“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.” (Old saying or prayer probably originated in Cornish).
“Two steps forward. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Two steps forward. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.. It’s Halloween.” (Indie Rock group The Dream Syndicate).
“Happy nightmare, Baby. Because you’re mine, all mine.” ( Kendra Smith, who actually co-founded The Dream Syndicate, then co-founded Opal, where she wrote this song).
“Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun, nothing left to do but run, run, run, let’s run” (Jim Morrison, the Doors).
When the shadows become corporeal, and the mutterings turn into screaming, where do you run to?
Halloween is fun, when you know that it is just a game, and after you have walked up and down the streets with your friends, you can go home to your house which is safe, and wake up the next day and start looking forward to the Thanksgiving holiday. But what if the nightmare does not end?
I read two Halloween stories to my girlfriend every Halloween, it is by her request. The difficult part is finding a sufficiently scary story which does not frighten her past the reading of it. I have books and books of “The Year’s Best Horror Stories,” or similarly titled anthologies, but it is hard to find great horror short fiction. Charles Dickens wrote a few. My family and I saw the great actor Emlyn Williams play Dickens for a night; and he read from memory, and acted out, his chilling story “The Signalman.” I have never forgotten it.
I saw John Astin play Edgar Allan Poe for a night, and he acted out “The Raven.” I will presume to say that I can read it better. It is mostly about expressing the right emotional tone. I had a record of Boris Karloff and Basil Rathbone reading some Poe stories, and they were excellent. I also had Karloff reading Lewis Carroll’s poem “The Hunting of the Snark,” which was both whimsical and chilling.
I do not believe in vampires or werewolves or zombies. But I would not walk alone on a deserted road at night. That is mostly because of people, the kind who do terrible things to others, because they are twisted, and full of anger and hate. The horror is that the human race may contain scarier people than the various entities which they imagined, and put in storires.
There are more of these people than ever before. They read their satanic texts, which might be websites where they congregate. I don’t think they say prayers backwards, but they invent and pass on insane stories which they believe with the fervor of worshippers of evil.
A man named Elon Musk, who wants to be dictator of the world, thought it was clever to respond to Hillary Clinton’s sincere expression of commiseration and anger at the attack on Paul Pelosi, by saying, “There might be a bit more to this story.’ and providing a link to a site full of lies and libels, where in 2016 they had run a story that Hillary had died, and that a double was going to play her in the debate. And this megalomaniac amplified the lies about Pelosi, which will lead to more such incidents. Is this not more frightening than the typical horror movie?
Well, I do not want to spend Halloween scaring all of us about what is happening to this country. At least Bolsinaro lost in Brazil, there is still some hope or a semblance of sanity. It is hard to escape for even a day from the horrors around us, but to keep our sanity and sense of humanity, we must.
I was trying to find a short tale to transcribe here, but the Marjorie Bowen story was taking too long for me to finish it in time to be there in the morning. Maybe the hour it took for me to solve the Wordle was the problem! Sometimes there are eerie waltz melodies in horror stories!
I hope that everyone has a decent Halloween. If anyone wants to listen to or even put up a very good unsettling song, I would recommend “We Are the Damned” by the Nuns, and the brilliant Jennifer Miro, who combined with Jeff Olenor, her bandmate with the original Nuns, for this song. Miro is playing harpsichord, she learned classical piano, before doing a wholly different career. It is from the great album “Romania,”
I left up the part of the Marjorie Bowen story I transcribed. Apparently there was an apparition of a person from the Inquisition, who had waited for centuries to get this heretic who did not share his fanaticism. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.
THE VIGIL
I believe that I have seen and heard many ghosts though some of them were dreams.And I believe that ghosts move in and out of dreams, as they move in and out of waking hours, and the obscure reality of them dims the reality of all our days.
But this ghost was not a dream–at least not my dream. It was in Italy some years ago in a small ancient town that was lovely enough amid the olive trees and maize fields, but which I never liked. It was admirable, no doubt, but alien to me. I had no affinity with the place–with the old houses that had been palaces, with the piazza and the marble fountains said to be by Michelangelo, with the vivid gulf of sea on one side, and the range of purple mountains clothed by golden chestnuts on the other side, and the cheerful lusty people. It was all to me like a picture with which I had nothing to do. I was very lonely. and at times an incalculable sensation of desolation would overwhelm me, even in the midst of the gaiety of local life, a life from which I was utterly apart.
I have a very strong sense of place, The atmosphere of scenes, houses, streets, is usually most poignant to me–far more so than the human personalities–but there was no atmosphere about this place. It was blank of all meaning and because of that, I think, I was not happy there.
I had an “apartomento” in one of the most considerable buildings. The lower floors were inhabited by small. pompous provincial notables–shrill, busy, unimportant people– but the above was occupied by one old man of whom no one seemed to know anything. It was understood that he was poor and scholarly and disagreeable–and then one day it was said that he was dying.
It chanced that I was alone in my flat with a servant, a robust, stalwart, and kindhearted peasant.of the deepest ignorance, and she was voluble about the “poverino” dying neglected upstairs. He was, it appeared, not only friendless, but a heretic–a sin condoned in foreigners, but not forgiven in a compatriot. This old man was regarded, I gathered from the gossiping maid.,with aversion, even accursed. I could not discover why, except that he was, and had long been, cast off by the Church.
Compromising with shyness and timidity, I sent Elena, the servant. up to the flat,with offers of help. Her reply was painful.
No doctor, no priest, no friend, and Death very near. The sick man had asked for someone to watch with him that night, which he believed would be his last on earth. Elena was…
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