Robert Suggs (May 28, 1998)[Rob's Weird Shorts]If Jessica is bold enough to show us her weird shorts, I suppose I can drop mine on you:
'A Complete and Factual Account of The Wayfarer That Distinctly Perceived a Belch' ['The Spectral Burp']
I had noticed the bibulous, red-whiskered stranger attending solemnly to our fireside revelry. When the subject fell inevitably to spectral lore, he joined our circle of gentlemanly repartee. We drank his health as he offered his tale.
‘In younger days, I travelled these hedges and highways,' he said, licking a drop of port from his moustache. ‘It so happened I was peddling my wares in the village of Pennyfford in the year 18--. As trade was brisk, I sought suitable lodgings to sustain me for a fortnight or more. The White Bovine Inn, to my astonishment, offered bed and victuals for such pennies as you'd toss at a beggar-wench.
‘That very evening, the mysterious charity of my host was solved. Just after the toll of twelve bells, I was finishing the fine mulled wine which had accompanied me upstairs. I was doing some mulling myself--I had distinctly left two goblets worth for hearth-side reading, yet the flask yielded but one portion. As I pondered this anomaly, a hideous sound echoed through my chamber. Words could never acquaint you with the depth of its terrors, but the deep, fulsome voice expressed itself in an extended, vibrato-inflected evacuation. Several more times the nocturnal emanation assailed me, and I slumbered very little that night.
‘The following evening offered no consolation. My benevolent host had sent me to bed with a portion of his excellent bean-and-garlic pudding, prepared with culinary precocity. Again I surprised myself by emptying the crockery with far more dispatch than anticipated. And again, I heard ghastly eruptions ripping through the darkness of my abode. Horribly enough, this time they were less suggestive of a living creature's voice--but still bearing, somehow, the brand of a tormented soul; with the addition, this evening, of a loathesome, fetid wind whose rank foulness wafted through my corridor.
‘Sleep would be withheld from me; I knew that well. I stole, therefore, to the library and took hold of the first dusty tome my fingers could grasp. I found myself beholding the very history of the White Bovine Inn in which I resided. It seems that during the reign of Mary, when popish ways reared their hornish head, a Spaniard had briefly served this house in the realm of cookery. He brought from his homeland fiery viands, filled with spices that staged gastric uprisings against the stomach of the Inn's proprietor--who was a man stubbornly devoted to King Henry's clerical reforms. The Queen herself had summoned the foreigner to exact victualistic vengeance upon ecclesiastical renegades like the proprietor.
‘Legend had it that the innkeeper came to suffer from gastric eruptions of hideous intensity. The Spaniard served him his last flaming course, a peppered pork monstrosity drenched in salsa. Not to put too fine a point upon it, a violent detonation of the proprietor's stomach--in my very room--burst the evening's tranquility. And though every effort was made to inter the victim in his entirety, it was said that bits of him still lurked within these walls. In death, his soul rested no easier through the night than his stomach had in life.
‘The next morning, I insisted upon touring the White Bovine's pantry. Many foodstuffs were evicted upon my insistence. I showed the cooking wench my volume from the library. A more placid diet for the inn was undertaken. And to my knowledge, there have been no eery eruptions reported since--though only my infected fancy may have conjured the sigh of satisfaction I heard in my chambers that evening as I set to on bland bread and water.'
--From "1000 Ghastly, Greasy Little Ghost Gassers"
oOo
Bill Barnett (May 29, 1998)
Haha, Rob!!! I have a similar ghost in my house! Or so I tell my wife...Bill B.
oOo
Pedar Wagtskjold (May 30, 1998)
Ummmmm......what can I say Rob......that was just Ghaaaaaaaaassssssstly.Peder W.
PDW BooksoOo
violet (May 30, 1998)
BESIDES WHICH, he only got Weird Shorts after the gasstly spirit passed.
-JessicaoOo
Christopher Roden (May 31, 1998)
I think I need to rush in to protest that the setting of this 'gassy' little tale in Penyffordd does not make it an Ash-Tree original. Collectors of ATP tomes will know what I mean.Christopher Roden
oOo
Robert Suggs (May 31, 1998)
This comes as quite a disappointment. I had envisioned an original collection entitled 'Tis An Ill Wind: Rank Tales of Unsettled Spirits.
RoboOo
rbadac (May 31, 1998)
[More Info than we need about Rob's Weird Shorts]> BESIDES WHICH, he only got Weird Shorts after
> the gasstly spirit passed.
> -Jessica
Are you happy now, Rob? Look what you're making Jessica say. She didn't used to talk like that.
And that's the last word I want to hear about anybody spotting their unmentionables. PERIOD.
rbadac
oOo
William Allison (May 31, 1998)
See what happens when you go away for awhile Rbadac? They lose all sense of decorum and restraint. Good Lord, I even thought I saw Rob in another post pitching Christopher on some sort of B-room Companion or some such... There's a foetid odor in here all right, and it's not the exhalation of a freshly opened tomb either... >:-|Bill A. (who learned "foetid" as a wee lad from Grandpa Theobald)*
* - Parens in memory of Woolrich (where did *he* get to?).
oOo
rbadac (June 1, 1998)
[The "Good Old Days"]And that's exactly the way I feel about it, too. The good stuff will ALWAYS be good.
The Schwartz books are quite drecky, but you gotta admit, those illos for them (who is that, Stephen Gammell?) are DYNAMITE.
rbadac
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Robert Suggs (June 1, 1998)
I have to play dumb again. Who is Schwartz?Is this Weird Schwartz that Jessica's been referring to by any chance?
Rob
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rbadac (June 2, 1998)
[The "Good Old Schwartz"]Now, we're not going into THAT again- actually I'm thinking of Alvin Schwartz, compiler of SCARY STORIES I, II, and III. They are 'campfire' stories without much to recommend them, but the accompanying illos are particularly well-done, I think.
rbadac
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rbadac (June 2, 1998)
[Ghost Novels]Bill Allison wrote:
> BURNT OFFERINGS, Robert Marasco (One of my all-time favorites)
> HELL HOUSE, Richard Matheson (Ditto)
> SWEETHEART, SWEETHEART, Bernard Taylor
> MAYNARD'S HOUSE, Herman Raucher
> THE INFLUENCE, Ramsey Campbell
> THE HOUSE ON NAZARETH HILL, Ramsey Campbell
> NAOMI'S ROOM, Jonathan Aycliffe
> JULIA, Peter Straub
> IF YOU COULD SEE ME NOW, Peter Straub
> GHOST STORY, Peter StraubThat's funny. I was going to add the following:
THE OTHER-Tom Tryon
JULIAN'S HOUSE- Judith Hawkes
THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD (UNCLE SILAS)- J. S. LeFanu
THE CANTERVILLE GHOST- Oscar Wildewhen I noticed a definite 'house' thing going on. Is this a necessary occupational hazard of the ghost novel/novelette? Or is it just the tendency of ghosts needing haunted houses to hang around in for 300 pages or so?
rbadac
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Robert Suggs (June 6, 1998)
>> THE OTHER-Tom Tryon
>> JULIAN'S HOUSE- Judith Hawkes
>> THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD (UNCLE SILAS)- J. S. LeFanu
>> THE CANTERVILLE GHOST- Oscar Wilde
>>
>> when I noticed a definite 'house' thing going on. Is this a necessary
>> occupational hazard of the ghost novel/novellete? Or is it just the tendency
>> of ghosts needing haunted houses to hang around in for 300 pages or so?
>>
>> rbadacI think houses are an integral part of the ghost thing. In an odd way, ghost stories are about time because they seem to bring together the past (ghost), present (hauntee), and future (fear of what lies beyond). And that's a fear that hits us "where we are," ie the family, the home. The home-delivery aspect of ghosts is what has always made them terrifying to me. I don't have to get off at the Transylvania station (remember that great line from "Young Frankenstein?"). Transylvania comes to me! Women wrote so many of the greatest ghost stories, and I've always bought into the suggestion (Julia Briggs et al) that these stories were a way of expressing their "invisibility" or powerlessness in the social strata, and the home their domain. This is a generalization with limits, but women often wrote of the pitiful, wronged spirits (Eleanor Scott and, often, Edith Wharton would be exceptions) but men were a bit more likely to write about the not-at-all-pitiful M. R. James or Wakefield-type bogies--and theirs were a bit less likely to happen at home, weren't they? But I'm rambling. By the way, Rbadac's listing seems to imply that "House by the Churchyard/Uncle Silas" were the same work, but of course they were separate novels, Silas not being supernatural (though a classic in its own right). Rbadac knows this. Sure he does.
Rob
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rbadac (June 8, 1998)
[House By The Other House By The Churchyard]Robert Suggs wrote:
> By the way, Rbadac's listing seems to imply that "House by
> the Churchyard/Uncle Silas" were the same work, but of course they
> were separate novels, Silas not being supernatural (though a classic
> in its own right). Rbadac knows this. Sure he does.
>
> RobOop.
Dammit, Rob, go get me a six-pack, a copy of 'Kecksies', and a carton of Lucky Strikes.
Yes, friends, the little whippersnapper is quite right. The actual situation poor old rbadac was trying to allude to was the fact that a portion of HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD was printed as a short story in itself, 'Narrative Of The Ghost Of A Hand', which found its way into the Dover BEST GHOST STORIES OF..., with extra introductory material added, as 'Ghost Stories Of The Tiled House.' UNCLE SILAS has nothing to do with any of that, and is a separate work, as are most of my relevant brain cells.
Make that 'revenant' brain cells. That way, maybe they'll come back some day.
rbadac
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Robert Suggs (June 8, 1998)
LeFanu was one of those writers who recycled before it was cool. A Haining Irish antho has a fairly rare weird short (LOVE to use that term) called "Footsteps in the Lobby" which is the basis for the "chief incident" in Uncle Silas, which he wrote about 25 years later. I guess all this confusion is why it took M. R. James to sort it all out later. He, then confused us all by assigning the anonymous "Mysterious Lodger" to LeFanu when it reads nothing like J. Sheridan to most of us. More like a precursor (who doesn't curse) of R.H. Benson.
RoboOo
rbadac (June 10, 1998)
['KECKSIES' for a limited time - act now!]Peder Wagtskjold wrote:
> "Kecksies" is (for the moment) still in print and available.....tho at $8.95 who
> can say for how much longer....Good. Maybe I'll buy Rob one, along with those weird shorts he's been wanting...
rbadac
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Robert Suggs (June 11, 1998)
I've just filled out my order form. Just send the extra Shepherd first instead (that's a joke, son).
RoboOo
rbadac (June 11, 1998)
[Acting now!]Ooooooooohhhhhh, you are SO getting mail...
Generalissimo Franco
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Robert Suggs (June 19, 1998)
[Original Fiction Day!]It's Friday! And what happens on Friday, kids? That's right! It's Original Fiction Day on the newsgroup!
An Elusive Ghost
All present and accounted for were the twelve members of the Emerald Jacket League. As usual, we enjoyed feasting and frivolity around the table. Then, when Bingley-Whyte's manservant had cleared the dishes, we retired to the hearth with fresh goblets. It fell to Throckmorton, an associate of the League and the evening's guest, to regale the party. ‘A ghost story!' sang the chorus. ‘Tell us a ghost story, old Throckles!' To which the estimable gent gazed reflectively into the fire and began his tale:
‘You might not have expected it of me, but as a very young man, three-and-fifty years ago, the theater was my passion. I was a tragedian by way of specialisation, with all the full-blooded hopes of youth. When favored by chance or circumstance, I sat eagerly at the feet of the more seasoned players, mesmerised by their stage-wise sagacities. On one such occasion, backstage during a production of Henry IV, I attended to one Theodoric Wembish-Moutton, a comedian said to have trod the boards of every reputable stage from Dover to Dublin. He told us the following, and swore every word was true:
' "The applause--the curtain calls--the encore turns of the principle cast--and the hall grows quiet. The audience departs for homely comforts. Within the theater's abandoned expanse, the midnight hour approaches before the smell of greasepaint has subsided. It is then that he of the sensitive soul will see and hear the inexplicable. I had such an experience, and I leave it to you to render an explanation. I was naught but an apprentice propmaster in that bygone day, and I was packing away the evening's scenery when I heard the sound of weeping. A feverish search bore astonishing fruit: a beautiful wide-eyed young girl, secreted behind the wardrobe. I was silenced by my bafflement, but the mysterious young lady spoke between choking sobs. She said:
' " 'We were to be wed! O, kind stranger, whose face speaks of compassion and forebearing; will you not hear the lachrymose tale of my fate? For it was lo, upon this very morn, as the dew drenched the daisies, that I and my heart's own love were gathering roses for the rapturous joys of our nuptials. The curlew sang his wedding song; the breeze carressed my blushing cheeks; and I bundled my dainty little flowers with a heart free of worldly care. But my lover sighed; and he sighed yet again. And I beseeched him to unburden whatsoever care might afflict his heart on such a day when the cherubs hovered so near our bosoms. My own dear Geoffrie rolled his eye heavenward, gave forth a manly sob, and exclaimed:
' " ' "It was ten years ago, my innocent honey-bee; ten years to the very hour. The secret I've clutched to my breast, and can enshroud no longer, is vile and dark--dark as the demon-drenched bowels of Africa as probed by our small party these ten years ago. For a fortnight we had been among the uncharted wilds, brimmed with howling pygmies and their blood-feasting shamans. But on this fateful night, the eve of Tasslethorpe's sad devourement, we made camp among the gibbering Weekeewaws, known for their deference to the white man. That night, as we dined on pickled orangutan and passed the tzutzu pipe, the chieftain told us a story that curdled our blood. Through the broken English of our interpreter, he imparted the following:
' " ' " 'I am he who walks among the tree-spirits of old, but I am no stranger to your world. Long ago, before the sun flew courses too many to count, and the suckling man-child had grown old and slow of foot, the great boat brought me to London-village. There I saw one thousand wonders, and warmed my loins by the fires of many white men. The night came when I sat among twelve men who wore shining coats, chuckled and chattered like women, and told foolish stories as they grew stupid with bottle-spirits . . . " ' " ' "
Here I interrupted Throckmorton. ‘What color were the coats?'
‘Green, I daresay,' he replied in puzzlement.
‘Hang it, Throckmorton, you've told this one before!' There were mumblings of disgruntlement throughout the room.
‘Ah! The very one. So I have,' said Throckmorton, rubbing his nose and falling silent; at which time everyone got up and went to bed.oOo
rbadac (June 19, 1998)
Robert Suggs wrote:
> It's Friday! And what happens on Friday, kids? That's right! It's
> Original Fiction Day on the newsgroup!Damn it, why didn't I get a copy of the calendar???
Okay, lemme get this straight: an apprentice propmaster in a theatre finds a girl behind a wardrobe crying, who was going to marry Geoffrie, but didn't because Geoffrie had some dark secret pertaining to some safari to Africa ten years previous, when he heard a story from a Weekewaw chief about being a tree-spirit who used to vacation in London through some time-slip that put him contemporaneous to the narrator of the original story...
Oh hell, I'll see you NEXT Friday!
rbadac
oOo
Robert Suggs (June 19, 1998)
I knew it. I shouldn't experiment with alternative styles. Gastric horror is my specialty, and if it ain't broke, don't fix it. I'll return to my stomach-haunted thematic material henceforth!Did you know TUMS backwards spells SMUT? Just a fun fact.
Rob
ooOoo