Dark Wolf’s Fantasy Reviews: “The Prince of Soul and the Lighthouse” by Fredrik Brounéus

29 06 2012

via Dark Wolf’s Fantasy Reviews: “The Prince of Soul and the Lighthouse” by Fredrik Brounéus.

(Thanks to Mihai Adascalitei for allowing us to use this review)





‘Disciple of a Dark God’ review

10 12 2010

'Disciple of a Dark God', by Edmund Glasby, 606pp, Matador, ISBN: 9781848763708, £7.99 PB

Review by Sam Kelly

Matador, it turns out, is Picador’s self-publishing imprint. I was quite surprised to find that out, since Disciple of a Dark God is one of the nicest paperbacks, physically, that I’ve handled in a long time – it’s solidly made, with a slightly heavier weight paper than most, and the cover art & design were very clearly done by someone with a real understanding of genre trends. Less so of swords, but impractical weaponry is also a long-standing fantasy tradition.

The book itself is very definitely the kind of swords & sorcery that everybody used to write (Leiber, Vance, early Moorcock, Howard…), and in general it’s energetically & atmospherically done. Our protagonist, Everus Dragonbanner (the last thing you could call him would be “hero”) is a historian turned assassin in the service of Xethorn, god of murder. This profession requires crypt-robbing, drinking in dodgy pubs, wearing a cool trenchcoat, investigating long-disused temples to chthonic deities, and long strenuous journeys to exotic locations. It could easily be a novelization of someone’s old school D&D campaign, and I’m sure I’ve seen stat blocks for death squirrels, the Eye of Evil, and that thing in Chapter 13 (whatever in Juiblex’s name it is) before. The plot structure is a classic bracelet fantasy; it consists of a sequence of plot coupons, each one at the end of its own quest, and intervening FedEx quests (“I won’t help you find the artifact you seek unless you go to this dangerous location and collect a randomly generated item for me”) to break them up. There are two main characters, Everus and his sidekick “Creeps”; others accompany them for a quest or two, until they meet some gruesome end, often at the hands of the main characters.

There’s one other characteristic of sword & sorcery novels that Glasby has kept (and exaggerated), however, and that’s the deal-breaker for me: this is the most toxically misogynist book I’ve read in a very long time, and if I hadn’t promised to review it I’d have put it down halfway through, washed my hands, and gone to read some Joanna Russ instead. For more than half the book, every single reference to women is a joke about prostitutes, or a derisive simile; the first woman with a speaking part appears on page 368, and I can do no better than quote her first appearance.

The door was opened by a tall, curvaceous beauty.  She was outstandingly pretty; from her long, rippled hair which was a striking blend of rich lilacy-purple with flaming red highlights, to her eye-catching figure and modest but close-fitting clothes – all contributing to make Everus think she was a classy and highly expensive courtesan.  She looked about his age.

“You look a little surprised,” she said, her voice a little husky.

“I…I was expecting someone else.” Tilting his head, Everus glanced over her left shoulder, checking that there was no one else with her. It was then that he was pleasantly struck by the mild scent of exotic perfume. The aroma was delightful and highly arousing.

I would like to assure you that – unlike the author, I feel – I was typing that quotation with both hands and without suggestive music playing on the soundtrack. Carrie (and if you feel that’s an odd name for a fantasy character, you’re not the only one) is a sorceress, of course, rather than a warrior, and serves as a support character and rescue object.  Everus (inevitably) sternly refrains from sleeping with her even though she obviously wants it, and then his suspicions about her beauty are proved entirely justified when she turns on him and is revealed to have been a horrendously ugly succubus all along.

There is a second female character later on: Gwennifer Jannson, a competent and sensibly dressed general (though still described as a “slim brunette with long braided hair”) and it’s presented as entirely unexceptional for women to be officers; this would be a definite step forwards, if she weren’t there purely for Everus to impress, and if she survived longer than four pages.

I don’t want to risk giving the impression that the horrendous misogyny is this book’s only bad feature; it’s also rather classist and extremely fat-phobic. Glasby’s prose is faintly purple and occasionally rather clumsy, with sporadic outbreaks of passive voice. Overall, I wouldn’t recommend this book to women, anyone with female friends, or anyone else.





‘Sourdough and Other Stories’ by Angela Slatter

3 11 2010

 


'Sourdough and Other Stories' by Angela Slatter, 238+viiipp, Tartarus Press, ISBN: 978-1-905784-25-7, £30 hb

 

Review by Simon Marshall-Jones

It’s very difficult not to be enthusiastic about this book – not just about the writer and her stories but also about the physical book itself. And, it has to be said that, from this particular bibliophile’s point of view, what Tartarus Press have put together here is nothing short of superb and fully justifies the asking price. Sourdough and Other Stories is a lushly-produced hardback, with clear printing and a silk ribbon marker, and includes a full-colour frontispiece and decorated boards and spine – just the perfect thing to display on a shelf. It’s the sort of thing to stroke and make a complete fetish of.

But it wouldn’t be a complete package without the quality of literature within – otherwise it would be nothing more than mere distraction. Luckily, there are gems hidden between those beautifully-gilded covers. I’ve reviewed Angela Slatter before for Beyond Fiction (The Girl with No Hands – Ticonderoga Publications) and I came away highly impressed, both with the way in which she tells her stories but also by her erudition. The sixteen stories contained within this collection attests to both Slatter’s storytelling and her consistency in creating entertaining tales with deep, almost primeval, resonances. And she does this time after time.

The traditional fairytale is her starting point or, rather, what we have come to think of as fairytales. As I observed in my previous review, many of the most famous tales that have been handed down to us, transmitted by the likes of Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, were corrupted and sanitised by a Christian, Victorian and patriarchal-oriented agenda, where women were often portrayed as not only being fallen but the begetter of evil deeds. The dangers were still there, but they were meant to show the child their rightful place,  as well as to educate and prepare them for their roles in adult life, through moral instruction.

Here, Slatter tears those outdated notions apart, reaffirming and restoring the power of the feminine and the pagan. All her female characters display strength of one kind or another, whether it be a refusal to bow down to the dictates of the patriarchal stage on which these tales are played out (Gallowberries, for instance), or the willingness of a young girl to sacrifice herself to atone for a wrong or in a time of need (The Navigator, A Porcelain Soul), or the power of a woman to transform and renew (The Angel Wood, Little Radish). Conversely, the men in Slatter’s fictional locale of Lodellan are often portrayed as the epitome of stupidity: greedy (the Robber Bridegroom in The Story of Ink), cruel and warlike (the Duke and Dante Velatt in A Porcelain Soul), weak (the king in Sister, Sister) and ultimately afraid of the innate power of women, hence their need to subjugate them (the town council and judge in Gallowberries).

Before you imagine otherwise, not all the women are saintly, however – there’s Gwenllian, the rich mistress who asked Blodwen to heal her horrific burns, giving her young child away as payment for her services. Through Blodwen, we learn of the consequences of going against nature, of denying the bond every woman should have with her child and that doing so without thought can sometimes have dire consequences. Then we meet the cruel, spoilt little rich girl fiancée in Sourdough, who, through her arts with potions, causes her husband-to-be Peregrine’s true love to lose their child. That dead child then turns up in a later tale, Lavender & Lychgates, a wonderful story of the scheming ghost of the spoilt girl to bring him back to life, in order to exact revenge against Emmeline (his mother and the girl who did go on to marry Peregrine) and her daughter. Slatter’s women are also more than capable of a darker magic, too, as is evidenced in the bloody The Bones Remember Everything, a decidedly hallucinatory tale. Additionally, they can also be viciously poisonous, like Polly using malign whispers to usurp her sister Theodora’s place as the king’s wife in Sister, Sister.

Ultimately, however, the wrongs that are perpetrated by these bad apples are corrected by other, stronger (in the moral sense) females. Women are portrayed as the real runners of the show, the glue holding society together and the life-givers (and life-takers in dire need, too). They may be downtrodden, vilified, rejected and outcast, but each possesses an inner strength, an inner conviction to go on and do what’s absolutely necessary. Just like the fairy-tales we grew up with, the ones given to us by our Victorian forefathers, these stories deal in archetypes; however, the difference here is that Slatter’s characters are not the stiff, cardboard cut-outs created to make a moralistic point – they are eminently believable and well rounded, thus enabling us much more easily to identify with them and their plight(s).

On top of this, Slatter is also a master world-builder, but a very subtle one with it. The central conceit is that each of the stories is connected in some way to the story(ies) that have gone before – characters, places and events turn up or are reused in some way. The connections are fluid, however: several names turn up in different stories, for instance, but sometimes their link to the first instance is tenuous and yet the connection is most definitely there nonetheless. This fluidity creates a subtly strong weave that helps us build a picture of the world where the characters live their lives and have their being in. The language used to delineate and map it out it isn’t extraneous or richly detailed – it’s precise and economical, yet is highly effective for all that.

Despite the fact that it’s all set in a fairy-tale world, there is that about Slatter’s writing that ultimately connects it to the world we live in. These are real people, the kind of people we know ourselves: they’re just dressed up in the finery (or rags) of a world that’s just beyond this one. It just as surely reflects our reality as the original fairy-tales mirrored the times when Andersen and the Brothers Grimm collated the ones that have come down the years since. Slatter, then, isn’t so much reinventing these tales as realigning them, rearranging them in effect to better fit the 21st century and the collective sensibilities we hold today. The world has moved on considerably since the triumphalist days of Queen Victoria’s Glorious Empire (of which Slatter’s native Australia was a part), but those Victorian retellings haven’t: Slatter is merely fitting them around today’s values. Another Angela (Angela Carter), as Jeff VanDermeer points out in his afterword, started that whole process of updating, re-envisioning and restoring the fairy-tale to its rightful place in our richly-embroidered cultural tapestry, and with something of its original earthy power. Slatter has confidently taken up that gentle torch and illuminated her own path through what, in lesser hands, may be considered something of a minefield – and, in this reviewer’s opinion, long may she continue to do so.





‘The Winter Ghosts’ review

30 10 2010

[written by writer, reviewer and blogger, Liz de Jager]

Kate Mosse’s writing really does cross genres, managing to be both literary, beautiful, eerie and haunting.

In both her previous novels, Labyrinth and Sepulchre, there had been underlying hints of the paranormal/supernatural.  But what worked so well for me in these novels is how restrained these elements were – they were never in your face or over the top. And that, on a personal level, is something I could get behind.  Yes, there  is a place and time for in your face howling demons, but my type of ghost or horror story is a lot more subtle.

Ms. Mosse has subsequently given us The Winter Ghosts which is an expansion on her The Cave short story she wrote for Quick Reads and is therefore not a full sized novel but nevertheless a fully contained, albeit brief story.

Here then is the write-up:

From the bestselling author of LABYRINTH and SEPULCHRE – a compelling story of ghosts and remembrance. Illustrated throughout by Brian Gallagher. The Great War took much more than lives. It robbed a generation of friends, lovers and futures. In Freddie Watson’s case, it took his beloved brother and, at times, his peace of mind. In the winter of 1928, still seeking resolution, Freddie is travelling through the French Pyrenees. During a snowstorm, his car spins off the mountain road. He stumbles through woods, emerging in a tiny village. There he meets Fabrissa, a beautiful woman also mourning a lost generation. Over the course of one night, Fabrissa and Freddie share their stories. By the time dawn breaks, he will have stumbled across a tragic mystery that goes back through the centuries. By turns thrilling, poignant and haunting, this is a story of two lives touched by war and transformed by courage. THE WINTER GHOSTS is a gorgeous illustrated novel inspired by The Cave, Kate Mosse’s short story written for the Quick Reads Initiative for adult emergent readers.

Ms. Mosse’s skill lays in placing the reader within her setting, which is important in any kind of spooky/horror/genre novel. When Freddie meets Fabrissa and they settle in to talk about what has gone before, your campfire-gene immediately responds to that. You want somewhere warm and snug to sit quietly and listen to this conversation. Freddie is a deeply thoughtful and unhappy person, haunted by the loss of his brother and his own distancing of himself from friends and family. His isolation leaves him vulnerable and sensitive, allowing Freddie to unwittingly perhaps, pick up on the sensations of long past memories of death, war and destruction in this very old haunted area.

The setting of the winter fete in the old town of Nulle where Freddie and Fabrissa meet is finely detailed and redolent of those beautiful but stark mountain villages you see in old photographs. Wrapped in Cathar history, Fabrissa’s story leads Freddie to realise that maybe he’s not quite where he seems to be and that maybe he has travelled further than he intended to seek solace.

The Winter Ghosts is a beautifully written novel with rich characterisations that contrast with the eeriness of the settings and the stories told. It is not the usual in your face ghost story that we’ve become so inured to, but more a slow acclimatisation and an awakening of the senses, that something is just not right…if only you can figure it out, you just may make it.





Dancing with the Dead: Ghosts in “The Graveyard Book”

29 10 2010

[written by author, Louise Morgan]

That Neil Gaiman has written a book for children called The Graveyard Book should come as no surprise. His previous offerings for young readers have included a story which sees a young girl visit a parallel world where people have buttons for eyes (Coraline) and a book in which a family are driven from their home by rambunctious wolves (The Wolves In The Walls), so it’s fair to say that Gaiman is becoming a master of the mini-macabre.

The Graveyard Book opens at night, with a sleeping family–and their brutal murder at the hands of an all-too-real assailant. One of the family, however, escapes: the young son, barely even a toddler, who finds his way out of the house and through the dark to the nearby graveyard. And who should he find waiting for him but a cast of ghostly characters who will become his new family; who will protect, guide and teach him about the world–and more importantly, about life. After all, who knows more about living than someone who has already done all of theirs?

Gaiman was greatly influenced by The Jungle Book in writing this (even the title alludes to it) and, like the world Kipling created for Mowgli, little Bod (full name: Nobody Owens) is furnished with a wealth of friends and neighbours in his new home in the graveyard–from the homely and well-meaning ghosts of Mr and Mrs Owens who never had a child of their own and become his surrogate parents, to the tricky Liza Hempstock who only wants a gravestone of her own.

The mastery of The Graveyard Book is not in its plot, which follows Bod’s adventures at key points in his journey from infant to adult, nor in the sheer Gothic joy of the graveyard–but in the ghosts themselves. Gaiman knows full well that no two ghosts are the same, just as the people they once were differed. He infuses them with (ironically) life, and energy; wisdom and stubbornness, pity and pathos. Even from the comfort of the graveyard, the echoes of the world outside, the world of the living, seep inside the gates: on the night of Bod’s arrival, the sedate and settled ghosts of the cemetery contrast with the sudden appearance of the shocked ghost of Bod’s newly-dead mother as she appeals to the others to protect her son–a violent death begetting a violent-seeming apparition.

Bod is a boy between the two worlds, between the living and the dead, able to see (rather like Gaiman himself, perhaps) the things that others miss. And it is when the two worlds converge that The Graveyard Book really soars: with the “Macabray”, for instance, the Danse Macabre between the living and the dead–and at the centre of it all, the Lady on the Grey, sinister and smiling at once; one part Gaiman’s own Death of the Endless to one part Terry Pratchett’s mounted Grim Reaper mixed with something strange and new.

Not that being between the two worlds is easy, of course. Bod outgrows his first playmates, all of whom are stranded as children forever. Nor can it be straightforward trying to make friends in a world that you don’t perhaps fully understand–like school, as Bod discovers. While this could be true of a hundred, a thousand, other books about childhood, by invoking ghosts and spectres with which to people his narrative, Gaiman exaggerates the challenges of childhood and makes the real world, the adult world, the living world which must be negotiated even more alien to our hero.

There is, of course, much more to The Graveyard Book than just its ghosts. There are the humans who tumble in and out of Bod’s life; the deliciously awful ghouls who seek to carry him off; the creepy, whispering menace that lurks in the shadows and waits for its master; and Silas–the lonely figure who protects Bod from the corporeal dangers of the world.

With its graveyard that is all things to Bod: shelter, school, playground and battlefield, the message of the book is clear. Ghosts are not the enemy: the living have little to fear from the dead. The dead are dead, and as Silas tells Bod: “they are, for the most part, done with the world”. It is the living who pose the greatest threat to Bod as he grows: the man who killed his family, the school bullies, policemen, unscrupulous antiques dealers… the list goes on.

The Graveyard Book is, in so many ways, a love song to graveyards and their ghosts, separated from the living but not so different from them after all. Midway through the book, Bod is told: “You’re alive Bod. That means you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything.” and it is not the living who help him realise this, but the dead.

Through the graveyard–the Egyptian Walk and the unhallowed ground, the Owenses, the Lady on the Grey, the formidable Mother Slaughter and even Silas–through the dead, the ghosts, Gaiman asks us to consider what it really means to be alive… and then, simply, quietly, to go out and live.





Ghosts and Subjectivity: Is There Anyone Out There?

17 10 2010

[written by author, editor and reviewer, Robert Hood]

Ghosts thrive on the ambiguity that exists between objective experience and subjective response. If, as many philosophers have argued, the world is a whirlpool of quantum energies that gain form and meaning from our perception of reality and the forms we impose on it, then the distinction between subject and object must blur at times, perhaps often. Maybe it’s in that borderland that ghosts exist.

Ghost stories, both written word and film, reflect this objective/subjective divide. For example, though its credentials as a bona fide genre horror film will inevitably be a matter for debate, the South Korean film Sorum [aka Goosebumps] (2001), directed by Jong-Chan Yun, has definite claim to being a ghost story, albeit one that lacks “objective” ghosts. In fact, its arthouse manner and psychological horrors offer up one of the most haunted environments to be found on film, rivaling The Shining‘s Overlook Hotel and The Haunting‘s Hill House and other famous bad places — as dark, unhappy and soaked in evil memory as any generic celluloid spookhouse. Even if, more so than Hill House, the tenement’s haunting originates in the minds and souls of its inhabitants, the dilapidated tenement that is the focus of the narrative nevertheless contains a presence that does what ghosts of a more objective kind generally do: express a lack of spiritual and emotional resolution by imposing the past upon the present. The unraveling of a dire mystery resonating from the past, fear of ill-understood shadowy memories, final revelation of a crucial if unexpected relationship, inner violence erupting in physical attack as the act of remembering activates a terrible “curse”: these are all the stuff of ghost stories — and though no dead wet girls or demonic apparitions are in evidence (except in a passing dream as memories begin to surface), a ghost story is what Sorum most definitely is.

Slow-paced and pessimistic, set against a background of almost continual storm and building toward violence made more potent for the earlier stillness from which it grows, Sorum is inhabited by characters who are the living dead, moving through life without connection or joy, yet desiring a connection they may never be able to find. In a way it is a romantic tragedy told using the underlying dynamics of a ghost story. Not a commercial film (though successful at the box office), it is nevertheless darkly riveting and deeply moving, especially if approached without the sort of genre expectations that demand the sort of standard narrative attitude in which director Jong-Chan Yun shows only a somewhat subverted interest.

Sorum represents one particularly extreme approach to the issue of subjectivity in ghost stories. It’s a question that applies to some of the best of them and has obvious reference to anecdotal evidence for real-world hauntings: to what extent is it all in the mind of the beholder?

In my article “Vengeance From Beyond the Grave?”, I argue the case for seeing the film Weight of Water as a bona fide ghost story, even though it is arguably a cross-temporal drama, and ghostly events in it can be seen as either a product of the characters’ emotional connection with the past or as artistic and structural synchronicities imposed by the director. More typically, Henry James’ 1898 novella, “Turn of the Screw” — regarded as one of the great ghost stories — refuses throughout to untangle the spectral events from the subjective imaginings of the unnamed governess, and has therefore given rise to decades of debate as to whether or not the ghosts are “real” or merely figments of her over-wrought imagination. This ambiguity has carried over into cinematic versions of the story, particularly Jack Clayton’s excellent 1961 The Innocents.

Relying less on ambiguity, the 1963 Robert Wise masterpiece The Haunting — though it tends to validate the objectivity of events as well — gives the titular haunting a decidedly subjective feel, placing the emotionally vulnerable Eleanor at the centre of the ghostly manifestations. The same applies to the novel on which it was based — Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House. When the events of the haunting are made blatantly objective, as in Jan De Bont’s 1999 visually splendid but rather unsubtle remake, the actual story completely unravels and all valid emotional content departs. This version is all surface and no depth, the metaphorical power of the original having been dissipated in the process of giving it a full CGI makeover.

The metaphor lying behind Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Kaïro [aka Pulse] (2001) is a particularly potent and unusual one. Kurosawa’s apocalyptic ghost story — one of the creepiest films I’ve ever seen — isn’t ambiguous in its approach to the ghosts, but rather it visualizes the central metaphor in terms of ghostly imagery, as Tokyo — and by implication the world — turns into a ghost town, its inhabitants lost to the isolationism of modern society and its technologies. Here the ghosts are totally subjective in the sense that they are what remains of individuals lost to loneliness — the dusty residue of shadows on walls and desperate, barely coordinated spectres reaching out to the living and drawing them into their own non-life.

The influence of subjectivity, then — often appearing in its most extreme form as ambiguity — is common to the best ghost stories, and arguably it is what makes them both creepy and emotionally potent.

What this tussle between subjectivity and objectivity means for ghosts as such, however, is a question that is difficult to rationalise, and your own response will rather depend on how you view the world. Though as a fiction writer I have produced many ghost stories, as evidenced by the collection Immaterial: Ghost Stories (2000), it’s not because I accept the objective existence of ghosts but because I find them to have great metaphorical (or subjective) power. Indeed I can’t say I’ve had any real-world experience that I would conclusively acknowledge as a ghostly encounter. Back when Immaterial first appeared, an interviewer (Kyla Ward) asked me whether I had ever seen a ghost. This was my answer:

The closest I would say I’ve come was at points when I was particularly emotional, when various traumatic events had happened in my life. I’ll mention two. One was the break-up of my first marriage, which went through a fairly bad, uncertain stage. I remember early one morning I woke up, or thought I woke up, and there was this hideous face right next to the bed, centimetres from me. I screamed and jerked awake. I was fully awake then and there was nothing there, of course. Now, was that a ghost? It felt like it at the time. Yet the psychological ‘cause’ also seems obvious.

The other one, not horrific, was when Luke my stepson died. One night just after his death I was dreaming, I guess, but in the dream I went into the lounge room and Luke was there. I talked to him for a long time, I don’t remember what we talked about but I had a strong sense of talking and a strong sense of his presence. At one point in the dream I thought to myself, ‘Hang on, I can’t be talking to him, because he’s dead.’ Then I woke up. But I was left with an extremely strong sense of his presence. I wasn’t scared, on the contrary I was grateful because the sense of his presence was so strong it was like having him back again for a moment. Now, it would be very easy, if I was a different sort of person, to interpret the whole thing as a spectral visitation. And in some sense, maybe it was. Whether it was a visitation from Luke’s literal ghost or whether it was my memories of him being manifested, at a subconscious level I obviously wanted to talk to him about things. I came out of the dream feeling better, feeling happier. Not about the situation, but about the moment and about my own acceptance of what had happened. So that seemed like a haunting, too.

This sort of emotional experience of death and loss is what I explore in my novel Backstreets (Hodder Headline, 2000), which was dedicated to Luke. The central premise — that main character Kel, unable to accept the death of his best friend Bryce, comes to believe that his friend is simply lost somewhere in the backstreets of the city, along with the spirits of other lost youths — is a literary objectification of the experience of grief. The book has a supernatural air, though no literal justification is given to Kel’s belief.

Perhaps such ambiguity is inevitable when it comes to ghostly phenomenon. If there is such a ‘thing’ as a ghost, can it ever be clear-cut that it exists in what we consider the real world? Ghosts, even if they are to be considered objective in some way, exist in and are products of a subjective reality as well. There is a material world that we all take part in and then there’s an immaterial world — the other side, the emotional world, the world of memory and loss, the world of desire and hope — that is largely our own. Ghosts are inhabitants of both. So it’s never absolutely certain whether they’re internal or external. Psychic researchers can try all they like to find scientific proof of ghosts, and maybe they will one day — but I suspect we will live with the ambiguity forever, because that seems to me to be intrinsic to this phenomenon.

To my mind, subjectivity is the essence of ghost stories. Ghosts are creations of memory. They are memories made manifest. And as such they haunt the world of our emotions.





‘Carnacki the Ghost Finder’

15 10 2010

[written by author, R. J. Barker]

As usual we had dined well with RJ and now it got to the real business of the evening – it was always done thus- with RJ holding court before the roaring fire and the three of us sat awaiting his pleasure.

‘I have been in touch with that Deniz fellow,’ he said amiably.

‘The Swede?’ asked Arkwright.

RJ shook his mane of curly hair.

‘No, Arkwright, Deniz is as English as you or I.  He is, I believe, from Lancashire: he merely lives in Sweden.’

‘Lancashire?’ humphed Arkwright, ‘well that’s nearly as bad if you ask me.’

‘What did Deniz want?’ I asked before Arkwright could make a scene.

‘Well,’ smiled the lugubrious RJ  tamping down a thumbful of Turkish tobacco into his pipe.  ‘It is more what I am to do for him, he is doing a series on ghost stories, you know.’

‘I did not,’ I told him though my heart sank as I realised what was sure to follow.

‘Well, he is,’ remarked RJ.  ‘And I thought I may do a little piece about William Hope Hodgeson.’

‘Really?’ said Arkwright, still spoiling for a fight.  ‘I have heard you be rather scathing about him, in fact, you have referred to ‘The Night Lands’ as unreadable tosh on more than one occasion.’

‘Well,’ RJ lit his pipe with the end of a burning stick from the fire.  ‘I have said that but I was young when I attempted to read it and may have been mistaken,’ he threw the stick back into the crackling fire.  ‘Besides, I think my dislike is partly down to the lack of Carnacki the Ghost Finder within the book and it is him I wish to talk about.

‘What a surprise,’ I remarked, settling in for the usual lecture. ‘At least, RJ, if nothing else, that explains this extraordinarily unfashionable framing device you have used.’

‘Indeed it does,’ said RJ, taking a  deep draw on his pipe, ‘indeed it does.’

It wasn’t really until I started my third go at writing this for Mark that I noticed what a massive influence the ‘Carnacki the Ghost Finder’ stories have had on me.  Reading these stories again in preparation to write this I realised how much they’ve affected my own (sporadic and often rather eccentric) fiction.

The odd framing devices, rambling starts and intrusive narration used by William Hope Hodgeson (WHH) are all things I love.  Probably rather too much and to my own detriment but there you go.  Also, that what I intended to be a quick essay about two particular stories in the series was going to turn into a rather rambling essay about, well, about all manner of things really.  But I hope you’ll forgive me and be at least nominally entertained by what I have to say.

And not be too appalled by the any ill thought-out rambling you may come across.

Amongst my friends whenever the subject comes up of ghost stories I mention the Carnacki the Ghost Finder shorts written by WHH and am invariably met with blank looks.  Which is a pity.  Had Hope-Hodgeson not been killed in World War One maybe he would be a household name and the Carnacki stories would have got the film, or at least television, serialisation they richly deserve.  As it is they seem almost forgotten. Forgotten by some they may be but they remain the only Ghost/Horror stories that have left me with the need to keep the lights on at night.  Particularly two stories; ‘The Hog,’ and ‘The Whistling Room.’

Every Carnacki story starts the same way:  A group of his friends are round for dinner and afterwards Carnacki regales them with his latest adventure. Now I suppose this would be met with  distaste by a modern editor.  (You have killed the tension, Mr Hope Hodgeson. Thank you but this isn’t for us.’)  But for me as a reader it’s not a problem. In fact I think it highlights one of the major differences between a horror story and a ghost story. Where a horror story is driven by peril (and in some cases buckets of guts being thrown around)  a ghost story, for me, derives its ability to cause fear from the peculiarity of the events within in and the atmosphere they create. And it’s in creating this atmosphere of the uncanny that Hope-Hodgeson excels.

For me, there is something about the fifty or so years leading up WWII that produced some of the best ghost stories ever written and the list of authors working then will probably be touched on by more informed minds than my own. I wondered whether it’s because these are the final years where the occult and the sciences were able to lie in the same bed. Alistair Crowley was taken (somewhat) seriously and spiritualism was on the rise. Also, the advent of Electricity had brought on a massive influx of new ideas and possibilities

It may also be that the Carnacki stories were read during the final times in my own youth where I was able to take such ideas seriously and it may be that is what resonates so strongly within me. Carnacki’s enthusiasm is a mirror for the years my Occam’s Razor was rather more blunt than it is now.

There are definite parallels to be made between the Carnacki shorts and H.P. Lovecraft’s work.  Both contain their own mythos and are wont to reference arcane matters which are never fully explained. But where Lovecraft’s world is one of overt pessimism Hope-Hodgeson’s is far more optimistic. Carnicki himself is an affable character and very much the stereotype British gentleman-adventurer. He is also motivated not only by a healthy scientific curiosity but by a genuine compulsion to help those afflicted. In fact, if you had accidentally read from the Necronomicon then Carnacki is probably just the chap you want in your corner.

Now, I have dithered and avoided talking about the stories themselves. For good reason. If you haven’t read these stories I don’t want to ruin them for you. I want you to read them. You should. Even if it’s for no other reason than to read about Carnacki putting his Electric Neon Pentacle[1] to use. The stories themselves are simple. In ‘The Whistling Room’ Carnacki spends the night in a haunted room. In ‘The Hog’ Carnacki attempts to help a man suffering from nightmares. In both cases the author takes a simple set up and creates a juggernaut of disquiet[2]. The central images conjured up in both stories are, for me, terrifying and I defy anyone to walk away from ‘The Hog’ without the image left when Carnacki conjures the beast indelibly tattooed onto their minds.

You can read both stories for free HERE [3] but reading from a screen is not the best way to enjoy them.  I suggest you get hold of a book. Settle down into a comfy chair before a roaring fire. Then make a cup of tea and read by the light of one lamp.

Now, I apologise for rambling on but I must go.  One of my Guests has fallen asleep and Arkwright is trying to break into the Tantalus and get at the good brandy. Good night and may the Malignant Monstrosities of the Outer Circle never disturb your sleep.

[1]How cool is that?  Really cool is the answer.  I’ve also managed to make it sound like a double entendre which wasn’t my intention at all.

[2]Not actually sure that’s possible.

[3]Spooky fact.  The Carnacki stories originally appeared in a magazine called ‘The Idler’.  I am from a village called ‘Idle’ and according to my wife I also am.  Yeah.  I know.  Scary co-incidence.

[Join us later today for Aaron Polson’s review of Ghostbusters]