No Connections Whatsoever

No Connections Whatsoever

Where were they? she wondered as she sipped her tea; a deep orange-red tea, smooth, with a delightful aftertaste. She sat in her great armchair, staring out into the night from the convenience of her living room. It was actually a nice night out for a change.

It was full dark however, and the stars were nowhere to be seen. Which she found rather mysterious, although not for the same reasons others would expect.

“I wonder what could have happened to them?” she said aloud. The steady tick-tick of the kitchen clock answered her.

Tick-tick-tick.

Dead-dead-dead.

And so on and so forth.

She wasn’t bothered too much by the thought. She had never really knew them to begin with, and had held them with contempt. Immediately after giving them rooms she had regretted ever setting eyes on them, so when they left she was immediately relieved.

There was something about them she was not quite ready to concede to herself, something that she had known but had willfully ignored.

Gently setting the tea down, the old woman got up with a great sigh. “I’m getting too old for this,” she muttered to herself. The old inn had been in her care for a long time, and never once had she ever come across such a bizarre case.

Well . . . That wasn’t quite the truth. She shook her head at herself. There you go again, lying to yourself! You old coot! As her feet carried her up the stairs, she closed all of the curtains, the same way she had for the past forty years. A long time for such a practice. The guests had often ribbed her for it; her inn was in a respectable neighbourhood after all, there were no prying eyes, no would-be-thieves . . .

She stopped. For a while she stared at the wall. People often came to her inn, people with something not quite right about them. They always left at dusk, never to be seen again–

–until their bodies were found a week later. It was always a week. She knew what they were doing.

The fools . . .

Willfully sacrificing themselves to . . .

The old woman shook herself out of her stupor. It was time for bed.

To the Faces In the Wall

To the Faces In the Wall

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To the faces in the wall: 

You never bothered to hide yourselves; no one cared that much for walls anyways. They turned a blind eye towards you.

That’s cheeky, you know.

I watch you all the time, but it never seems to bother you at all. Why should it? Who would believe that the walls really did have eyes and ears–that there were people living within them . . . People they couldn’t see?

I watch you all the time. Do you watch me too?

Or do you really care?

As for myself . . . I’m not sure what to feel, or even what to think about this.

It only scares me when I sleep.

The King in Yellow, Part 1

Now here is something which ties in nicely with the previous article on paranoia. Truth be told this fits in nicely with perspective and mental health, if one wishes to see it that way; I certainly do.

The King in Yellow:

Who and what is this King in Yellow—this stranger in the tattered robes? Is he death personified or is he the essence of insanity? What is he that he himself, and even his sign, should be feared?

After all—and truth be told—the King in Yellow is only from a book.

Enter into this world that Robert W. Chambers has created, a world where a cursed book holds the secrets of life, truths to terrible to behold. This is a book which has been banned. All who read it experience insanity. Some more to than others. Those who cross paths with the King in Yellow are touched in so many ways, ways good and bad. In this book are their stories.

The Repairer of Reputations:

I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth—a world which now trembles before the King in Yellow. When the French Government seized the translated copies which had just arrived in Paris, London, of course, became eager to read it. It is well known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there, denounced by Press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced literary anarchists. No definite principals had been violated in those wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged. It could not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was acknowledged that the supreme note of art had been struck in The King in Yellow, all felt that human nature could not bear the strain, nor thrive on words in which the essence of purest poison lurked. The very banality and innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall afterward with more awful effect.

-The King in Yellow, by Robert W. Chambers

Hastur, sane or insane, knew what he saw then . . .

. . . Which leaves us to wonder if we’re not all living a fantasy, one which ill-fated Hastur has become disenchanted with. It begs the question: are we the fiddlers on the roof, or is he the feral cat out of the bag?

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Hell House

The House on the Borderland

I am not superstitious; but I have ceased to deny that things happen in this old house—things that I cannot explain; and, therefore, I must needs ease my mind, by writing down an account of them, to the best of my ability; though, should this, my diary, ever be read when I am gone, the readers will but shake their heads, and be the more convinced that I was mad.

-Excerpt from The House on the Borderland, by William Hope Hodgson

The House on the Borderland

I do not want to do this; it is not a thing which I relish very much, and yet I do it nonetheless. Someone must . . .

. . . So I will take the plunge. I read a small line which described The House on the Borderland as being long-winded, or something like that. The story does goes on a tangent for about half of the book, and yet I find myself disagreeing with that statement.

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Unassuming

“They rose upwards in a continuous stream from earth to sky, vanishing utterly as soon as they reached the dark of the sky.”

-Excerpt from The Willows, by Algernon Black.

The triumph of The Terror turned into the trepidatious tale of The Willows.

Algernon Blackwood.

Say it slowly. Doesn’t his name just make you want to shout? Whether you shout in joy or in pain is up to you, however . . .

Allow me to take a few moments, just to compare Blackwood with Lovecraft. I’m no expert on either, I’ll be the first to admit, but I’m fairly certain I’m a good judge at feelings. The feeling I get when I read or even hear the name Algernon Blackwood is fear. Not an overwhelming fear. No. Just a hint. Less is more, as they always say. It’s the subtle type of fear, that insidious fear which worms its way into your mind, turning it against you.

When I hear HP Lovecraft I feel something close to romance. But a more philosophical kind. It’s also an enigmatic name all in itself. Because it’s an unassuming name. It’s like a whispered challenge at the back of your mind. Just when you think you’ve made up your mind about the man, when you’ve thought you’ve figured him out, he presents you with a silver plate.

The horrors of his mind are on that plate.

A little plate of dread that you never expected. Not even once.

What’s more is that in each story that plate has a nice cover; you can cover what you wish to ignore.

If you can already see something then you can readily hide it with relative ease. A small mercy.

When I began reading The Willows I had no idea what to expect. What strikes me now about the story is that it starts very innocently. A man is recounting his experience of a certain expedition made with a friend. The two are paddling down a European river in their Canadian canoe.

Why? I don’t know. Why not?

I was reminded strongly of the two friends in The Hound. However, whereas the two in The Hound were complete idiots, the two in The Willows were not. These men didn’t mess around with things they didn’t understand. They stuck to their guns.

In this trepidatious tale I was taken on a journey which suddenly took a rather unexpected turn. I was presented with things I never would have expected from Blackwood. I finished the story in two or three days. It both disturbed and satisfied me.

I saw much of myself in that story. Not from the characters themselves, but from their experience. As I read on I was presented with ideas not unlike my own. I was perturbed all the way through.

It was my ability to relate to the story which frightened me the most.

Algernon Blackwood has no mercy. The Willows had no convenient cover. He fixed up the plate and then kept it on the kitchen table for everyone to see.

It looked delightful and we took a bite.

Then the bite bit back. And it wouldn’t let go. As the pain grew and grew our eyes opened wider, and we began to see all that there was to see.

But only a little.

Because a little is a lot!

Our minds then completed the rest of his dangerous design.

We spun about, downward in a dreadful spiral, and we all knew . . . How could we be so unassuming?

“We’d better get off sharp in an hour,” I said presently, feeling for an opening that must bring him indirectly to a partial confession at any rate. And his answer puzzled me uncomfortably: “Rather! If they’ll let us.”

-The Willows, by Algernon Blackwood.

P.S: His design, or his aim, was to scare us.

The Terror

Let’s take a moment to think about terror. For this type of blog it’s a cliche topic lumped in with a bunch of cliche posts . . . Or not. After all I’m all about half-dissecting things to look at them from the inside out, and then discarding them, leaving them to rot out in the sun. To put it lightly, that is. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been leading you down a rabbit hole without rhyme nor reason, or a definite end.

Maybe I’m just messing with you.

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Neurosis

Once, when I was eleven I got up from bed to get a glass of water. As I was walking to the light switch, a cloaked figure materialized right before my eyes. The two seconds it took for the event to happen was enough to scare me out my wits. It bore down on me, and as it did I jumped back. Continue reading

Facts and Matters

It’s amazing what a human will sense when they are afraid; the things which they would have normally ignored in their day-to-day lives come to the forefront. Due to ignorance they are seen as something other than what they really are. Continue reading

Monster?

July 27th marked the day I finished reading The Secret Glory by Arthur Machen. It is held to be one of his best works, and so far from what I have read, I concur. His characterization is some of the best I have ever come across, and let’s face it: the only reason I ever started to read his works was due to the promise of faeries. And yes, I was duped, but gladly. Continue reading

Whence the Monster Came

‘What inspired this monster to be born?’, some may ask.

It was The Hound, by HP Lovecraft. Of all his works that I have read so far, The Hound bothered me; the other stories that he wrote, while good, failed to have such a gruesome effect as this one did. What did The Hound have that the others didn’t? Continue reading

The Monstrosity Commences

enigma |iˈnigmə|

noun ( pl. enigmas )

a person or thing that is mysterious, puzzling, or difficult to understand.

What is The Enigmatic Monster? Continue reading