The Fantasy Fan February 1934 Read online

  "Is this where Mr. de Grandin lives?" I asked rather shakily, for Ihad been anticipating this eventful visit for several months, duringwhich time I had reacted this scene many times.

  "Yes," the man replied. "I am Dr. Trowbridge. Will you please comein?"

  I entered, just as a voice from within called out, "Who was it, FriendTrowbridge?"

  We entered a large, cheery room, and seated in a deep study chair, Isaw Jules de Grandin, his blond hair sleek and shining. He looked upfrom the magazine had been reading, and seeing me, arose, and strokinghis blond mustache, said, "What can we do for you, my dear younglady?"

  Suddenly, my knees seemed to turn to water. "Mr. de Grandin," Imanaged to whisper, "I have always wanted to see you in person; I hopeyou will forgive my intrusion."

  Jules de Grandin waved me to a seat with his long, artistic hand, andseeing a silver topped walking stick in the corner, I asked, "Is thatthe famous walking stick which vanquished the werewolf in 'The Thingin the Fog'?"

  "Eh, bien, of a truth, my young friend," he admitted, "if it were notfor the concealed sword in the center, I would have been in too manytight places for comfort."

  "Mr. de Grandin, will you please tell how many years you have beeninterested in this line of investigation?" I asked.

  "O, tiens, my young lady, I have been actively engaged for the pasteight years in this thrilling occupation."

  "I am sorry that I weren't acquainted with your adventures right fromthe start," I confessed. "Weren't you afraid in some of the gruesomecases such as 'The Bleeding Mummy' and the 'Band of Glory'?"

  "Eh, bien," he answered, "my friend, if one allows himself to let fearenter his heart, he is already defeated, and I know that I have theGood One in my favor."

  "Well, Mr. de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge, thank you for thisdelightful talk," I began, when a blood-curdling moan echoed throughthe house. De Grandin, Dr. Trowbridge, and I ran to where the moanseemed to come from, but nothing was there. I imagine that I must haveturned pale, for Dr. Trowbridge caught hold of my arm and gave me aglass of water containing some sort of restorative. As I began to feelbetter, my color came back and de Grandin said, "My friend, your trainleaves in twenty minutes, so, Friend Trowbridge, get out your car andtake the young lady to the station."

  "But how about that moan?" I asked.

  "_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, though less excited than would be expectedunder the circumstances, "but I, Jules de Grandin, shall soon findout!"

  Gathering up my purse, I arose and gave my hand to de Grandin, thenDr. Trowbridge took me to the station.

  Safely in my compartment, I suddenly realized how tired I was. So,leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes, I drifted into the landof dreams--into the realm of deathless visions, where hazy phantasmsof the imagination take one through glorious adventures in whichearthly realities become as nothing.

  WINDS

  by Richard F. Searight

  The North Wind blares, a gelid, lee-born roar, Down from the arctic wastes where sit the ghosts Of one-eyed Odin, bloody-handed Thor, In frost-bound silence with their warrior hosts.

  The East Wind murmurs softly through the night Of dank and noisome things, and evil lore Old in the days when Atlar rose to might. And Chaldic magic ruled a world of gore.

  The South Wind breathes a pestilential dirge. It whispers of corruption and the tomb; Of life in death, and mankind's biting urge To gain the secrets hidden in Time's womb.

  The West Wind keens a warning cry of hate, As, from the boundless voids of sea and sky, It sweeps upon a race bowed low by fate, Yet striving still to gain the heights or die.

  THE DWELLER

  by William Lumley

  Dread and potent broods a Dweller In an evil twilight space, Formless as a daemon's shadow, Void of members and of face.

  Heeding not the shaped or human, Past the reach of time or law-- Never may our minds conceive It Save as clouds of fright and awe.

  When It crawls malignly on us, Lethal mists of leaden grey, Rising vaguely in the distance, Veil its hideous bulk away.

  And Its mutterings of horror, Foul with lore of charnel ground, Lose themselves in troubled thunders That from far horizons sound.

  THE WEIRD WORKS OF M. R. JAMES

  by Clark Ashton Smith

  The four books of short stories written by Montague Rhodes James,Provost of Eton College, have been collected in a single but notoverly bulky volume under the imprint of Longmans, Green & Co. One canheartily recommend the acquisition of this volume to all lovers of theweird and supernatural who are not already familiar with its contents.

  James is perhaps unsurpassed in originality by any living writer; andhe has made a salient contribution to the technique of his genre aswell as to the enriching of its treasury of permanent masterpiece. Hiswork is marked by rare intellectual skill and ingenuity, by powerrising at times above the reaches of mere intellection, and by a sheerfinesse of writing that will bear almost endless study. It has apeculiar savour, wholly different from the diabolic grimness ofBierce, or the accumulative atmospheric terror and rounded classicismof Machen. Here there is nothing of the feverish but logicalhallucinations, the macabre and exotic beauty achieved by Poe; nor isthere any kinship to the fine poetic weavings and character _nuances_of Walter de la Mare, or the far-searching, penetrative psychism ofBlackwood, or the frightful antiquities and ultra-terrene menaces ofLovecraft.

  The style of these stories is rather casual and succinct. The rhythmsof the prose are brisk and pedestrian, and the phrasing is notable forclearness and incisiveness rather than for those vague, reverberativeovertones which beguile one's inner ear in the prose offiction-writers who are also poets. Usually there is a more or lesshomely setting, often with a background of folklore and long-pasthappenings whose dim archaism provides a depth of shadow from which,as from a recessed cavern, the central horror emerges into thenoontide of the present. Things and occurrences, sometimes withoutobvious off-hand relationship, are grouped cunningly, forcing thereader unaware to some frightful deduction; or there is an artfullinkage of events seemingly harmless in themselves, that leave himconfronted at a sudden turn with some ghoulish specter or night-demon.

  The minutiae of modern life, humor, character-drawing, scenic andarchaeological description, are used as a foil to heighten theabnormal, but are never allowed to usurp a disproportionate interest.Always there is an element of supernatural menace, whose value isnever impaired by scientific or spiritualistic explanation. Sometimesit is brought forth at the climax into full light; and sometimes, eventhen, it is merely half-revealed, is left undefined but perhaps allthe more alarming. In any case, the presence of some unnatural butobjective reality is assumed and established.

  The goblins and phantoms devised by James are truly creative and arepresented through images often so keen and vivid as to evoke an actualphysical shock. Sight, smell, hearing, taction, all are played uponwith well nigh surgical sureness, by impressions calculated to touchthe shuddering quick of horror.

  Some of the images or similes employed are most extraordinary, andspring surely from the demonic inspiration of the highest genius. Forinstance, take the unnameable thing in _The Uncommon Prayer Book_,which resembles "a great roll of old, shabby, white flannel," with akind of face in the upper end, and which falls forward on a man'sshoulder and hides this face in his neck like a ferret attacking arabbit. Then, in _Mr. Humphreys and his Inheritance_ (one of subtlerand more inferential tales) there is the form "with a burnt humanface" and "black arms", that emerges from an inexplicable hole in thepaper plan of a garden maze "with the odious writhings of a waspcreeping out of a rotten apple." In _The Tractate Middoth_ one meetsan apparition with thick cobwebs over its eyes--the lich or specterof a man who, obedient to his own rather eccentric instructions, hadbeen buried sitting at a table in an underground room. And who,upon reading _The Diary of Mr. Poynter_, can fail to share Denton'sr
evulsion when he reaches out, thinking that a dog is beside hischair, and touches a crawling figure covered with long, wavy,Absolom-like tresses? Who, too, can shake off the horror ofDennistoun, in _Canon Alberic's Scrap Book_, when a demon's handappears from beneath on the table, suggesting momentarily a pen wiper,a rat, and a large spider?

  Reading and re-reading these tales, one notes a predilection forcertain milieus and motifs. Backgrounds of scholastic or ecclesiasticlife are frequent and some of the best tales are laid in cathedraltowns; in many of the supernatural entities, there recurs insistentlythe character of extreme and repulsive _hairiness_. Often theapparition is connected with, or evoked by, some material object, suchas the bronze whistle from the ruins of a Templars' preceptory in _Oh,Whistle and I'll Come to You, My Lad_; the old drawing of King Solomonand the night demon in _Canon Alberic's Scrap Book_; the silverAnglo-Saxon crown from an immemorial barrow in _A Warning to theCurious_; and the strange curtain-pattern in _The Diary of Mr.Poynter_ which had "a subtlety in its drawing."

  In several stories there are hints of bygone Satanism and wizardrywhose malign wraiths or conjured spirits linger obscurely in moderntime; and in at least one tale, _Casting the Runes_, the warlockis a living figure. In other tales, the forgetful and vanishingphantasms of old crimes cry out their mindless pain, or peer for aninstant from familiar pools and shrubberies. The personnel of James'_Pandemonium_ is far from monotonous: one finds a satyr dwellingin a cathedral tomb; a carven cat-like monster that comes to life whentouched by a murderer's hand; a mouldy smelling sack-like object in anunlit well, which suddenly puts its arms around the neck of atreasure-seeker; a cloaked and hooded shape with a tentacle in lieu ofarms; a lean, hideously taloned terror, with a jaw "shallow as that ofa beast;" dolls that repeat crime and tragedy; creatures that aredog-like but not dogs; a saw fly tall as a man, met in a dim room fullof rustling insects; and even a weak, ancient thing, which, beingwholly bodiless and insubstantial, makes for itself a body out ofcrumpled bed-linen.

  The peculiar genius of M. R. James, and his greatest power, lies inthe convincing evocation of weird, malignant and preternaturalphenomena such as I have instanced. It is safe to say that fewwriters, dead or living, have equalled him in his formidablenecromancy; and perhaps no one has excelled him.

  The Tomb of the God

  Annals of the Jinns--5

  by R. H. Barlow

  For four days, the band of explorers from Phoor had been excavatingthe ancient and immemorial tomb of Krang on the edge of the desert.The sands had been blowing ceaselessly, even as they had done sincebefore the coming of man to that far land. The tomb was built longbefore any human walked the face of the world, built by evil powersthat had reigned unchecked in that unthinkably ancient day, when allthe desert had been a verdant garden through which stalked greatyellow giants of small intelligence, but of prodigious strength, thathad built the tower and the city of the ancient and most powerful LordKrang. And even before that Krang had been; he had been for aeons, andin turn had come from a strange planet, it was told in tradition andrunes inscribed in a dead language, the language of Old Gods, and inthe time when dark magical powers had battled for possession of theuniverse. And Krang had won, Krang the old one, the monstrous brownleathern thing that planned and ruled and malefically twisted thefutures of worlds. But the time came that none had foreseen and Krangthe ancient fell into a semblance of death, though his flesh rottednot, nor did his aspect change. So the people of the earth gatheredtogether and conveyed him in a giant funeral procession to theenormous tomb carven from living blue stone in the side of themountain, and they sealed him in and forever departed from hiscompany. And the years and the decades and the centuries and the aeonsunthinkable came and went, and the sands swirled over the mouth of thetomb, and the door was obliterated, and none knew where Krang theElder God lay in stupendous slumber.

  Then audacious mortals had unwittingly found traces of this mausoleumthat even legend had discredited, and they had resolved to open it andseek the great body of the old thing that had laid unmoving since theworld was young and green, lain while the prolific vegetation died andthe sand crept upon the land and laid it into barrenness.

  It was said that there had been sealed up in Krang's tomb treasuresthat made avarice pale and gems the like of which no longer existed,jewels from far worlds of the dawn of time, worlds that had died andreturned again--and the strange manuscripts with the Hsothian chantsupon them, and other equally desirable objects. Therefore, many hadset out to reach the far site of the old tomb, but few had reached it.Some had perished, slain by the hateful green devil things that laybeneath the surface of the sand in wait for unwary persons, and thatsprang up to drag their victims to a horrible death. Some reachedtheir goal and scratched and chipped the tight sealed entrance, butit was as the gnawing of rats, and before they could do more, they hadmysteriously vanished from human ken, nor had they ever been heard ofafterwards. Yet this did not discourage others from emulating for thedesire for power will lead men far, and power there was in the tomb.

  So again men were engaged in laboriously chipping away the obstructionand making slight headway, when one of their members chanced upon anorifice in the rock into which he thrust his arm curiously. Beyond hetouched something, and lo! The great door grated outwards, inexorably,ruthlessly, and ground him horribly into the stone sill, leavingnaught save an unpleasant smear of brown and a dank smell came forth,and the door was opened. Paralyzed, the survivors did not act until ithad swung firmly back into place and was immovable save by arepetition of the catastrophe. So, though they could spare him ill,the others forced one of their brown slave-men from distant Leek to dothis suicidal act; and he whimpered, and would have not, but theydiscouraged this by subtle and hastily improvised tortures, and heeventually complied.

  They stepped delicately over the smear and caught the door; placing anobstruction in the way, so that it might stay open. And then theyentered, the first living things in that place since their race hadappeared.

  The air was foul with the odor of a newly dried sea bed, and thestench was unlike that of anything within their ken. All about thegiant vault were great chunks of richly coloured gems cut in curiousfacets, with cryptic inscriptions upon each. But the central objectwas the tomb of Lord Krang, where his great body reposed upon a slabof figured chalcedony. He was terrible to gaze upon, for even afterthe immense period, he still held semblance of the horrifying aspectthat was traditionally assigned unto him.

  And the explorers that had entered gathered around him for a moment inawe, but they were distracted by the infinite wealth that laycarelessly about. They became slightly affected by it, into a type ofmadness, and with repulsive amour and fetishism, they stroked thejewels and clung unto them.

  But what happened then none can tell, for their two fellows standingguard beyond the entrance heard a peculiar sound that seemed as aslither then a scream, then the door shut again, and although theobstructing block was not touched by them, it had moved.

  * * * * *

  And Krang's tomb was again covered by the drifts; nor even after thatbrief glimpse of infinite wealth did any man of Phoor venture near.

  For the Lord Krang had roused from his long sleep, and feasted.

  STORIES TO COME

  In response to requests, we are publishing this list of stories whichwe have on hand:

  _The Legacy_ by Kenneth B. Pritchard _The Flower God_ by R. H. Barlow _Gods of the North_ by Robert E. Howard _The Ancient Voice_ by Eando Binder _The Nameless City_ by H. P. Lovecraft _From Beyond_ by H. P. Lovecraft _Beyond the Wall of Sleep_ by H. P. Lovecraft _The Epiphany of Death_ by Clark Ashton Smith _The Embalmer of Ramsville_ by Michael Weir _Phantom Lights_ by August W. Derleth _Madness of Space_ by Conrad H. Ruppert _Life and Death_ by Derwin Lesser _The Temple of Nemwah_ b
y Natalie H. Wooley

  THE BOILING POINT

  "Donald Alexander's letter caused me to reread carefully my own answerto Forrest Ackerman's epistolatory critique. Since my one concern wasto meet Mr. Ackerman's arguments on their own ground, I am puzzled bythe assertion of Mr. Alexander that I had made a fool of myself bydescending to personalities. Offhand, I should have said that myletter was about as free of that sort of thing as it could conceivablyhave been. Perhaps there were a few mildly ironic touches; butcertainly nothing of an insidious nature was implied or even intended.I do not think that any good purpose is ever served by abusivepersonalities. If my letter was derogatively personal, I really wonderhow Mr. Alexander's should be classified."--Clark Ashton Smith

  H. Koenig suggests that we missed a golden opportunity by notsupplying the debaters with gloves and entering them in the GoldenGlove Contests in Madison Square Garden!

  "When you shout, pertaining to Smith stories, 'May the ink dry up inthe pen from which they flow!' you affect the refined and sensitiveminds of the admirers of beautiful things, and cause them to exclaim,'Here, indeed, is one who endeavors to do something in words asterrible as in actuality: cleave the head of a genius in twain!' Henceour fitting denunciation of you, Mr. Ackerman, for attempting tobackbite one of the greatest writers America has ever produced."--RobertNelson

  "When some well-meaning person says that Ackerman has more sense thanSmith and Lovecraft combined, he is just being ridiculous. If ClarkAshton Smith has a diseased mind, as Mr. Alexander states, I would forone like to be exposed to the germ."--Duane W. Rimel