief, far more serious discussion of Holmes and Poirot can be found here at Dennis Simanaitis’ site:

https://simanaitissays.com/2015/08/29/did-poirot-ever-meet-holmes/

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Adventures in the Realms of Steampunk

And live today is the Kickstarter campaign for Belanger’s latest two volume anthology Sherlock Holmes: Adventures in the Realms of Steampunk – a phantasmagorical range of steampunk-flavoured tales, which includes my ONLY even vaguely steampunk story ever, concerning murder in the Anglo-Egyptian Empire, almost 12,000 words…

“Inspector St John Ahmed Faroukh was not greatly popular with his superior officers in the Hammersmith Division. He had been called many things in London – a mere nuss-Arab, neither one thing nor another; a Gypti mongrel, and a Cairo dog. He didn’t mind that one – the lean, tenacious creatures of his birthplace were better adapted to survival than some of the pampered beasts of England…”

Table of Contents

The Silver Swan by Cara Fox (The Strange Case of Doctor Magorian )

The Adventure of the Pneumatic Box by Robert Perret (For King and Country)

The Adventure of the Portable Exo-Lung by GC Rosenquist (Sherlock Holmes: The Pearl of Death and Other Early Stories)

The Body at the Ritz by Stephen Herczeg (Sherlock Holmes: Adventures in the Realms of H.G. Wells Volume 1)

The Hounds of Anuket by John Linwood Grant (Occult Detective Quarterly)

Treasure of the Dragon by Thomas Fortenberry (An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes)

Sherlock Holmes and the Clockwork Count by Benjamin Langley (Dead Branches)

The Adventure of the Purloined Piston Valve by L.S. Reinholt & Minerva Cerridwen (The Dragon of Ynys )

The Deductive Man by Paul Hiscock (Under the Weather)

The Adventure of the Tiger’s Topaz by Derrick Belanger (Sherlock Holmes: The Adventure of the Primal Man)

Sherlock Holmes and the Moongate Sabotage by Derek Nason (Sherlock Holmes: Adventures in the Realms of H.G. Wells Vol. 2 )

The Adventure of the Brompton Mausoleum by Paula Hammond (Alternative Truths)

A Second Case of Identity by S. Subramanian (Airship 27: Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective)

Doctor Bear, I Presume! by Harry DeMaio (The Casebooks of Octavius Bear)

You can back the modest campaign here:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1306925656/sherlock-holmes-adventures-in-the-realms-of-steamp

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Get Writing: Sherlock Holmes and the Occult Detectives

This anthology, edited by John Linwood Grant, is accepting story pitches up to 15^th March 2019, so plenty of time to get your ideas in. Full guidelines, details of pay and length etc, can be found here:

https://greydogtales.com/blog/sherlock-holmes-and-the-occult-detectives-pt-2/

It is Valentine’s Day, dear listener, and so on this special day, we explain the true meaning of the event, and share once more the delights of the little village of St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, where ‘imbecile’ is not an insult, but a mark of respect and high social status.

Below we offer three – yes, THREE – snippets on the theme of love, including a brand new Mr Bubbles story in the middle, and a sliver of Bottles the lurcher with which to finish. Astonishing, yes? If you learned how we did it, we would have to kill you. If we could be bothered…

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PRELUDE: MR BUBBLES IN LOVE

A short, heart-warming tale of romance

 

No one was actually dead. The police and ambulance crews had dragged the badly-injured walking party well away from the scene of crime, and were in the process of counting limbs, many of which were still attached. Thick spatters of blood, now congealing under the midday sun, decorated the hedgerows; someone’s ear hung off a yew tree. It had a nice ear-ring in it – the ear, not the tree.

“It’s a public footpath,” said Sandra, frowning as she fished a torn woolly hat out of the horse trough. The hat, almost bitten through, had an animal welfare badge on it. Sandra wondered if that was what writers called irony.

Mr Bubbles moved his weight uneasily from hoof to hoof.

“They looked at my turnip.” A pitch-black fire danced in the pony’s great eyes.

“They were passing by! They’re on a walking tour.” She noticed two policewoman trying to construct temporary stretchers out of runner-bean poles. “Well, they were on a walking tour.”

The pony glared at the nearest conscious rambler, and rolled a large, mottled root vegetable lovingly back into the shade of the barn. He sighed, admiring the plump curves of the vegetable’s sides, the almost coy blush of purple near the top…

“MY turnip,” muttered Mr Bubbles.

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MAIN MOVEMENT: THE CARROT WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD

A new tale of equine eccentricities

 

Sandra’s cousin Mary had come to stay once more, and the farmhouse above St Botolph’s was a cheerful hive of activity. Except with no bees, or honey, or waxy cells from which small, blind grubs were waiting to emerge. So nothing like a hive, really. Sandra’s mother was unconscious under the large pine table, a consequence of confusing cough sweets with sheep tranquillisers, but the two teenagers had plenty to keep them occupied…

“Right, I think I’ve got it,” said Mary, putting down his utterly useless child-safe scissors, borrowed from St Botolph’s Mixed Infants, “A Roman Emperor fell out with a Christian priest over theology, and had the chap beaten to death and beheaded, as a warning to people who disagreed with Rome’s policies on ecumenical matters.

“Also, before he died, the priest wrote a letter to a lot of people’s daughters, saying that he might not be able to go for that drink after all, but it was nothing personal. And that’s how we ended up with Valentine’s Day.”

“Exactly,” said Sandra, trying to remove a bottle of glue from one of the less competent sheep which were milling round the farmhouse kitchen. “And so we send heart-shaped cards to those we love on February the Fourteenth each year. That one simple act completely makes up for the three hundred and sixty four days when we didn’t pay enough attention to them, do anything useful, or remember to iron the cat.”

“Like going to confession just after hacking seventeen people to death with a chainsaw, and saying five Hail Marys to make up for it?”

Sandra nodded. “The organised Church is a bit of a mystery, if you ask me.”

Her cousin stood up and brushed glitter off his pleated skirt. “These tights have had it. This glue goes everywhere – and it smells a bit, too.”

“Mrs Gayamurthi makes it from fish-heads.”

“Lovely.” Mary wiped his hands on a passing sheep. “Still, I’m done.” He held up a piece of red cardboard which resembled the results of a drunken, short-sighted junior surgeon conducting a major operation after three consecutive shifts on call. More a wholesale evisceration than an organ of love.

“I thought Deborah Buntling still hated you?”

“She does,” said Mary. “That’s why I’ve made a jolly rotten job of it. Maybe this year she won’t go on so much about me borrowing her lipstick.”

“You don’t wear lipstick.”

“No, but I use it to write threatening messages to the Latin Master at college. It makes him feel wanted.”

“That’s nice.” Sandra abandoned her own card, meant for her mother. Mother would have to make do with out-of-date chocolates from the village shop.

A sudden crash and a spray of broken glass announced that Mr Bubbles, Sandra’s beloved but slightly psychotic pony, had rammed his large head through the kitchen window again.

Sandra sighed. “Hello, boy. No, you don’t need to start complaining. We’re finished here, and have all afternoon to join you on a risky, ill-conceived adventure across the moors, seeking out unutterably evil abominations and barely managing to survive.”

“Bored with that,” said Mr Bubbles. “Want carrots.”

“I have sugar cubes,” Mary offered.

The pony gave him a look which strongly suggested the presentation of a sugar cube might result in a hoof in the face.

“Or we could look for some carrots,” said Mary hastily.

And so the three chums set off down to the little village of St Botolph-in-the-Wolds, often described as ‘picturesque’ by people who liked Hieronymous Bosch and Goya’s Disasters of War.

All was remarkable quiet on the few functional streets of the quaint hamlet. This year’s Valentine’s Day Bake-Off between the Womens’ Institute and the Esoteric Order of Dagon had been cancelled, due to an unexpected outbreak of yellow jack, whilst the highly feral Girl Guides were raiding elsewhere that day.

“They’ve gone to pillage the towns on the coast, topping up their Brasso supplies,” Sandra explained. “And to throw stones at herring gulls. I think the ducks on the village pond put them up to that part.”

A nearby duck stubbed out its cigarette and tried to assume a nonchalant air. No one was fooled..

Only Mr Quilling, the Village Pervert, had made any public attempt to celebrate the unjust murder of an over-religious Roman, but the ornate display he’d constructed in his front garden was neither nice nor clever. Probably its only direct relevance to affairs of the heart was that it might induce a coronary in anyone less broad-minded (or indifferent) than the locals.

Mary stared, then looked away. “I shall never eat broccoli again, that’s for sure.”

“Carrots,” said Mr Bubbles.

Alas, the village shops were not forthcoming – the root vegetable in question was in short supply that day. The sort of short supply that means when you ask ‘Can I buy a carrot, please?’, the answer is distinctly in the negative. The general store had none, though this was hardly unusual – its owner concentrated more on the ‘general’ aspect than the ‘store’ part. The Post Office had just sold out, and Mrs Gayamurthi’s could only offer large Indian radishes.

“We could paint it orange, boy,” said Sandra, stroking her pony’s black mane.

Mr Bubbles tried the end of one, and spat the chunk out through the shop’s open door, stunning a passing pedestrian. “Not the same.”

Mary gave his cousin a sidelong glance. “Look, Mr Bubbles, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but how about we go up to Grimspire Water, and see if we can set fire to some hideous, gelatinous monstrosity. That might cheer you up.”

“Carrots.”

In the face of the pony’s obstinacy, their search continued, but even the Mobile Library, which had an unusually large vegetable section, was unable to loan them a single root. Sandra and Mary sat down on the old gibbet-stone which stood by the north road. Legend had it that long ago, possibly in the early fourteenth century, the villagers had built the foundations for an exciting new means of execution, and then couldn’t arsed to finish it off. Subsequent felons had been consigned to Gibbet Hill, which – rather confusingly – was a large hole in the ground, not far from Buttersmite Fell. The people of St Botolph’s didn’t believe in unnecessary effort.

“I suppose,” said Sandra, “That there’s nothing for it. We’ll have to ask Old Aggie. If anyone has any carrots left in the entire area, it’s her. She’ll have a clamp of them from last Autumn.”

It was a dire situation. Old Aggie was a perfectly pleasant woman, but she also collected potatoes in the shape of Queen Victoria, and insisted that all visitors examine her entire collection before they were offered a sit-down or a mug of gin. As Old Aggie had three extensive cellars packed full of the things, the experience could take hours.

“Look, boy,” said Sandra, as they trudged their the way up to Aggie’s farm. She pointed towards a tall stand of gloomy, putty-coloured trees not a hundred yards away. “Those shadows on the edge of Whateley Wood! Perhaps they represent some insidious, creeping evil that we should face right away. I could go and get my pump-action Remington, and-”

“Carrots.”

Mr Bubbles was known for his intractable moods, but Sandra couldn’t work out whey he was so particularly obsessed with carrots today, especially as he must have know they were hard to get. In fact, he probably knew that they would have to end up at Old Aggie’s, so what was going on?

“He’s not ill, is he?” asked Mary as they came in sight of Aggie’s farm, which would have had to be rebuilt and knocked down again before it could achieve the status of a ruin. Much of it consisted of cellars covered with sheets of corrugated iron and the more lethal types of asbestos (still widely used in St Botolph’s, due to the natural immunity which the villagers had developed).

“Don’t suppose so.” Sandra re-tied her long blonde hair, and checked to see if she had any money in her purse. “Maybe we can get away with the two-hour tour this time,” she said, eyeing one of the few standing structures. “I’ll go and–”

“In there,” said the pony, nudging her shoulder with his velvety muzzle. He pointed one hoof at a large ramshackle shed, just on the edge of the potato fields.

She shrugged. “If you say, boy, but I would have thought…”

There was no point in arguing with him. Sandra and Mary walked over to the shed, and eased back one of the double doors, peering into the gloom…

“Gosh!” said Mary.

There, on the shed floor, lay an astonishing range of mummified legs, withered arms, skeletal fragments, oozing tentacles, and confiscated occult paraphernalia, plus half a vampire and something extremely warped with no head – and no body. Forbidden books of knowledge, such as that vile and obscene tract The Book of the Deaf, lay next to the twisted parts of a police car and a set of amulets for protection against depressed ferrets. Many of the items – organic and inorganic – had very large teeth-marks in them. All had been trodden on quite a bit.

The presence of these horrors was perhaps not so important as the fact that the whole lot had been arranged on the trampled dirt in the unmistakable shape of a huge heart.

“We did all these, you and me,” said the pony. “Knackered the lot of them.”

If the exact sight before her was indescribable, the smell certainly wasn’t – but Sandra had a clue that her best friend was making a most unusual gesture. The single red rose the pony had tossed into the middle of the appalling mementos pretty much gave it away.

“We did,” she murmured. “And it was jolly hard work, but we always had each other’s backs.” She smiled, and leaned against the warm, powerful body. “It’s… it’s a lovely surprise,” she managed to say.

“Happy Dead Unwise Priest’s Day,” said Mr Bubbles.

Mary, too, was smiling, if a little puzzled. Quite what was the point of the author putting him in this narrative? He didn’t really seem to have any useful role at all. His discontented musing was soon ended, though, by the deep, determined voice of equine hungers.

“Still want carrots. Go look in field.”

Ah yes, that was why he was here. The grunt work. Valentine had a lot to answer for. Sighing, he picked up a spade and headed out into the mud…

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CODA: BOTTLES THE LURCHER IN LOVE

A canine finds true romance

“What’s your dog doing with that stuffed draft-excluder?” asked Sandra, trying hard not to watch the excited behaviour next to the living room door.

“Nothing,” Mary reddened, and wonder if he could find a bucket of cold water very quickly.

“Woof!” said Bottles.

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THE END

This programme was brought to you in conjunction with the  Bloody Valentine Bad Love Event on FB today, organised and hosted by writer Anita Stewart:

http://afstewartblog.blogspot.com/

There are also some giveaways here until the end of the day (not mine, because I’m too busy and disorganised):

https://claims.prolificworks.com/gg/dUSHjp1eGvHe3Svt3Qqp?fbclid=IwAR2kwhmI3ZbV9GW-gklbyO-z0UqpHbMi7WfszzNchZvuQ7OMdkvBd1TmcZE