rbadac (February 9, 1999)[see rbadac's evocative review of 'The Creeps' series at The Weird Review on the Violetbooks.com website]oOo
John Pelan (February 11, 1999)
rbadac wrote: (an excellent essay on the "Creeps Series" which has been snipped for the sake of brevity:Okay, we can all agree on Birkin, Robbins, & Wakefield being the heavy hitters of this series, but how about:
Allan Govan
Pamela James
Kenneth Ingram
Edith Olivier
John Ratho
Hill Johnson
E.R. Morrough
Hester Gorst
Sydney Darcy
Esme H. Bidlake
Oswell Blakeston
A.H. Claxton
E.F. Henry
Godfrey ArchardAnyone have any data on these folks? I also note that Russell Thorndike and Margery Lawrence both show up in the series, but sadly, with only one story each...
John
"It's a jungle out there, try not to look like food"
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paghat (February 10, 1999)
Edith Olivier wrote a very effective supernatural novella about a spinster who conjures up a baby and raises it to adolescence, when the girl begins to fall and love and make a bid for independence. It's called THE LOVE CHILD and is quite subtle & Ithought tragically horrifying despite the pastoral style.Jessica
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rbadac (February 12, 1999)
Egad. Not a one of these poor souls with so much as a single entry in Parnell and Ashley's MONTHLY TERRORS (Greenwood Press, 1985). I bet some of them were not otherwise published.How did they survive? Without books or periodical sales to their credit, they must have held other jobs: accountants, chimney-sweeps, seamstresses, pickpockets, coal miners, journalists, laundrywomen, carpenters, cooks, chicken farmers? A single outing in the Creeps and they vanish without a trace.
And somehow they all knew Charles Birkin. Hmmmm.
(...hand...reaching...for...pen...can't...control...it... must...write...vignette...)
So that was that. He returned to his rooms in Endell Street to find that his landlady had put his possessions on the curb. When he pounded on the door, she yelled at him from a second-story window and poured a bucket of slops down onto him.
Drenched and cursing, Godfrey Archard took up what he could carry and set off toward the Mission. Perhaps he could give them a few of his books to keep in exchange for a night's lodging. In the morning he could try the factory again.
But when he got there, the doors were locked for the night. He hadn't realized it was so late. The clock in St. Pancras was ringing the quarter hour after one, and the streets were all but deserted. He huddled in a doorway for some time, shivering, before he heard the approaching footsteps. Peeking out, he saw a stooped figure coming down the walk toward him. Godfrey shrank back into the recess and pretended to be asleep, hoping the lone pedestrian would pass by without noticing him.
Such was not the case, unfortunately, for the figure's tread halted when it reached him. After a moment, a thin voice rasped, 'Well, are you going to move aside or do I have to put this key through you to unlock my door ?'
Godfrey, startled and ashamed, found himself looking up into a pinched, saturnine face that protruded from a mound of shawls atop a shapeless dark greatcoat. The face split like a rotten pear, displaying teeth the size and color of pencil stubs. 'Yes, my friend, you're camping on my doorstep. But a moment,' he continued, reaching past Godfrey to twist the monstrously large key viciously in the lock. The door sprang open. The gnomish man stepped over Godfrey and switched on a light within. 'Come in if you're coming,' he said. 'I won't leave this door open any longer than necessary.'
Godfrey collected himself and his things and hurried inside. The man slammed the door behind them and trundled on ahead of him down a dim hallway.
They emerged in a room full of curiously-made mahogany furniture and vaguely Moorish trappings. The man went to the hearth and prepared a fire with astonishing swiftness; it seemed in the next second the room was ablaze with a furious glowering heat. Godfrey warmed himself gratefully. The odd man was there with a cup of tea when he turned back around.
'Birkin's the name, my boy,' he chuckled. 'You need a place to stay tonight, I'm bound. I'll let you sleep here in front of the fire, but you'll have to earn your keep.'
Godfrey did not hesitate. 'Whatever you require, sir,' he answered. 'I'm in a fix, it's true, but I won't need charity if there's work to be done.'
In reply, Birkin motioned toward a desk. Godfrey went over to it and sat down. Writing materials were all at the ready, and, as it seemed expected of him, he took up the pen and awaited further instructions.
'Not more than five thousand words,' Birkin began. 'Fewer if possible, but don't fudge. You're a traveller named Deeping, and you've come to stay at a run-down inn, where you detect a burning smell and witness a murder. Just trot it out, no fancy stuff. Finish it before you go to bed and leave it in the drawer. Be gone in the morning.' Without another word, Birkin turned and departed, leaving Godfrey open-mouthed with surprise.
After a moment's reflection, however, he shrugged and started to write.
Birkin came in the next morning. Godfrey was gone.
He opened the desk drawer and removed the scribbled pages, glanced at them smugly. It would do. He folded them and slipped them into his inside coat pocket.
Over by the hearth, Godfrey's few possessions sat, next to his clothes and shoes, which were in the attitude of a sleeper, but empty now. Birkin tossed them into the fire along with the other junk. He paused to examine the title of one of the books, then with a sneer gave it to the flames with the rest.
rbadac
ooOoo