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Bone, J. F.. Legacy The Meddlers. Borchardt, Alice The Dragon Queen The Silver Wolf The Wolf King. Boucher, Anthony A Treasury of Great Science Fiction Vol2. BY STEPHEN KING Novel s Carrie 'Salem 's Lot The Shining The Stand The Straub) It The Eyes of the Dragon Misery The Tommyknockers The Dark Tower II: The. access EPUB and PDF files. IN COLLECTIONS. Books to Borrow. Mar 25, · Misery by. Stephen King - free mobi epub ebooks download. SWORD STAINED WITH ROYAL BLOOD 1993 TORRENT The root flag the most suitable to connect to things like EPS known not to be enhanced further. By default, the the installer should the recording-path parameter networks of workstations under Linux or the click management right pane. Your message has you mean ,saved to bookmarks, very editorial department.

Jodie Foster as Clarice Starling in Hannibal : The massive success of The Silence of the Lambs virtually assured a sequel—however, it took Thomas Harris more than a decade to deliver one. And, despite modifying the controversial ending, the movie proved as polarizing to fans as the novel.

He has also been the recipient of numerous awards, including a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in , and the National Medal of the Arts in It made me want to be a hunchback. It made me want to be Lon Chaney. The Lost World : It made me fall in love with dinosaurs. I wrote all kinds of things about them. John Huston read something I wrote about them and it caused him to hire me to write the screenplay for Moby Dick.

King Kong : I fell for Fay Wray. The Mummy : The one with Boris Karloff. I wanted to be a mummy strolling out of a tomb. The Blob 2. Last House on the Left 3. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 4. Dawn of the Dead 5. Halloween 6.

Alien 7. The Amityville Horror 8. Friday the 13th 9. The Shining An American Werewolf in London Cannibal Ferox The Howling Scanners Poltergeist The Thing A Nightmare on Elm Street Gothic Manhunter The Exorcist III Hardware Se7en Hannibal House of Corpses Shaun of the Dead Hostel Enjoy the fright. Nothing can stop it! With zombies. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by permission.

Johnny Ramone was the guitarist for the legendary punk rock group the Ramones. In he was named the sixteenth Greatest Guitarist of all time by Rolling Stone magazine. Acquiring an original half-sheet from Bride was one of his happiest moments as a collector. That Bride half-sheet was his most cherished piece in his huge memorabilia collection. It was also the most money he ever spent on a poster.

He thought it was crazy! He went to visit Ed Neal the hitchhiker at his house and kept in touch with him. After they met, Johnny said he thought Ed was a really nice guy, so different from his character the hitchhiker. Years later he would write to Fay Wray to get autographed photos for his collection.

He watched it all the time. Anytime anyone would come over to our house, he would always push it on them and try to get them to watch it. He thought the lead [Jeffery Combs as Herbert West] gave a great performance and he met him at a poster show in L. He thought the makeup for the original Wolfman looked great and was hard to compete with even in modern movies.

The Ramones would revisit the Freaks theme with photos of many real-life oddities featured in the packaging of the album Animal Boy He loved Freaks and so did the Ramones. He was a big fan of Bernard Herrmann, who did the score for the movie. He also coedits, with Marshall Cohen, the widely used anthology Film Theory and Criticism, now going into its seventh edition.

His most recent book is On the Waterfront in the BFI Film Classics series, and he is working on a book about the idea of the monstrous. In the late eighteenth century, when folktales, novels, and paintings were busy spreading the fear of darkness in contrast with the Enlightenment proclamations of progress and a new world, horror was considered a lesser form than terror, not just the synonym it is today.

To inspire horror was to cause a physical reaction, much as the word itself came from a Latin root meaning to make your hair stand on end. Terror, as in Matthew G. The physical might enter into terror, as it did in the period of the French Revolution called the Terror, when thousands were sent to the guillotine. Writers who produced a sense of horror in their readers were doing something lower-level, akin to a skeleton popping out of closet in a fun house.

Horror made you fear for your own safety, while terror shook the foundations of your belief in an orderly universe and a benevolent God. But the moments of juicy horror must have a bit of terror in them, something eerie and unexplainable. Horror 1. Alfred Hitchcock was the master of anticipation.

All of us except Arbogast knew it was going to happen, but it still chilled the blood when it did. After its body has been chopped out of the arctic ice, it escapes when a fearful soldier drapes the ice cake with a working electric blanket, only to have Its arm ripped off by sled dogs. They open the door and there it is.

Another, even more gruesome moment, from The Thing, this time the John Carpenter remake , which goes back more closely to John W. Campbell Jr. They put him on a gurney and the doctor applies the obligatory paddles. A Rob Bottin triumph. One of the men killed by the police rises up and staggers back into his apartment. His wife, overjoyed that he is still alive or seems to be rushes into his arms to embrace him.

He hugs her enthusiastically and then bites a huge chunk out of her bare shoulder. Then a well-muscled executioner lifts a huge hammer and, with an enormous thump, smashes the mask into her face and the stake behind her all oddly reminiscent of the beginnings of J. Terror I associate the purer forms of terror with the lack of special effects, now infrequent in this age of CGI. It makes you feel small and alone. Virtually any late scene in the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers Don Siegel, would qualify as terror because, except for the pods in the backyard greenhouses, it all seems so normal.

Lovely suburbia, dear hearts and gentle people, the best friends and acquaintances of a perfect small town—except for the fact that they have all been turned into pod people by extraterrestrial visitors and want to convince the hero and heroine to join them. If I had to pick one scene, I suppose it would be the one in which the townspeople gather at the village intersection to welcome unsuspecting bus riders from nearby and bring them into their fold.

The remake has its charms, but the whole sense of a seemingly normal world gone terribly wrong is gone. It was set in San Francisco, after all! But there are still a lot of great things in it. I love that helicopter shot behind the credits with the tiny Torrance Volkswagen making its way amid the sublime scenery of the mountains, while Berlioz plays on the soundtrack. It begins with a leafy suburban street, perhaps descended from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with a young boy and his babysitter strolling along talking about Halloween and horror movies.

As they talk about the house, we get a shot from inside the house. Just a cinematic convenience? No, there is heavy breathing on the soundtrack, and the shadowy side of a face and shoulder come into the frame. Someone is there. The young woman walks down the street and the heavy breathing continues. Whose side is this movie on? Maybe I should take another moment from Halloween for this entry. Spookiness, perhaps another word for terror, is required as well.

She leans against a door jamb, worn out from the battle, while his body lies behind her. Then of course he gets up. Monsters are inexorable and implacable. Initially a shy, self-effacing girl, as Freddy swallows up her friends, Kristen actually becomes more powerHORROR 17 ful herself, a kind of doppelganger for the mephitic janitor who is her rival.

As she runs to meet her boyfriend, the sequence begins over and over: they are caught in a time loop and she has to break out. Like the rest of us in the audience, she is in a dream and the dream is the movies, with continuous performances. As editor of Fangoria, the toughest question I face every month is what to put on the cover.

When product is lean, you see a Buffy the Vampire Slayer cover and the gorehounds scream for blood—mine! Some bad movies have made great covers 74, Critters 2 , while great movies have made bad covers , Death Proof. Bad Dreams, The s were littered with Freddy Krueger imitators, none quite as blatant as this Nightmare on Elm Street wannabe, in which a hideously burned cult leader returns from the dead to haunt survivors of a mass suicide. That femme ghoul sports the chintziest eyelashes since Tammy Faye.

Dolly Dearest, Another cover born of desperation! Lovecraft Movies, Vampires, Werewolves, Big Bugs , directto-video releases, or cable premieres for Fango cover subjects. Batman Returns, Only once during my entire tenure as Fango editor was a cover ever imposed on me by my publisher, Norman Jacobs. We also found that cover shots of sexy girls and distaff monsters rarely translate into sales for us. Virus, This terrible Jamie Lee Curtis movie, about alien pack rats battling a tugboat crew, deserved to be lost at sea.

What were they thinking? What was I thinking? A bad cover for a bad movie. Island of Lost Souls Erle C. Kenton, ; big nod to H. Wells 2. Sunset Boulevard Billy Wilder, 4. Stranger on the Third Floor Boris Ingster, 5. Nosferatu F. Caligari 6. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari Robert Wiene, 7. Repulsion Roman Polanski, 9. Cult of the Cobra Francis D. Lyon, Cape Fear J. Lee Thompson, Lost Highway David Lynch, ; big nod to myself Invaders from Mars William Cameron Menzies; Serie Noire Alain Corneau, The best thing about his current job is that people hardly ever shoot at him.

Do not ignore your instincts. One of the basic tenets of tactical awareness is that you should be guided by your instincts, unless there is a compelling reason not to do so. At night. In a nightgown. To see what is howling outside.

Maintain degree awareness. When operating in a risky environment, you must be aware of your surroundings. This especially includes areas beyond your normal line of sight i. Before entering an area, you should look up and check the ceiling area for threats. When operating alone, check your back-trail at least every 30 seconds. Secure your exit route. You should be aware of possible exits at all times. In a dangerous environment you should not enter any area without identifying at least one method of exit and ensuring that the exit will remain useable e.

This is it. Confirm your kills. Halloween is the classic example of this. Michael Myers Nick Castle is stabbed in the neck with a knitting needle, stabbed in the stomach with a butcher knife, and shot multiple times. More important, a set of handcuffs or even better, parking a car on top of him might have made life much better for poor Laurie Strode.

Chances are neither you, nor your family, friends, nor even friends of friends have been groped by a poltergeist, raped by a tree or had their head exploded in a million pieces by a naughty telepath. More on that later. But what moment unites the audience in a collective shudder? Why, the scene when Kurt Russell forces his entire team to undergo a blood test and takes a scalpel to each of their thumbs.

But can you imagine how painful it would be to have a sharpened no. Of course you can. But still, a loud and very hearty ouch. Dawn of the Dead : Foreheads have been sliced off, necks have had lumps taken out of them, and zombies have been chowing down on humans all over the shop literally in this one too. Some pretty hot stuff. But the CAT scan scene where little Linda Blair is subjected to some nasty-looking injections has all needle-phobes hiding under their seats.

Audition : A fair few people have never had acupuncture. The dismemberment was extreme, but the needles? That was quintessential ouch. Deep Red : A clairvoyant hacked to death and impaled on broken glass? Yep, quite nasty. A man dragged along the street behind a garbage truck? A recently stabbed woman drowned in a bath of scalding hot water? Okay, how about a psychiatrist being menaced by a spooky robotic doll, then struck around the head by a mystery killer who then. The doll is scary as shit, but I can take that.

The teeth being deliberately knocked out? That is just ouch. Unforgettable ouch. Screenwriter William Goldman was attracted to the adaptation because of the shocking power of this scene. But who knew that a softened version of the scene would somehow have twice the ouch? The unanimous cries of the audience immediately made the practice infamous. A bigger crunch has never reverberated around auditoriums. Zombi 2 aka Zombie aka Zombie Flesh-Eaters : Zombie movies generally center on a few key, shocking images: walking corpses and people getting munched.

Okay, maybe eleven good ones, thirty-two great bad ones, and countless bad, bad ones. A moldy zombie hand bursts through the wooden door, grabs her painfully by the hair, and then slowly pulls her face towards the door, her eye inching ever-closer to a huge, fourteen-inch splinter.

The eventual penetration of said eye by big splinter is unmatched in its nastiness. Poor lady. Leave my eyes out of it; just eat me, already. The Fly : David Cronenberg is truly the king of body horror. His fevered imagination of parasites in armpits, mutant afterbirths, and the aforementioned exploding heads are gloriously twisted. But sometimes Cronenberg can get the biggest ouch from the most everyday of terrors. Cue audience, freaking out. Somehow this small moment combines the unease of every anxiety dream of rotting teeth with the sheer agony and ecstasy of picking a scab.

Simple, yet brutally effective. Truly the death of a thousand ouches. He then wrote, produced, and directed Hostel, which was a smash hit worldwide. Genital mutilation always, always gets the biggest reaction from the crowd, and the scenes become those moments that everyone talks about years and years later. So here are the nastiest genital mutilations—the ones that made me cross my legs and squeal like a little girl. That is, until they tease the wrong group of men at a diner.

The men chase the girls into the woods, rip their clothes off, and rape them. One of girls is held upside down by two men, spreading her legs like a wishbone, and the leader of the gang vaginally stabs her to death with a giant stick.

The girls are left naked and dead in the woods, and the credits roll over the frozen image, accompanied by the disco music. Fulci was a genius, and this simple killing is far more disturbing than seeing the same woman endlessly throwing up her own intestines. Viva Fulci! Like how I worked another castration in there? Clever, eh? Deodato made it seem like it was no big deal, that he just asked the jungle savages to do something and they did it, but the performances are just too good for people who live in trees and hunt with poison darts.

In one scene, our main character, a professor from New York University, stumbles upon a villager whose wife was unfaithful. The villager puts her corpse in a canoe, and sends her down the river, presumably as a message to the village, but also probably so they can later enjoy her as a snack. It happens. The movie never takes a serious tone, and is meant to be a nonstop, over-the-top orgy of cartoonish violence, but this one kill feels somehow more painful than slicing off your own tongue.

A villager is pregnant, and we witness the other girls hold her down, reach up inside her, and pull out a baby. A great kill. The more unstable of the two psychos pushes the envelope by holding a switchblade at the crotch of one of the girls, and as the train goes into a tunnel they bump on the tracks and he accidentally stabs the knife into her.

What makes it more nauseating is that you feel the killers are as sick about it as the audience is. You can be one of his 30, closest friends at www. These are a few of my favorite gory moments in movies. A lawyer gets sliced in half by a sliding glass door—then, for fun, the front of his body slides down the glass so we can see into the back half of his body—in Thir13en Ghosts.

Bruce Campbell cuts off his own possessed hand, and yet the little bastard keeps coming, in Evil Dead 2. John Hurt gives birth to an adorable baby alien—through his stomach—in Alien. Coyote—style only a lot bloodier by a falling pane of glass in Final Destination 2.

The nut! Cerina Vincent shaves the hair—and skin—off her legs in a super-squirm-inducing scene in Cabin Fever. Callici would drone on endlessly about erosion in my high school earth sciences class. Samantha Eggar eats the placenta from the bloody fetus growing out of her torso in The Brood.

In , Tim moved to L. Vaudeville with violence! Burlesque with blood! A gruesome illusion, not unlike the mustachioed magician sawing his nubile assistant in half. And then the boulder falls and crushes the unsuspecting lovely lady below! Drum roll please. Ba da bump! In chronological order, here are my personal favorites.

Two Thousand Maniacs! How could this list not begin in Pleasant Valley?! Blood-soaked and feather-plucked, of course. Yee haw! I Drink Your Blood Directed by David Durston Though it was no doubt hard to laugh through the turbulent and tragic tail end of the sixties, this delirious grindhouse classic, produced by the aptly named Jerry Gross, offers drug-induced splatstick as a shocking antidote to the real-life horrors of the likes of Charlie Manson.

Drink from his cup. Not that I would know. You bet your bum! Highlight splatstick moment: For anyone who ever doubted that Billy Shakespeare was a sick bastard, check out the scene inspired by his play Titus Andronicus, where Price force-feeds glutton Robert Morley the creamed corpses of his dead, beloved poodles.

To bleed or not to bleed. Is there really any question? Dawn of the Dead Directed by George A. Highlight splatstick moment: Hands down, the helicopter decapitation. Fucking classic. One wide shot with no edits and no CGI. This is how they do it old school, folks. It worked then. It works now. Bless you, George. Motel Hell Directed by Kevin Connor A twisted tale that could truly have come straight from the crypt, this was a breath of fresh air in the wake of unimaginative Halloween rip-offs.

To this then year-old, bored by a routine diet of kitchen knives, machetes, and hockey masks, this gourmet feast of Farmer Vincent Fritters was one helluva Happy Meal! And all in the new process of Ultra Stereo! Are we having fun yet? How about chasing and chopping up a naked corpse? Okay, what do ya say to a living severed head actually giving head to a spread-eagled hapless chick?

Okay, Mr. You got Toxie with ya? You get the picture. And the gusto and glee he brings to the role is exactly what the splatstick vibe is all about. Head on his shoulders and head on his desk indeed! Highlight splatstick moment: Hmmm. And even gave you lube? Oh—that never happened to you? One can say—thank you, and embrace the world of Lloyd Kaufman and kneel at the feet of Toxie, the Son He has sent to live among us. Highlight splatstick moment: The moment I personally will always try to top in terms of milking a moment dry: the car crash.

Fucked up, but genius nonetheless. What punk rock is to music, Evil Dead 2 is to horror. Dead by Dawn? Highlight splatstick moment: Hands down bad pun intended : the sequence where Ash wrestles with his own severed hand. Jim Carrey, go home! Talk about a Kodak moment. Slither Directed by James Gunn Anyone notice the gap between this splatstick and the last?

Yep, thirteen years, folks. Thirteen years. Never has there been such a dry spell. Enter the New Generation. The kids reared on Fangoria and that Camelot period of the mid-eighties. This is pure tip-of-the-hat to forty years of splatstick, yet entirely its own brand-new model for the new millennium. But con-artistry is what you do while fate has other plans. Cady has turned him into himself—a murderer. Slowly, Carol White becomes allergic to everything around her and is drawn inexorably into a hell of her own creation or is it?

And their doom is all the more devastating for being undeserved. Porridge, anyone? Christian Bale in The Machinist Brad Anderson, In this wonderfully unstable concoction of a movie, you are never quite sure what is reality and what is in the mind of the protagonist, skeletal Trevor Reznik. Personally, I like that. But when the truth comes rushing in, it is so powerful you feel the agony of a man whose very soul was altered irrevocably by a simple act of fate.

Thirteen months later, in December , George and Kathy Lutz and their children bought the house which had remained vacant since the murders and moved in. While the murders are a matter of public record DeFeo, in fact, is still incarcerated at Green Haven Correctional Facility in New York and the Lutz family did hastily leave their home, the veracity of many details in the story has been questioned by researchers. The infamous house still stands in Amityville, although the structure has been extensively renovated, and the street address changed to discourage sightseers.

A remake of The Amityville Horror appeared in that took even greater liberties with the facts than the original version. And, most pointedly, there were no reports of the use of a chainsaw. She escaped and Murdoch was apprehended by authorities after a massive manhunt. The iconic and haunting ritual immolation suicide of Quang Duc, a Vietnamese monk, in protest against the persecution of Buddhists during the Vietnam War is rendered in glorious Technicolor accompanied by an ominous two-note organ riff.

Speared to Death Some may argue that the mistreatment of animals—a frequent mondo motif—is less traumatic than human suffering. The shocking destruction of Africa by corruption and colonial neglect is symbolized by the emasculation and slaughter of the natural world. One of the worst scenes occurs when a hippopotamus is gradually speared to death by tribal poachers; in the end it resembles an enormous blooddrenched pincushion. Shot for the Camera? This somber shockumentary is packed with caught-on-camera shootings, sniper attacks, hold-ups, suicides, and police killings.

Bleak, depressing, with a powerful political message. The notion of letting death unfold in front of the camera lens has since been copied but to lesser effect. Absurd Deaths Most horror fans who are aware of mondo cinema will know it through the notorious and successful Faces of Death franchise. Upon reaching the center of the rope, Wallenda stumbles and hangs—agonizingly—for a few seconds before plunging to his death. Budd Dwyer, who had been convicted of corruption and at a press conference called afterwards blew his brains out—live on American TV.

The long version of this incident, including his speech comparing the U. It is arguably worse on second viewing, knowing what is to come. She has written many tie-in novels and authorized episode guides for shows such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Smallville, and others.

Flesh and Carolyn Keene. The Haunting , directed by Robert Wise 2. Hush, Sweet Charlotte , directed by Robert Aldrich 3. The Body Snatcher , directed by Robert Wise 6. The Innocents , directed by Jack Clayton Alien , directed by Ridley Scott Tale of Two Sisters , directed by Kim Ji-woon Suspiria , directed by Dario Argento Her Web site is www.

Poltergeist III: That little girl died. Enough said. The Shining: This made me fear my own father, and I was scared to ride my tricycle. The Exorcist: I just saw pieces of this and. I was also really scared for my mom when she was pregnant with my sister.

I also was convinced that Jaws could get me in the bathtub, was under the drain in my swimming pool, and lived in Lake Mead. He currently resides in L. My mother, Marina, will not be so keen on me exposing this list, but no matter. It was that early exposure to the ghoulish that made me fall in love with horror, be it good, bad, or ugly. Thanks for scaring the shit out of me, Mom. Dawn of the Dead seen in theaters?

No lie. I think it was Dawn! Besides, what toddler would be able to understand what was going on up there anyway, right? So while the truth might never be revealed, and I dare you to ask her one day without getting shot yes, she carries a gun. I needed to see it again, and one night, my mom rented the video and we planned on watching it over a huge bowl of Velveeta mac-n-cheese. It had such a cheerful demeanor, like a child molester at a mall with a smile and a red balloon, who will pull his Dockers down to poke you with his pork.

Well, aside from the gratuitous head-crushing, the rape, HORROR 67 dismemberment, nudity, mutant intercourse, and, of course, obese evil-doer gut-crushing worthy of a Chas. Balun magazine cover, the movie was also very sweet and even good-natured in its message of peace and love amid barrels of toxic waste.

Tough stuff, but a great night at the movies nonetheless. It was hilarious. What a twisted kid, huh? So to keep me and my cousins busy while they prepared food for the wake, she HORROR 69 gave us Robocop and this Stephen King—directed organ-grinder that even today feels underappreciated.

The movie showed a little boy getting killed. Even when I was a kid, I remember thinking that it was a concept that was never approached or imagined to be broken, and that there was some rulebook in the mystical land of Hollywood that everyone abided by that stipulated that killing a young child, especially in a horribly sick, twisted, and deplorable way, like, oh, I dunno, say.

Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on! Adults, kids, dogs, Emilio Estevez. Videodrome seen on VHS : Okay. See kids? Learning can be fun! Lewis movies instead of Little Oral Annie. Thanks, Raimi. Last of the Mohicans seen in theaters : What??? I know, I know. God bless that birthday cake, huh? So why is it on the list?

To balance things out, guys. All this violence, and my heartstrings are being tugged? Weekly and the Z Channel. Humanity had never been obliged to consider so many displaced, lost children at one time before. The experience disturbs and obsesses her. This is a great gift to both lovers of horror, and poetry. She is an eight-year-old, blind of conscience, who murders without remorse and lies about it without batting an eye.

Patty McCormack played this role—at age eight—on Broadway, and though she was arguably getting a mite long in the tooth at age eleven! When she sets to work manipulating the adults around her, she is purely terrifying. Yet her energy is such that innate, killer-comedic timing applied to horror will do this , over time, a ticklish anticipation at how far she will go may have you chuckling—in horror. Imagine a whole gang of Bad Seed Patty McCormacks: A circle of children—conceived in a weird multiple instance of Immaculate Conception—are born in the English village of Midwich on the same day, after a fourmonth gestation, and proceed to mature ten years in a matter of two or three.

Similar incidents are taking place in remote villages around the world, though in those cases the locals including the Soviets have killed the children in their cradles. Her little red coat is the only way we know her, because just as for the grieving father played by Donald Sutherland, who is catastrophically 76 THE BOOK OF LISTS undone by his ache to have her back in his life she embodies both a heart-rending memory and a hope, always just one step ahead of us, always out of reach.

The Exorcist : What child in jeopardy could be more iconic than one in the grip of Satan? First, there is the Jesuit-educated novelist, William Peter Blatty, whose bestselling novel tapped into a deep need for religious faith in an American public tested by a decade of political assassinations and civic turmoil, and a comparable need in the world at large, tested constantly by wars and social collapse. This is exactly the primal, unspoken logic Blatty tapped into.

Together, they made us see the devil in actress Linda Blair. Despite that she must work at the center of a brilliant maelstrom of diabolic effects, from the sounds of pigs being slaughtered to the husky voice of Mercedes McCambridge, her possession would not be scary or moving if Blair were not so sweet, so spontaneous and authentic.

They used to live in this place, until their father axemurdered them. Never underestimate the capacity of kids to stick up for one another, whatever their states of being. But then, dream grading into nightmare, another, then another, and still other identical Santas come down the chimney. He kidnaps kids, wires them up to a strange helmet matching the one on his head, and eavesdrops on whatever unfolds while they sleep.

His only opponents are a circus strongman who has the mind of a child, and an orphaned nymphet who has the street-smarts of a miniature adult—a platonic pair of storybook lovers in a dinghy, like the owl and the pussycat.

Adults, it is implied, are the children of this world most in need of rescuing. In the realm of fantasy, only Planet of the Apes has so effectively hidden such a jaw-dropping shocker in plain sight. But the greatness of The Sixth Sense derives instead from the depths at which it charts both the terrors of childhood, while dramatizing the astonishing practical strength with which children everywhere master their fears.

Haley Joel Osment is essential to this—he has, precociously, the gravitas of James Stewart in Vertigo as he probes the maze of shocks with which his great gift confronts him. The Silence of the Lambs and Manhunter : What are these two movies doing here? This is why Hannibal and Hannibal Rising inevitably failed. It is what is unknown about evil acts, and what is unknown about the world we each confront as children, that is most terrifying, and therefore most cathartic, about stories involving children and horror.

Someone took a kid and manufactured a monster. He murders whole families in pursuit of trivial fantasies. As an adult, someone should blow the sick fuck out of his socks. Heroism is a response, not a fact of nature: We may not be responsible for the horrors perpetrated upon us, but we are always accountable for how we respond.

The Corpse : English stockbroker daddy Michael Gough sadistically desires his teenage daughter and humiliates his pained wife and son to the point they decide to kill him. Slow moving, maybe, but wonderfully perverse and terribly underrated. The birth sequence is a seminal Cronenberg moment— psychoanalytically and intellectually fascinating, while also totally disgusting. Plays like a John Cassavettes drama including two stars from his Faces with a monster.

Surreal, amazing. And, yes, they are. Eyes Without a Face : How far will a doctor go to restore the beautiful face of a daughter destroyed in an accident he was responsible for? Somber, slow moving, yet deeply rewarding. Shock : Dora, recovering from a mental breakdown brought on by having viciously stabbed her abusive drug-addict husband to death and hidden the body, moves in with her young boy and new husband. Or is she is going insane from guilt? Or is the boy seeking revenge for his dead father?

Lots of perverse family intrigue—and lots of gore—in this Italian shocker. Hammer Film Productions is arguably the best-known British studio. Founded in , it staggered for more than twenty years making truly dreadful, low-budget second-features like Death in High Heels, Crime Reporter, and Dick Barton Special Agent. One other factor played incredibly well for Hammer. The Vampire Lovers : Based on the J. Quatermass and the Pit : This third outing for the intrepid, alien-battling Professor Quatermass U.

Hammer attempted to turn one into a movie, but failed to attract a U. With World War II stereotypes prevailing, the inmates of a particularly bloody and brutal Japanese prison camp rebel against the torture and brutality of a sadistic commandant and guards. The formula was different, but the gore remained the same.

She : Throughout the sixties, Hammer discovered that sex sold quite as well as shock and gore, and the combination of all three was irresistible. They cast around for suitable vehicles. One of the stranger ones was She—the H. One Million Years B. He has also directed music videos, TV shows, and stage productions, and written the books Monster Island and Nightmares in Plastic.

Find out more at www. Godzilla vs. Director Yoshimitsu Banno was thrown out by the producer after he created this hilarious Greenpeace-monster-feast. Matango: Attack of the Mushroom People : On a deserted island, members of a shipwrecked party eat strange mushrooms and turn into walking mushrooms. Strangest drug movie ever. Gamera vs. Guiron : Two boys get kidnapped by two sexy females from planet Tera. Must be seen to be believed. Mothra : Two 6-inch fairies the pop duo the Peanuts get exploited by a capitalist in Newkirk City.

Very sweet family entertainment. Goke, Bodysntacher From Hell : Aboard an Air Japan commercial jet, a terrorist is infected by spores from outer space and turns into a bloodthirsty vampire. Godzilla : The grim black and white classic that started the Kaiju eiga genre. Gotta have this in the list. Moreau , starring Marlon Brando and Val Kilmer, before departing the production after a few days. He is also a trained anthropologist and a voodoo houngon.

More is available at www. Kill Baby. The plot concerns a cursed aristocratic family at the center of a series of supernaturally motivated murders. Being a ghost story there is—of course—a ghost, and while I hate to give the game away, this does feature one of the scariest specters ever committed to celluloid.

The victims this time are pubescent schoolboys rather than the usual fashionably underdressed women; the string of murders tears apart the social fabric of a sleepy southern Italian village. The bewildered parents turn on the local witch, beating her to death before a tabloid journalist and the town slut succeed in unmasking the real culprit.

Every time I tried, another off-kilter moment or non sequitur would knock me straight back on my ass again. Dazed blonde Elke Sommer strays from a tour group viewing a fresco, which shows the devil carrying away the dead, to meander through a string of encounters with a ghostly aristocratic family and their demonic servant, Leandro, played with impish relish by Telly Savalas, complete with lollipop, kid gloves, and a fetching range of quasi-Masonic accessories.

A special mention to Alida Valli, whose deranged matriarch is played as blind in some scenes, while plainly sighted in others. David Hemmings gives arguably the most nuanced performance of his career as a concert pianist who witnesses the brutal murder of a German clairvoyant by persons unknown.

A bleeding masterpiece. From its opening frames, the viewer is propelled into an utterly different world, where normal rules no longer apply. Conventional narrative logic and even the reassuring tropes of the giallo gleefully abandoned, the story, characters, and dialogue are subservient to a full-throttle assault on the senses; sound and constantly shifting multicolored lighting are amped to the max. Gurdjieff, Rudolf Steiner, and decadent romantic poet Thomas De Quincey to weave the grimmest of grim fairytales.

Menard and his sidekick as they come under siege from a growing legion of the ugliest, skankiest deadfolk the world has ever seen. It may well be the greatest exploitation movie of all time, a title richly deserved on the basis of one sequence alone: To capitalize on the recent success of Jaws, an otherwise extraneous episode is grafted onto the plot, in which a hot chick goes swimming only to be menaced by a shark. As this is Fulci, not Spielberg, the young lady is topless and the shark is completely real, albeit presumably of a harmless variety.

Things like this usually happen only on posters! Words fail me. Cannibal Holocaust Director: Ruggero Deodato Stars: Robert Kerman, Francesca Ciardi, Gabriel Yorke No overview of the genre would be complete without mention of what many consider the most infamous horror movie ever made.

Deodato began his career as an assistant to Roberto Rossellini, though few could have guessed to what ends his grounding in neorealism would lead. By the time the locals turn on the documentary crew in the last reel, their fate is richly deserved. Fortunately, the director has not made good on his repeated threats to helm a sequel, despite the slew of cheesy imitations that followed in its wake. And yet. The collapse of the conventional aesthetic superstructure reminiscent of the collapse of the house itself forces us to deal with the essentially Jungian subtext, an approach that defeats critical approaches to the work along more traditional Freudian lines.

While not a good movie by any conventional standard, Inferno is nonetheless a great movie and an authentic classic of Gothic cinema. Disregard it at your peril. All rights reserved. The action picks up in the present when the efforts of a young New Yorker to reopen the cursed hotel leads to a series of gruesome events that climaxes in the onset of a zombie-induced Armageddon and the descent of the leads into Hell itself.

All you can do is sit back and experience this mad dog of a movie until you either vow to put it behind you or submit to its weird rhythms. Of course, a six-pack of beers or liberal recourse to other intoxicants goes a long way towards disengaging the conscious mind so that this visionary epic can be enjoyed on its own freakish terms. Quite simply: Wonderful beyond words! Admittedly, the action does slow down a tad in the second act, but the opening heist and resulting chase, involving helicopters and a string of gorgeous high-performance period sports cars in breathtaking Italian Riviera locations, not only rivals but outstrips anything to be seen in the early Bond movies.

The Morricone score remains the essence of cool. Which, like the unfortunate Signor Dammit, brings us neatly in a circle. He currently lives and works in Los Angeles, California. Heavy on suggestion, and not keen to provide easy answers for the viewer. The sequences involving cat suffocation and incest are worth the price of admission. Shame Steve Jodrell : A criminally underrated, emotionally wrenching tale of a lawyer who goes to war with small-town elders harboring packs of teenage rapists.

Picnic at Hanging Rock Peter Weir : A subtle, ambiguous, and enigmatic ghost story that earned Weir worldwide acclaim. A beautifully photographed, extremely erotic tale of schoolgirls who disappear into a canyon. It leaves the viewer in a state of high anxiety. The Canadian director captures the horror of absolute isolation and hopelessness, cleverly contrasted with beauty. A true classic. In other words, he has done everything parents warn their children not to do. But it is a lot of fun. It seems this guy Samuel wants to be the greatest piano player in the world, so much so that he is willing to sell his soul to Old Scratch himself.

I guess hard work and practice were too much to ask of him. Jekyll and Mr. Wrestling Women vs. Just sit back, switch your brain to off, and have a nice steamy bowl of wildness. Night of the Bloody Apes: Come on. This one is worth seeking out. You can keep your English Patients and your Brokeback Mountains. Plus, some more hot chicks a lucha movie staple , hidden treasure, a Wayback time machine so cool that it would make Mr. The plot is virtually the same as the Abbott and Costello classic it apes, and there is a lot of fun in watching Frankenstein, the Vampire, and Wolfman envisioned through a Latino lens.

I saw this beauty without subtitles and was still blown away by the insanity of it all. A career criminal on the electric chair is given another chance at a life of crime by the Queen of Hell. Nice Guy. Sodomy and Satanism have never gone so well together, the peanut butter and jelly of antisocial behavior. Watch it with a loved one.

This posse of juvenile delinquents the youngest of whom is probably in his early thirties is comprised of some outcasts from a Surf Nazis Must Die convention. Among his talents is Movie Watching, an activity at which he excels. After watching movies over and over again, Matteo has developed the uncanny ability of noticing things. Wrong things, mainly. Menacingly, the monster slowly turns his head. Halloween: Little Michael Myers spies on his sister and her boyfriend.

They go in her room to make out, and the following Panaglide shot happens in real time. So, since the lights go off and then the boyfriend gets dressed and leaves, they make out for 65 seconds. Talk about a quickie! Kintner on Sunday, June But Alex was killed after Chrissie. Jurassic Park: Dr. Grant Sam Neill enters his trailer by opening a door with hinges on the left—but from the inside, they are on the right. Grant stands in front of a velociraptor egg, which is delicately held by a computer-controlled arm—which proceeds to vanish before the next shot.

Maximum Overdrive: The military vehicle with a machine gun arrives at the Dixie Boy, and as it drives by, it shows that the steering wheel has a small button as a horn. Death has always been big. They are two of the human constants. But only the writer of horror and the supernatural gives the reader such an opportunity for total identification and catharsis. Those working in the genre with even the faintest understanding of what they are doing know that the entire field of horror and the supernatural is a kind of filter screen between the conscious and the subconscious; horror fiction is like a central subway station in the human psyche between the blue line of what we can safely internalize and the red line of what we need to get rid of in some way or another.

The horrors that we all do believe in are of the sort that Dostoyevsky and Albee and MacDonald write about: hate, alienation, growing lovelessly old, tottering out into a hostile world on the unsteady legs of adolescence. We are, in our real everyday worlds, often like the masks of Comedy and Tragedy, grinning on the outside, grimacing on the inside.

And that is the place where the horror story so often hits home. The tale of monstrosity and terror is a basket loosely packed with phobias; when the writer passes by, you take one of his imaginary horrors out of the basket and put one of your real ones in—at least for a time. Back in the s there was a tremendous surge of giant bug movies— Them! Almost without fail, as the movie progressed, we found out that these gigantic, ugly mutants were the results of A-bomb tests in New Mexico or on deserted Pacific atolls and in the more recent Horror of Party Beach, which might have been subtitled Beach Blanket Armageddon; the culprit was nuclear-reactor waste.

To the teen-agers themselves I was one of them and speak from experience , the monsters spawned in the leased American-International studios gave them a chance to see someone even uglier than they felt themselves to be; what were a few pimples compared to the shambling thing that used to be a high-school kid in I Was a Teen-Age Frankenstein? In the films, some terrible, warty horror is menacing Elmville. In the first reel, the warty horror kills an old man in a pickup truck the old man was unfailingly played by Elisha Cook, Jr.

In the next three reels, the kids try to convince their elders that the warty horror is indeed slinking around. In the end it is the quick-thinking kids who put an end to the warty horror, and then go off to the local hangout to suck up chocolate malteds and jitterbug to some forgettable tune as the end credits run. Great horror fiction is almost always allegorical; sometimes the allegory is intended, as in Animal Farm and , and sometimes it just happens—J.

Tolkien swore up and down that the Dark Lord of Mordor was not Hitler in fantasy dress, but the theses and term papers to just that effect go on and on The works of Edward Albee, of Steinbeck, Camus, Faulkner—they deal with fear and death, sometimes with horror, but usually these mainstream writers deal with it in a more normal, real-life way. There are other writers—James Joyce, Faulkner again, poets such as T.

Eliot and Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton—whose work is set in the land of the symbolic unconsciousness. They are on the subway line running into the internal landscape. But the horror writer is almost always at the terminal joining the two, at least if he is on the mark. When he is at his best we often have that weird sensation of being not quite asleep or awake, when time stretches and skews, when we can hear voices but cannot make out the words or the intent, when the dream seems real and the reality dreamlike.

That is a strange and wonderful terminal. No waking or dreaming in this terminal, but only the voice of the writer, low and rational, talking about the way the good fabric of things sometimes has a way of unraveling with shocking suddenness. He wants you to see all of those things, and more; he wants you to put your hands on the shape under the sheet. And you want to put your hands there. These are some of the things I feel that the horror story does, but I am firmly convinced that it must do one more thing, this above all others: It must tell a tale that holds the reader or the listener spellbound for a little while, lost in a world that never was, never could be.

It must be like the wedding guest that stoppeth one of three. And if the story does hold you, all else can be forgiven. On page one of The Land That Time Forgot, the narrator finds a manuscript in a bottle; the rest of the novel is the presentation of that manuscript. Most readers come to see the show, not to watch the stage manager take bows in front of the footlights.

Again, with perfect justification. The show is going to start soon. But before I leave, I want to take just two or three more minutes of your time to thank some people from each of the three groups above—and from a fourth.

And to my mother, who died in , and to whom this book is dedicated. In the third group are the people who first bought my work: Mr. Robert A. Lowndes, who purchased the first two stories I ever sold; Mr. Douglas Allen and Mr. Thanks to all of you. In a great many ways, this is your book because it sure never would have happened without you. So thanks. Shall we go? DEAR BONES, How good it was to step into the cold, draughty hall here at Chapelwaite, every bone in an ache from that abominable coach, in need of instant relief from my distended bladder— and to see a letter addressed in your own inimitable scrawl propped on the obscene little cherry-wood table beside the door!

Be assured that I set to deciphering it as soon as the needs of the body were attended to in a coldly ornate downstairs bathroom where I could see my breath rising before my eyes. An ailing abolitionist healed by the sunny climes of slave-struck Florida! Still and all, Bones, I ask you as a friend who has also walked in the valley of the shadow, to take all care of yourself and venture not back to Massachusetts until your body gives you leave.

Your fine mind and incisive pen cannot serve us if you are clay, and if the Southern zone is a healing one, is there not poetic justice in that? It sits atop a huge and jutting point of land perhaps three miles north of Falmouth and nine miles north of Portland. Behind it are some four acres of grounds, gone back to the wild in the most formidable manner imaginable—junipers, scrub vines, bushes, and various forms of creeper climb wildly over the picturesque stone walls that separate the estate from the town domain.

Awful imitations of Greek statuary peer blindly through the wrack from atop various hillocks—they seem, in most cases, about to lunge at the passer-by. There is an odd little summer house which has been nearly buried in scarlet sumac and a grotesque sundial in the midst of what must once have been a garden.

It adds the final lunatic touch. But the view from the parlour more than excuses this; I command a dizzying view of the rocks at the foot of Chapelwaite Head and the Atlantic itself. A huge, bellied bay window looks out on this, and a huge, toadlike secretary stands beside it.

It will do nicely for the start of that novel which I have talked of so long [and no doubt tiresomely]. To-day has been gray with occasional splatters of rain. As I look out all seems to be a study in slate—the rocks, old and worn as Time itself, the sky, and of course the sea, which crashes against the granite fangs below with a sound which is not precisely sound but vibration—I can feel the waves with my feet even as I write.

The sensation is not a wholly unpleasant one. I know you disapprove my solitary habits, dear Bones, but I assure you that I am fine and happy. Calvin is with me, as practical, silent, and as dependable as ever, and by midweek I am sure that between the two of us we shall have straightened our affairs and made arrangement for necessary deliveries from town—and a company of cleaning women to begin blowing the dust from this place!

I will close—there are so many things as yet to be seen, rooms to explore, and doubtless a thousand pieces of execrable furniture to be viewed by these tender eyes. Once again, my thanks for the touch of familiar brought by your letter, and for your continuing regard. Give my love to your wife, as you both have mine. It continues to amaze me—as do the reactions of the townfolk in the closest village to my occupancy. It was there that Calvin contracted for the weekly provisions. The other errand, that of securing a sufficient supply of cordwood for the winter, was likewise taken care of.

But Cal protested that no-one knew anything of me except through my cousin Stephen, who contracted for the same services as I have now made provision for. He told me that he had been referred to a sullen and rather besotted pulp-logger named Thompson, who owns four hundred acres of pine, birch, and spruce, and who logs it with the help of his five sons, for sale to the mills in Portland and to householders in the immediate area.

When Cal, all unknowing of his queer prejudice, gave him the location to which the wood was to be brought, this Thompson stared at him with his mouth ajaw and said that he would send his sons with the wood, in the good light of the day, and by the sea road. None of this has bothered me much; we know how rustics dearly love to enrich their lives with the smell of scandal and myth, and I suppose poor Stephen and his side of the family are fair game.

As I told Cal, a man who has fallen to his death almost from his own front porch is more than likely to stir talk. The house itself is a constant amazement. Twenty-three rooms, Bones! The wainscotting which panels the upper floors and the portrait gallery is mildewed but still stout. I should hate to encounter one in the dark; or even in the light, for that matter. Still, I have noted neither holes nor droppings. The upper gallery is lined with bad portraits in frames which must be worth a fortune.

Some bear a resemblance to Stephen as I remember him. I believe I have correctly identified my Uncle Henry Boone and his wife Judith; the others are unfamiliar. I suppose one of them may be my own notorious grandfather, Robert.

For what foolish reasons families fall out! A rifled escritoire, hard words between brothers now dead three generations, and blameless descendants are needlessly estranged. I cannot help reflecting upon how fortunate it was that you and John Petty succeeded in contacting Stephen when it seemed I might follow my Sarah through the Gates—and upon how unfortunate it was that chance should have robbed us of a face-to-face meeting.

How I would have loved to hear him defend the ancestral statuary and furnishings! But do not let me denigrate the place to an extreme. There are beds, tables, and heavy, dark scrollings done in teak and mahogany, and many of the bedrooms and receiving chambers, the upper study and small parlour, hold a somber charm. The floors are rich pine that glow with an inner and secret light. There is dignity here; dignity and the weight of years. I cannot yet say I like it, but I do respect it. I am eager to watch it change as we revolve through the changes of this northern clime.

Lord, I run on! Write soon, Bones. Tell me what progress you make, and what news you hear from Petty and the rest. And please do not make the mistake of trying to persuade any new Southern acquaintances as to your views too forcibly —I understand that not all are content to answer merely with their mouths, as is our long-winded friend, Mr. Rest assured that I would have written eventually anyway, as it sometimes seems that my true and loyal friends are all I have left in the world that is sure and completely normal.

It goes as well as can be expected here, Dick, and be assured I will render you a full account when I am not quite as pressed by certain events which are extant here—I think your legal mind may be quite intrigued by certain happenings at Chapelwaite and in the area about it. But in the meantime I have a favour to ask, if you will entertain it. Do you remember the historian you introduced me to at Mr. I believe his name was Bigelow. At any rate, he mentioned that he made a hobby of collecting odd bits of historical lore which pertained to the very area in which I am now living.

It would gratify me intensely, and, more important, may be a matter of some moment. In looking over this letter I feel I have been a bit short with you, Dick, for which I am heartily sorry. But be assured I will explain myself shortly, and until that time I send my warmest regards to your wife, two fine sons, and, of course, to yourself. If nothing else, it may serve to amuse you while you battle the mosquitoes!

Two days after I mailed my last to you, a group of four young ladies arrived from the Corners under the supervision of an elderly lady of intimidatingly-competent visage named Mrs. Cloris, to set the place in order and to remove some of the dust that had been causing me to sneeze seemingly at every other step. They all seemed a little nervous as they went about their chores; indeed, one flighty miss uttered a small screech when I entered the upstairs parlour as she dusted.

I asked Mrs. Randolph Boone, until he and his wife disappeared in eighteen and sixteen. Stephen was a good and kindly man, and so you seem, sir if you will pardon my bluntness; I know no other way to speak , but the house is bad and it always has been, and no Boone has ever been happy here since your grandfather Robert and his brother Philip fell out over stolen [and here she paused, almost guiltily] items in seventeen and eighty-nine.

Boone, and I am neither blind nor deaf. It fair made my blood curdle. As for myself, I hardly knew whether to be offended or amused, curious or merely matter-of-fact. Ghosts rattling chains? For some minutes I continued to tax her, but she grew only more obstinate and would say no more.

At last I desisted, fearing she might gather herself up and quit the premises. This is the end of one episode, but a second occurred the following evening. Calvin had laid a fire downstairs and I was sitting in the living-room, drowsing over a copy of The Intelligencer and listening to the sound of wind-driven rain on the large bay window.

I felt comfortable as only one can on such a night, when all is miserable outside and all is warmth and comfort inside; but a moment later Cal appeared at the door, looking excited and a bit nervous. I got up and followed him. The lamp he held cast weird, lurking shadows on the dark draperies and on the half-seen portraits that seemed now to leer rather than smile. Outside the wind rose to a brief scream and then subsided grudgingly. And scratching, as if something were struggling to get out Calvin is not the type to give way to hysterical flights of imagination.

It began to seem that there was a mystery here after all—and perhaps an ugly one indeed. We had resumed down the hall, and I could see the light from the study spilling forth onto the floor of the gallery. I viewed it with some trepidation; the night seemed no longer comfortable. After a moment the thudding, shuffling sounds began again, this time moving away from me. It paused once, and I swear I heard a strange, almost inaudible laugh!

I went to the book-case and began to push and pull, thinking there might be a partition, or a secret door. The books at that point were nothing but dummies, and what Cal had found was a small hiding place. I flashed my lamp within it and saw nothing but a thick fall of dust, dust which must have been decades old.

The thing was a map, drawn in spider-thin strokes of black ink—the map of a town or village. There were perhaps seven buildings, and one, clearly marked with a steeple, bore this legend beneath it: The Worm That Doth Corrupt.

In the upper left corner, to what would have been the northwest of this little village, an arrow pointed. Inscribed beneath it: Chapelwaite. Cloris, adamant yet fearful, passed through my mind. We spent almost an hour after this looking for some breach in the wall behind the cubby-hole Cal had found, but with no success.

Nor was there a recurrence of the noises Cal had described. We retired with no further adventure that night. On the following morning Calvin and I set out on our ramble through the woods. The rain of the night before had ceased, but the sky was somber and lowering. I could see Cal looking at me with some doubtfulness and I hastened to reassure him that should I tire, or the journey prove too far, I would not hesitate to call a halt to the affair. It was a strange and brooding day; not a bird seemed to sing nor an animal to move as we made our way through the great and gloomy stands of pine to the south and east.

The only sounds were those of our own feet and the steady pound of the Atlantic against the headlands. The smell of the sea, almost preternaturally heavy, was our constant companion. We spoke little. The day, with its still and ominous quality, weighed heavily on our spirits. The stream was perhaps eight feet across, spanned by a moss-grown footbridge. On the far side, Bones, stood the most perfect little village you might imagine, understandably weathered, but amazingly preserved. Several houses, done in that austere yet commanding form for which the Puritans were justly famous, stood clustered near the steeply-sheared bank.

Further beyond, along a weed-grown thoroughfare, stood three or four of what might have been primitive business establishments, and beyond that, the spire of the church marked on the map, rising up to the gray sky and looking grim beyond description with its peeled paint and tarnished, leaning cross.

We crossed to the town and began to poke through it—and this is where my story grows slightly amazing, Bones, so prepare yourself! The air seemed leaden as we walked among the buildings; weighted, if you will. The edifices were in a state of decay—shutters torn off, roofs crumbled under the weight of heavy snows gone by, windows dusty and leering.

Shadows from odd corners and warped angles seemed to sit in sinister pools. We entered an old and rotting tavern first—somehow it did not seem right that we should invade any of those houses to which people had retired when they wished privacy.

The door creaked hellishly on its one remaining hinge, and we stepped into the shadowed interior. The smell of rot and mould was vaporous and nearly overpowering. And beneath it seemed to lie an even deeper smell, a slimy and pestiferous smell, a smell of ages and the decay of ages. Such a stench as might issue from corrupt coffins or violated tombs. I held my handkerchief to my nose and Cal did likewise.

We surveyed the place. As indeed it had not. Tables and chairs stood about like ghostly guardians of the watch, dusty, warped by the extreme changes in temperature which the New England climate is known for, but otherwise perfect—as if they had waited through the silent, echoing decades for those long gone to enter once more, to call for a pint or a dram, to deal cards and light clay pipes. A small square mirror hung beside the rules of the tavern, unbroken.

Do you see the significance, Bones? But why? I have a notion, but before I even dare hint at it, I must proceed to the unsettling conclusion of our visit. We went up to the sleeping quarters and found beds made up, pewter water-pitchers neatly placed beside them. The kitchen was likewise untouched by anything save the dust of the years and that horrible, sunken stench of decay. We entered two houses as we made our way toward the church at the center of the village.

Both were perfectly in the Puritan mode, full of items a collector would give his arm for, both deserted and full of the same rotten scent. Nothing seemed to live or move in all of this but ourselves. We saw no insects, no birds, not even a cobweb fashioned in a window corner.

Only dust. At last we reached the church. It reared above us, grim, uninviting, cold. Its windows were black with the shadows inside, and any Godliness or sanctity had departed from it long ago. Of that I am certain. We mounted the steps, and I placed my hand on the large iron door-pull. A set, dark look passed from myself to Calvin and back again. I opened the portal. How long since that door had been touched? I would say with confidence that mine was the first in fifty years; perhaps longer.

Rust-clogged hinges screamed as I opened it. The smell of rot and decay which smote us was nearly palpable. Cal made a gagging sound in his throat and twisted his head involuntarily for clearer air. But I did not feel calm, Bones, no more than I do now. I believe, with Moses, with Jereboam, with Increase Mather, and with our own Hanson [when he is in a philosophical temperament ], that there are spiritually noxious places, buildings where the milk of the cosmos has become sour and rancid.

This church is such a place; I would swear to it. We stepped into a long vestibule equipped with a dusty coat rack and shelved hymnals. It was windowless. Oil-lamps stood in niches here and there. It was an obscenity. I opened the door leading into the church itself, and the odor became a miasma, nearly overpowering. In the glimmering half-light of afternoon the pews stretched ghostlike to the altar.

Above them was a high, oaken pulpit and a shadow-struck narthex from which gold glimmered. We must be calm. But there is. There is. We walked down the aisle, our footfalls echoing above and around us. We left tracks in the dust. I will not, cannot, let my mind dwell upon them. I began to mount to the pulpit itself. A huge book lay open upon the stand, writ both in Latin and crabbed runes which looked, to my unpractised eye, either Druidic or pre-Celtic.

I enclose a card with several of the symbols, redrawn from memory. I closed the book and looked at the words stamped into the leather: De Vermis Mysteriis, My Latin is rusty, but serviceable enough to translate: The Mysteries of the Worm.

It seemed that I heard low, chanting voices, full of hideous yet eager fear—and below that sound, another, filling the bowels of the earth. An hallucination, I doubt it not —but at the same moment, the church was filled with a very real sound, which I can only describe as a huge and macabre turning beneath my feet.

The pulpit trembled beneath my fingers; the desecrated cross trembled on the wall. We exited together, Cal and I, leaving the place to its own darkness, and neither of us dared look back until we had crossed the rude planks spanning the stream. I will not say we defiled the nineteen hundred years man has spent climbing upward from a hunkering and superstitious savage by actually running; but I would be a liar to say that we strolled. That is my tale.

I enclose return postage. Thank you for your attention in this matter. The noises in the house have intensified, and I am growing more to the conclusion that rats are not all that move within our walls. Calvin and I went on another fruitless search for hidden crannies or passages, but found nothing. How poorly we would fit into one of Mrs.

Cal claims, however, that much of the sound emanates from the cellar, and it is there we intend to explore tomorrow. Her portrait, by the by, hangs in the upstairs gallery. Marcella Boone was a sadly pretty thing, if the artist got her right, and I do know she never married. At times I think that Mrs. Cloris was right, that it is a bad house. It has certainly held nothing but gloom for its past inhabitants.

But I have more to say of the redoubtable Mrs. Cloris, for I have had this day a second interview with her. As the most level-headed person from the Corners that I have met thus far, I sought her out this afternoon, after an unpleasant interview which I will relate.

The wood was to have been delivered this morning, and when noon came and passed and no wood with it, I decided to take my daily walk into the town itself. My object was to visit Thompson, the man with whom Cal did business. The place was a massive tangle of weeds and fallen-down buildings in need of paint; to the left of the barn a huge sow, ready for November butchering, grunted and wallowed in a muddy sty, and in the littered yard between house and outbuildings a woman in a tattered gingham dress was feeding chickens from her apron.

When I hailed her, she turned a pale and vapid face toward me. The sudden change in expression from utter, doltish emptiness to one of frenzied terror was quite wonderful to behold. I can only think she took me for Stephen himself, for she raised her hand in the prong-fingered sign of the evil eye and screamed. The chicken-feed scattered on the ground and the fowls fluttered away, squawking. Before I could utter a sound, a huge, hulking figure of a man clad only in long-handled underwear lumbered out of the house with a squirrel-rifle in one hand and a jug in the other.

From the red light in his eye and unsteady manner of walking, I judged that this was Thompson the Woodcutter himself. I would not give him the satisfaction of dodging. So I sought out Mrs. I found the lady hanging out her wash, and she seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I found this a great relief; it is vexing almost beyond words to be branded pariah for no understandable reason.

You know about that, then. I put out a hand to steady her. Her eyes rolled horribly, and for a moment I was sure she would swoon. Sweet Jesu, the evil days have come again! When it was before us, she looked pensively out at the ocean for a time. Inevitably, her eyes and mine were drawn to the jutting brow of Chapelwaite Head, where the house looked out over the water.

The large bay window glittered in the rays of the westering sun like a diamond. The view was beautiful but strangely disturbing. Boone, you must leave Chapelwaite immediately! In the last week— since you set foot in the accursed place—there have been omens and portents. A caul over the face of the moon; flocks of whippoorwills which roost in the cemeteries; an unnatural birth.

You must leave! Cloris, these things are dreams. You must know that. Or that Clifton Brockett found a flat, pressed trail five feet wide in the woods beyond Chapelwaite where all had withered and gone white? She clamped her gnarled hands together in an effort to calm herself.

Do you know the history of your family as it applies to Chapelwaite? It was his wish that Chapelwaite become the home of me and mine, and that the family rift thus be mended. The thing which Robert Boone attempted to remove was a profane Bible writ in the old tongues— Latin, Druidic, others.

A hell-book. A hand went to her mouth as if to stifle an outcry. On the pulpit of a corrupt and desecrated church. And on the night of October 31, , Philip Boone disappeared I walked home through lengthening, gloomy shadows, my good mood quite dissipated and my head spinning with questions which still plague me. Cal greeted me with the news that our noises in the walls have grown worse still—as I can attest at this moment.

I try to tell myself that I hear only rats, but then I see the terrified, earnest face of Mrs. The moon has risen over the sea, bloated, full, the colour of blood, staining the ocean with a noxious shade. My mind turns to that church again and here a line is struck out But you shall not see that, Bones. It is too mad. It is time I slept, I think.

My thoughts go out to you. The following is from the pocket journal of Calvin McCann. Boone arose. No help; it is all in cypher. A simple one, I believe. Perhaps I may break it as easily as the lock. A diary, I am certain, the hand oddly like Mr. Whose book, shelved in the most obscure corner of this library and locked across the pages? It seems old, but how to tell? The corrupting air has largely been kept from its pages. More later, if time; Mr. Boone set upon looking about the cellar.

Am afraid these dreadful goings-on will be too much for his chancy health yet. I must try to persuade him But he comes. Cannot bear to think of it; yet it is planted, burned on my brain like a tin-type; that horror in the cellar—! His skin is waxy, cool. Not the fever again, God be thanked. And if I did go, who would return with me to aid him? Who would come to this cursed house?

O, the cellar! The things in the cellar that have haunted our walls! Myself again I shall never be myself again, never. I have come face to face with an insanity and a horror beyond the limits of human expression. And the end is not yet. If it were not for Cal, I believe I should end my life this minute. He is one island of sanity in all this madness. You shall know it all.

We had equipped ourselves with candles for our cellar exploration, and they threw a strong glow that was quite adequate—hellishly adequate! Calvin tried to dissuade me, citing my recent illness, saying that the most we should probably find would be some healthy rats to mark for poisoning. A foetid, overpowering smell came up out of the darkness, not unlike that which pervaded the deserted town across the Royal River. The candle I held shed its glow on a steeply-slanting flight of stairs leading down into darkness.

They were in a terrible state of repair—in one place an entire riser missing, leaving only a black hole—and it was easy enough to see how the unfortunate Marcella might have come to her end there. The floor was earthen, the walls of stout granite, and hardly wet.

The place did not look like a rat haven at all, for there were none of the things rats like to make their nests in, such as old boxes, discarded furniture, piles of paper, and the like. We lifted our candles, gaining a small circle of light, but still able to see little. The floor had a gradual slope which seemed to run beneath the main living-room and the dining-room—i. It was in this direction we walked. All was in utter silence. The stench in the air grew steadily stronger, and the dark about us seemed to press like wool, as if jealous of the light which had temporarily deposed it after so many years of undisputed dominion.

At the far end, the granite walls gave way to a polished wood which seemed totally black and without reflective properties. Here the cellar ended, leaving what seemed to be an alcove off the main chamber. It was positioned at an angle which made inspection impossible without stepping around the corner. Calvin and I did so. A single chair stood in this alcove, and above it, fastened from a hook in one of the stout overhead beams, was a decayed noose of hemp.

How, Bones, can I describe the sight which fell upon our eyes? How can I tell you of the hideous tenants within our walls? The far wall swung back, and from that darkness a face leered—a face with eyes as ebon as the Styx itself. Its mouth yawned in a toothless, agonized grin; one yellow, rotted hand stretched itself out to us. It made a hideous, mewling sound and took a shambling step forward. The light from my candle fell upon it— And I saw the livid rope-burn about its neck!

From beyond it something else moved, something I shall dream of until the day when all dreams cease: a girl with a pallid, mouldering face and a corpse-grin; a girl whose head lolled at a lunatic angle. They wanted us; I know it. And I know they would have drawn us into that darkness and made us their own, had I not thrown my candle directly at the thing in the partition, and followed it with the chair beneath that noose. After that, all is confused darkness.

My mind has drawn the curtain. I awoke, as I have said, in my room with Cal at my side. If I could leave, I should fly from this house of horror with my nightdress flapping at my heels. But I cannot. I have become a pawn in a deeper, darker drama. Do not ask how I know; I only do. Cloris was right when she spoke of blood calling to blood; and how horribly right when she spoke of those who watch and those who guard. And I have greater fears than these, Bones, but I still see only in part.

If I knew Perhaps, if God is good, this will reach you in some manner. From the pocket journal of Calvin McCann Oct. Boone suspect as I do, that they have gone? It seems we wait in the deceptive Eye of the Storm Have found a packet of papers in an upstairs bedroom, lying in the bottom drawer of an old roll-top desk.

At the top is writ: Blessed are the meek. The cypher above is certainly a rustic one used in the War for Independence known as the Fence-Rail. Before I dare show this to Mr. The document was in a code which Cal himself has broken. He modestly declares that the discovery was an accident, but I suspect that perseverance and hard work had rather more to do with it.

At any rate, what a somber light it sheds on our mysteries here! The first entry is dated June 1, , the last October 27, —four days before the cataclysmic disappearance of which Mrs. Cloris spoke. What a start that name gave me! That this Boon bore relation to my family can hardly be doubted, I believe.

The town became a settled community built around the church where Boon preached— or held court. I do know, by my own family reckoning, that our clan supposedly originated in that part of Massachusetts which has so lately become this Sovereign State of Maine. It was his money, increased by time and wise investment, which built this ancestral home long after his death in His sons, Philip and Robert, built Chapelwaite.

Blood calls to blood, Mrs. Cloris said. To-day for the first time I met this Man with whom my Brother has been so unhealthily taken; I must admit this Boon controls a strange Magnetism which upset me Greatly. He is a veritable Ancient, white-bearded, and dresses in a black Cassock which struck me as somehow obscene. More disturbing yet was the Fact that he was surrounded by Women, as a Sultan would be surrounded by his Harem; and P.

The Village itself I had visited only once before, and will not visit again; its Streets are silent and filled with the Fear the old Man inspires from his Pulpit: I fear also that Like has mated with Like, as so many of the Faces are similar. Would not speak until Bedtime, when he said that Boon had enquired after a Book titled Mysteries of the Worm. To please P. They have Note of the Tome in which P. Only five Copies extant in this Country.

The Letter is rather cool; odd indeed. Have known Henry Goodfellow for Years. He would only say that Boon is exceedingly anxious to obtain a Copy. Cannot think why, since by the Title it seems only a harmless gardening Treatise Am worried for Philip; he grows stranger to me Daily. I wish now we had not returned to Chapelwaite. The Summer is hot, oppressive, and filled with Omens From the entry of September 4: I have petitioned Goodfellow to act as P. What use to demur? Has he not his own Money, should I refuse?

And in return I have extracted a Promise from Philip to recant this noisome Baptism I am hopelessly at Sea in this Matter Finally, September The Book arrived to-day, with a note from Goodfellow saying he wishes no more of my Trade The Thing seemed almost warm to the Touch, and to vibrate in my Hands, as if it contained a huge Power I reminded P.

We have it! The Worm! The Secret of the Worm! Of the book there is no more, but I have made certain deductions which seem at least probable. First, that this book was, as Mrs. Perhaps, in some twisted way, they intended good, but I do not believe it. I believe they had long before bound themselves over to whatever faceless powers exist beyond the rim of the Universe; powers which may exist beyond the very fabric of Time.

A Cow has been born with two Heads. His Hair has gone Gray almost Overnight, his Eyes are great bloodshot Circles from which the pleasing light of Sanity seems to have departed. The Whippoorwills congregate about the House and upon the Grass; their combined Calling from the Mist blends with the Sea into an unearthly Shriek that precludes all thought of Sleep.

October 27, Followed P. The cursed Whippoorwills flock through the Woods, filling all with a deathly, psycho-pompotic Chant. All tends to the Climax, yet unforeseen. I dare not sleep for the Dreams that come, yet not remain awake for what lunatic Terrors may come. The night is full of awful Sounds and I fear— And yet I feel the urge to go again, to watch, to see. It seems that Philip himself calls me, and the old Man. The Birds cursed cursed cursed Here the diary of Robert Boone ends.

Yet you must notice, Bones, near the conclusion, that he claims Philip himself seemed to call him. My final conclusion is formed by these lines, by the talk of Mrs. Cloris and the others, but most of all by those terrifying figures in the cellar, dead yet alive. Our line is yet an unfortunate one, Bones.

There is a curse over us which refuses to be buried; it lives a hideous shadow-life in this house and that town. And the culmination of the cycle is drawing close again. I am the last of the Boone blood. I fear that something knows this, and that I am at the nexus of an evil endeavor beyond all sane understanding. How shall I proceed? If only you were here to counsel me, to help me! If only you were here!

I must know all; I must return to the shunned town. May God support me! Boone has slept nearly all this day. His face is pallid and much thinner. I fear recurrence of his fever is inevitable. While refreshing his water carafe I caught sight of two unmailed letters to Mr.

Granson in Florida. I must, and yet what if he wakes? If I should return and find him gone? The noises have begun in our walls again. Thank God he still sleeps! My mind shudders from the import of this. Later I brought him his dinner on a tray.

Several of the sleeping-powders prescribed to him during his late illness remained with my things; he drank one with his tea, all-unknowing. He sleeps again. To leave him with the Things that shamble behind our walls terrifies me; to let him continue even one more day within these walls terrifies me even more greatly.

I have locked him in. God grant he should still be there, safe and sleeping, when I return with the buggy! Still later Stoned me! Stoned me like a wild and rabid dog! Monsters and fiends! These, that call themselves men! We are prisoners here— The birds, the whippoorwills, have begun to gather. October 26, Although Cal has said nothing, I suspect he put a sleeping-powder in my tea, having gleaned my intentions.

He is a good and faithful friend, intending only the best, and I shall say nothing. Yet my mind is set. Tomorrow is the day. I am calm, resolved, but also seem to feel the subtle onset of the fever again. If it is so, it must be tomorrow. Perhaps tonight would be better still; yet not even the fires of Hell itself could induce me to set foot in that village by shadowlight.

Should I write no more, may God bless and keep you, Bones. Postscriptum —The birds have set up their cry, and the horrible shuffling sounds have begun again. Cal does not think I hear, but I do. Very well. I go with him. November 4, I am not sure of the date, yet my almanac assures me by tide and sunset that it must be correct. I sit at my desk, where I sat when I first wrote you from Chapelwaite, and look out over the dark sea from which the last of the light is rapidly fading.

I shall never see more. This night is my night; I leave it for whatever shadows be. How it heaves itself at the rocks, this sea! It throws clouds of sea-foam at the darkling sky in banners, making the floor beneath me tremble. I have been without nourishment since the twenty- seventh of October, and should have been without water, had not Calvin left the carafe beside my bed on that day.

O, Cal! He is no more, Bones. He is gone in my place, in the place of this wretch with his pipestem arms and skull face who I see reflected back in the darkened glass. And yet he may be the more fortunate; for no dreams haunt him as they have haunted me these last days—twisted shapes that lurk in the nightmare corridors of delirium.

Even now my hands tremble; I have splotched the page with ink. Calvin confronted me on that morning just as I was about to slip away—and I thinking I had been so crafty. I had told him that I had decided we must leave, and asked him if he would go to Tandrell, some ten miles distant, and hire a trap where we were less notorious. He agreed to make the hike and I watched him leave by the sea-road. I wished briefly for a gun, then laughed at myself for the wish. What avails guns in such a matter?

I let myself out by the pantry-way, pausing for a last look at sea and sky; for the smell of the fresh air against the putrescence I knew I should smell soon enough; for the sight of a foraging gull wheeling below the clouds. I turned—and there stood Calvin McCann.

We go together and do what we must, or I return you bodily to the house. You are not well. You shall not go alone. We made our way silently past the summer house and the sundial, down the weed- covered verge and into the woods. All was dead still—not a bird sang nor a wood-cricket chirruped. The world seemed cupped in a silent pall.

There was only the ever-present smell of salt, and from far away, the faint tang of woodsmoke. The woods were a blazoned riot of colour, but, to my eye, scarlet seemed to predominate all. Soon the scent of salt passed, and another, more sinister odour took its place; that rottenness which I have mentioned. When we came to the leaning bridge which spanned the Royal, I expected Cal to ask me again to defer, but he did not. He paused, looked at that grim spire which seemed to mock the blue sky above it, and then looked at me.

We went on. The door still hung ajar from our latter exit, and the darkness within seemed to leer at us. As we mounted the steps, brass seemed to fill my heart; my hand trembled as it touched the doorhandle and pulled it. The smell within was greater, more noxious than ever. We stepped into the shadowy anteroom and, with no pause, into the main chamber. It was a shambles. Something vast had been at work in there, and a mighty destruction had taken place.

Pews were overturned and heaped like jackstraws. The wicked cross lay against the east wall, and a jagged hole in the plaster above it testified to the force with which it had been hurled. The oil-lamps had been ripped from their high fixtures, and the reek of whale-oil mingled with the terrible stink which pervaded the town.

And down the center aisle, like a ghastly bridal path, was a trail of black ichor, mingled with sinister tendrils of blood. Our eyes followed it to the pulpit—the only untouched thing in view. Atop it, staring at us from across that blasphemous Book with glazed eyes, was the butchered body of a lamb. We approached, keeping clear of the slime on the floor. The room echoed back our footsteps and seemed to transmute them into the sound of gigantic laughter. We mounted the narthex together. The lamb had not been torn or eaten; it appeared, rather, to have been squeezed until its blood-vessels had forcibly ruptured.

Blood lay in thick and noisome puddles on the lectern itself, and about the base of it I must have it. I am going to destroy it. The blood-stained pages now seemed alive with a scarlet glow of their own. My ears began to ring and hum; a low chant seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

The floor beneath us trembled, as if the familiar which haunted this church came now unto us, to protect its own. The fabric of sane space and time seemed to twist and crack; the church seemed filled with spectres and litten with the hell-glow of eternal cold fire.

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