The Fantasy Fan, October 1933 Read online

  SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN LITERATURE

  by H. P. Lovecraft

  (Copyright, 1927 by W. Paul Cook)

  1. Introduction

  The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldestand strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. These facts fewpsychologists will dispute, and their admitted truth must establishfor all time the genuineness and dignity of the weirdly horrible taleas a literary form. Against it are discharged all the shafts of amaterialistic sophistication which clings to frequently felt emotionsand external events, and a naively insipid idealism which deprecatesthe aesthetic motive and calls for a didactic literature to "uplift"the reader toward a suitable degree of smirking optimism. But in spiteof all this opposition, the weird tale has survived, developed, andattained remarkable heights of perfection; founded as it is on aprofound and elementary principle whose appeal, if not alwaysuniversal, must necessarily be poignant and permanent to minds of therequisite sensitiveness.

  The appeal of the spectrally macabre is generally narrow because itdemands from the reader a certain degree of imagination and a capacityfor detachment from everyday life. Relatively few are free enough fromthe spell of daily routine to respond to rappings from outside, andtales of ordinary feelings and events, or of common sentimentaldistortions of such feelings and events, will always take first placein the taste of the majority; rightly, perhaps, since, of course,these ordinary matters make up the greater part of human experience.But the sensitive are always with us, and sometimes a curious streakof fancy invades an obscure corner of the very hardest head; so thatno amount of rationalism, reform, or Freudian analysis can quite annulthe thrill of the chimney-corner whisper of the lonely wood. There ishere involved a psychological pattern or tradition as real and asdeeply grounded in mental experience as any other pattern or traditionof mankind; coeval with the religious feeling and closely related tomany aspects of it, and too much a part of our inmost biologicalheritage to lose keen potency over a very important, though notnumerically great, minority of our species.

  Man's first instincts and emotions form his response to theenvironment in which he found himself. Definite feelings based onpleasure and pain grew up around the phenomena whose causes andeffects he understood, whilst around those which he did notunderstand--and the universe teemed with them in the early days--werenaturally woven such personifications, marvelous interpretations, andsensations of awe and fear as would be hit upon by a race having fewand simple ideas and limited experience. The unknown, being likewisethe unpredictable, became for our primitive forefathers a terrible andomnipotent source of boons and calamities visited upon mankind forcryptic and wholly extra-terrestrial reasons, and thus clearlybelonged to a sphere of existence whereof we know nothing and whereinwe have no part. The phenomenon of dreaming likewise helped to buildup the notion of an unreal or spiritual world; and in general, all theconditions of savage dawn-life so strongly conduced to a feeling ofthe supernatural, that we need not wonder at the thoroughness withwhich man's very hereditary essence has become saturated with religionand superstition. That saturation must, as a matter of plainscientific fact, be regarded as virtually permanent so far as thesubconscious mind and inner instincts are concerned; for though thearea of the unknown has been steadily contracting for thousands ofyears, an infinite reservoir of mystery still engulfs most of theouter cosmos, whilst a vast residuum of powerful inheritedassociations clings around all the objects and processes that wereonce mysterious, however well they may now be explained. And more thanthis, there is an actual physiological fixation of the old instinctsin our nervous tissue, which would make them obscurely operative evenwere the conscious mind to be purged of all sources of wonder.

  (continued next month)

  TRUE GHOST STORIES

  Edwin C. Hill talks on various subjects every night on the ColumbiaBroadcasting System. One evening he devoted his program to ghoststories about London that are supposed to be true. They sound veryconvincing and have many witnesses. We leave it to the reader whetherto accept them as truth, or discard them as merely hallucinations.However, they are extremely interesting, nevertheless.

  Once, two sailors were roaming around London and came upon an old, buthandsome, mansion.

  "Funny no one lives here," said one, "This shack seems too good to beleft vacant."

  But the two sailors didn't intend to leave it vacant that night. Theyhad no money, and thus could not pay for lodging, so they entered theold house, intending to spend the night there.

  After climbing to the second floor and finding a fireplace, they builta blazing fire with some wood they had secured. Curling up in some oldclothes, they went to sleep beside the roaring fire.

  Suddenly, after many hours, one of the sailors awoke, half-consciousof some noise. There it was again! It sounded like a door beingclosed. Yes--that's what it must have been. A few pieces of wood tobring the dying fire to renewed activity gave him some courage, but hewoke the other sailor anyway.

  He had hardly time to explain to his friend the reason for hisdisturbance, when the noise was repeated.

  "It's the wind," said one, and they accepted that explanation,preparing to go to sleep again, but instantly their returned withgreater confirmation. Another sound.

  Any thoughts but of the supernatural were out of the question. Thistime it was footsteps--but what footsteps! Not human--not animal! Theywere padded sounds--something like bare feet. Nearer and nearer.

  Suddenly they stopped, and the door opened. Slowly--and there wasrevealed to their terrified senses the most horrible monstrosityimaginable. It could not be of this earth!

  One crazed sailor jumped past it and flew down the stairs, out of thehouse, and screamed in mortal terror into the streets.

  He told his story--and the next day the body of his companion wasfound mangled on the ground. He had leaped out of a second storywindow.

  Another story tells the tale of a man walking through a London park atday-break on the bank of the Thames. While passing a bridge, he spiesa woman jumping into the river, and he takes off his coat preparing tosave her, but a hand touches his shoulder. An officer.

  "It's no use," he said, "You could not save her. She is not a livingwoman. Return tomorrow at this time and you will see her repeat herghastly act."

  The bewildered man did so, and the next morning was but a repetitionof the one before.

  "You see?" said the officer, "She does that for seven consecutivemornings each year. Today is the last one this year. She died here along time ago."

  (This article will be concluded next month.)

  THE BOILING POINT

  You will remember the terrific outburst Forrest J. Ackerman made uponClark Ashton Smith's stories and weird tales in general in lastmonth's column. Shortly after the issue went to press, we received thefollowing postscript to his article which he requested to have printedat the beginning of this month's column.

  "I could as well pick on John Taine--a favorite author, mind you--for'The Time Stream' in Wonder Stories, another story considered doubtfulscience fiction. My only interest is to keep stf. in the stf.publications, and let fantasies and weird tales appear in themagazines featuring that type.

  "It is to be hoped that Mr. Smith will discover many of his admirersthru the writings of readers caring to present arguments...."

  It is only fair that Mr. Smith himself should have the first blowagainst Mr. Ackerman's argument, in defense of his own stories. Hecalls his defense "Horror, Fantasy and Science."

  "Mr. Ackerman's fervent and ebullient denunciation of my stories,followed by Editor Hornig's invitation to join the melee, is not to beresisted.

  "I infer that Forrest J. Ackerman considers horror, weirdness andunearthliness beyond the bounds of science or science or sciencefiction. Since horror and weirdness are integral elements of life (asis well known to those who have delved beneath the surface) and since,in all likelihood, the major portion of the universe is quiteunearthly, I fail to understand the process of logic or syll
ogism bywhich he has arrived at this truly amazing proscription.

  "Let me recommend to Mr. Ackerman, and to others like him, a morescientifically open and receptive attitude of imagination. If Mr.Ackerman were transported to some alien world, I fear that he wouldfind the reality far more incredible, bizarre, grotesque, fantastic,horrific, and impossible than any of my stories.

  "In regard to 'The Light From Beyond,' I cannot see that this tale isany more fantastic and unreal than others dealing with unknowndimensions or planes of hyper-space. Physical entry into such planesis improbable, but form an alluring theme for fictional speculation.

  "It is curious that Mr. Ackerman should profess to like 'Flight IntoSuper-Time', a story which is wilder, if anything, than the ones hehas denounced. I might also add that it was written as a satire ontime-travelling, and should not have been read too seriously.

  "Of course, it is Forrest Ackerman's privilege to dislike my stories,and to express his dislike whenever he chooses. I have merely tried topoint out that he is in error when he condemns them as beinginherently unsuitable for a scientifiction magazine."

  H. P. Lovecraft also defends the weird tale:

  "As for Ackerman's ebullition, I fear he can hardly be taken seriouslyin matters involving the criticism of imaginative fiction. Smith'sstory was really splendid, except for the cheap ending on which theEditor Wonder Stories insisted. Ackerman once wrote me a letter with avery childish attack on my work--he evidently enjoys verbalpyrotechnics for their own sake and seems so callous to imaginativeimpressions."

  August W. Derleth liked everything in "The Fantasy Fan" except theletter in this department from Forrest J. Ackerman "Who," he says,"while usually quite interesting, nevertheless has the unpleasanthabit of trying to make everything over into his own imagine."

  R. H. Barlow gives an open reply to Mr. Ackerman in defense of ClarkAshton Smith.

  "To my mind you are deplorably lacking in imagination to so condemnsome of the finest work of the greatest living fantasy writer. Mustyou be so literal, physical, in your interpretation of imaginativeliterature? Clark Ashton Smith, whom I have the honor of knowing, isprimarily and foremost a poet, his work having received the highestcommendation of such persons as Edwin Markham, George Sterling, etc.Truly, his colourfully nightmarish visions are far superior to theconventional type of--forgive me--trash--printed in the averagemercenary scientifiction magazine. The mere fact that a few helplessray-projectors, heroine consisting mainly of lipstick and legs, and adastardly villain, are not dragged in by the nape of their respectivenecks certainly does nothing to impair the excellence of his dulcetprose, but rather it an agreeable relief."

  Come on, now, everybody join in the battle!

  ANNALS OF THE JINNS

  by R. H. Barlow

  "...Thither Ganigul often retired in the daytime to read in quiet themarvelous annals of the Jinns, the chronicles of ancient worlds, andthe prophecies relating to the worlds that are yet to be born...."

  Wm. Beckford --"Story of Prince Barkiarokh"

  1--The Black Tower

  At the head of the winding river Olaee, nearby the fragrant forest,stands the Black Tower of the Southlands. High into the air rise itsbleak stone walls, piercing the sunset with slender spire. Foreternity it has been there; by the sluggish waters on which floatgreat bloated crimson lilies and for eternity will it be there. Thepeasants of the nearby village know not whence it came nor why 'tisthere, and wisely avoid it when the moon is on the wane. Few darevisit the colourful forest of evil or the treacherous river, forstrange and unholy things dwell therein.

  Some tell of how on the dark of the moon there comes from the greatstar Sirius a growing speck of flame ultimately losing itself in theeternal midnight of outer space. However this may be, it is certainstrange and alien beings built this ebon tower in the dawn of theworld, for purposes not understood by mortals; sealing the door longages since.

  There is a tale the old wives spin, saying: One of the adventurousvillagers, Castor by name, took undue interest in the tower and wasfrequently seen slipping furtively to and from it in the dusk. Of allthe people of the town he had the least savoury ancestry, his fatherbeing a satyr, his mother a witch-woman. True, others mated with thepeople of the glen, yet it is not considered a thing to be proud of.The very Burgomaster had a gnome none too far back in his lineage,which was expressed in the coarse features of his evil countenance.But a satyr! The righteous citizens avoided Castor scrupulously, andthe dislike was mutual. So it was he continued on his silent tripsunheeded.

  What he did there so often not known but the seasons came and went andthe winter merged into spring and in time it was Walburgas Eve. Thatnight the town gates were tightly closed and bolted and all coweredbehind locked doors. Strange shapes flew screeching through the airand sniffed most horribly at the doorsteps.

  That night Castor went to the tower as had become his habit, thoughhis better sense warned him to stay home abed. His satyr ancestryopenly rebelled, but the witch proved stronger. As he stole timorouslythrough the wood he heard sounds of high revelry from within thecastle. Therefore, he was quiet as he hesitated before the foot of thelong unopened door. Queer things were abroad though he dared notreturn home alone through the forest, still more did he fear to remainwithin reach of the Things of the tower. As he deliberated on thecourse to take the great door swung silently open and a crab like clawlovingly encircled his waist and drew him in.

  And he was seen no more by the villagers.

  SCIENCE FICTION IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES

  (Series 2)

  by Bob Tucker

  What England needs is a good science fiction mag. The present ones arethrilling, but small and cheap. They have swell titles, but often thestory falls short. On the other hand, that's an old American custom.Believe it or not, but just 653210987600 stories have been writtenunder the title "The End of the World"! (Editor's note: Mr. Tucker, Ithink you exaggerate. I haven't seen half that many.). And if youscientifictionists want some darned good arguments over anythingscientific, just give this fellow a line: Dennis Gilbert Smith, 521Bearwood Road, Smeethwick, Staffs., England. He is a student oftheology.

  Talk about a swell picture!--Wesso or Paul should look at theillustration of the moon-men attacking a giant army tank way back inthe April 1st issue of "The Skipper," an English mag that makes aspecialty of science-fiction.

  Freaks in the raw: An English mag printed a story of a kid (age about14) who had magnetic hands, and could draw metals to him by merelyextending his fingers--well, the kid, instead of capturing the earthby pulling out its magnets with his fingers, as would usually be donedoes nothing but play tricks with scales, making water buckets dancein the air, etc--darn dumb, some of these authors.

  "Red Raiders of Mystery" is a future air-war story in "Weekly Boy'sMagazine", while another "The Rover," printed "Britain Invaded," thistime by Chinese--what, again?...well, times are hard everywhere....(Editor's note: not anymore. How about the N R A?) Another mag by thename of "Modern Boy" prints about two series of interplanetary storiesa year concerning the adventures of Captain Justice. Blood andthunder. George Ward, 91 Milton Road Margate, Kent, England, wouldlike to hear from some American fans.

  MY SCIENCE FICTION COLLECTION

  by Forrest J. Ackerman

  Part Two

  The foregoing covers approximately half of my set. The remainingportions of my stf collection are more to be looked at than read. Mystf books and magazines lie behind sliding panels. These panels aredecorated with various original stf illustrations. Two are by anartist friend showing the rocketship STF-I over a foreign world, andthe other a city of the future. One is by Morey. There is a Tarzanjig-saw puzzle, and one of the mighty 56 foot prehistoric ape, KingKong, engaging in a battle with a flesh-eating allosaur. From "TheSwordsman of Mars" comes another drawing. Two striking Paulillustrations are prominent, one being what I consider one of his verybest: the inside drawing for "The City of Singing Flame," picturingthe towering black and ivory edifices
of that weird world. Buck Rogersin his interesting costume with rocket pistol smiles down. And ElliottDold, Jr. has autographed his original frontispiece for MiracleStories' first issue, "The Midnite Mail takes off for Mars." Paul'soriginal Wonder Stories' cover for "The Dust of Destruction" hangs ona side wall.

  (Next month Mr. Ackerman describes his science fiction autographs.)

  THE SCIENCE FICTION ALPHABET

  by Allen Glasser

  Part Two--Conclusion

  N is for Newton, the Gravity King, Whose laws, in our mags, just don't mean a thing.

  O's for Ourselves, who read science-fiction We know what we like, and there's no dereliction.

  P's for the Princess that's always on hand To wed the brave Earthman who visits her land.

  Q is for Quinn, the weird-story writer; If he'd do science fiction his fame might be brighter.

  R is for Robot, of whom much is said; For many an author his antics have fed.

  S is for Starzl, Schachner, and Sloane; And let's not forget Doc Smith and Miss Stone.

  T is for Time, a favorite theme Which never grows stale--or so it would seem.

  U is the Unknown, which writers employ Whenever they need some death dealing toy.

  V is for Venus, which belonged to one Kline Until Mr. Burroughs took over that line.

  W's Wonder, a changeable book; You never can tell how it's going to look.

  X means "okay" when written "All X" A term which has brought Doctor Smith many checks.