Orford Parish Books Publications 1 – 4 (Review)

Tags

Anthologies, Chapbooks, Collections, Conspiracy Theories, Dreams, Folk Horror, Joseph Pastula, Matthew M. Bartlett, Occult, Orford Parish, Orford Parish Books, Tom Breen

Orford Parish Books is what I guess you’d call a “boutique press” that publishes books generally centered around author Tom Breen’s fictional locale of Orford Parish. I decided to review all four of their released books (so far) in one go, so without any further ado…

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Orford Parish Murder Houses: a Visitor’s Guide
by Tom Breen

This book hit me like a rock.

I was expecting it to be a collection of linked short fiction – that’s generally what these types of things are, right? – or, less likely, a mosaic novel in the style of Bartlett’s Gateways to Abomination.

What I got was one of the biggest shocks I’ve ever received – an amazing, fully fleshed out, well-written, frightening, hilarious faux-tour guide.

Let me step back a bit.

There is a town in Connecticut called Orford Parish. Like any other small town, it has a local newspaper, quaint people, mediocre restaurants.

It also has an ancient tree that will answer any question it is given, groups of children repeating the word “Despair” over and over while playing in the snow, and more murders per capita than any other place in the United States.

Of course, as First Selectman Norman Dimble reminds us, there’s “‘More than murder – but plenty of murder'”!

This book purports to be a collection of short descriptions each centered around the history and folklore of a specific “murder house” in Orford Parish. Each description includes the name and address of the house, a story recalling the history of it, and a quick write-up on the best restaurants in the area. No, I’m serious. It’s all quite funny, but when you peel back the skin of it you begin to see something more unnerving.

For example, what’s so funny about the cannibalistic rage that enveloped the NuLove Hippie Commune? Who’s laughing at the Lathrop House, home to one of the most disturbing and mysterious murders ever set to paper? And there’s certainly nothing funny about the priest who stared into the void that is God…

It’s hard to talk about my favorites in this book without giving anything away. The NuLove one was probably my favorite, followed closely by the aforementioned Borden-inspired Lathrop House entry (which genuinely had me looking over my shoulder for the rest of the night). The book knocks your expectations out of the park with the very first fragment, which totally subverts your idea of “murder” and presents quite a puzzling conundrum until the truth (?) of the matter is revealed…

Breen’s writing is precise; it ranges from elaborate to sharp depending on the intended voice. The wistful narrator of “Armorica”, the only traditionally structured narrative in the book, does genuinely seem to be reminiscing her childhood, while Norman Dimble’s infectious enthusiasm for his blood-soaked city leaps off of the page. On the whole humor and wit shines in every narrative; you will find yourself laughing a lot during the reading of this book, which contrasts with the horror and, in doing so, makes that horror more effective.

I honestly don’t know how much more I can say about this book without spoiling its effect. Suffice to say that this made my “Best of 2016” list for a good reason: namely, that it is inventive, funny, dark, and all-in-all surprising in the best possible way.

If you don’t read this – and I really, REALLY mean this – you are doing yourself a disservice. Buy Orford Parish Murder Houses: a Visitor’s Guide here.

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Little Oren and the Noises (Picture Books for Weird Kids, Vol. 1)
by Joseph Pastula

Again, hit me like a rock.

When I heard the second release from Orford Parish books would be a picture book, I was surprised but not necessarily deterred – okay, it was a little bizarre, but they’d pulled that off with Orford Parish Murder Houses, right? I checked out the author’s webcomic Silkworms, which made me feel unusual for a while after – a good sign. Still, I was more than a little doubtful when I opened up the package…

Let me describe Little Oren and the Noises in the simplest way I can. If Thomas Ligotti wrote a picture book, this would be it.

The story follows an Orford Parish man who doesn’t like noise, and who goes to very extreme lengths to avoid it. To say anything else would be to ruin the nasty surprise this book has waiting for you. Joseph Pastula’s pictures are uncomfortable in the best way, and I felt more than a little disturbed when I saw the, um…noises.

The story is simple and uncomplicated, but coupled with the pictures the whole thing becomes an eerie experience that left me claustrophobic and upset.

I can’t say too much about this book, as its mostly pictures and the story is very easily spoiled. But I can say that anyone, even adults, will enjoy this – if they enjoy such bizarre, uncategorizable works of weird fiction. And really, who doesn’t?

You can buy Little Oren and the Noises here.

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Old Gory: Two Tales of Flag Horror
by Joseph Pastula and Tom Breen

(Note: I can’t find a high-rez image of the cover, so this promotional image will have to do.)

This is the first in a series of so-called “split chapbooks” which are essentially tiny, themed anthologies with just two or three stories. In keeping with its recurring theme of “doing something really, really strange”, Orford Parish Books’ first themed chapbook is Old Gory: Two Tales of Flag Horror, which is – you guessed it – Orford Parish horror stories relating to the flag of the United States.

The “hit me like a rock” phrase is getting overused, but again, it’s the only adequate way to describe my feelings on discovering the theme of this slim volume. Orford Parish Books’ previous publications both effectively explored the fringes of weird horror, but I didn’t know how one could possibly make the American flag scary. However, I was catching on, and I figured things were going to be interesting (if not anything else). My expectations were, again, exceeded.

Joseph Pastula’s cover is quite eye-catching – there are skulls in the white lines, the red is reminiscent of blood, and the stars are all inverted pentagrams. These themes are expanded upon in the erudite faux-introduction “The Flag, and How it Got that Way” by an Orford Parish professor of demonology. This was a welcome surprise. It’s a funny little thing, and adds to the delightful oddness of the book.

We kick this book off with Joseph Pastula’s story “Orison for the Departed”, which is not set inside Orford Parish but just outside of it. Its a sort of ghost story, more or less, about a house covered in flag paraphernalia, and the man who finds out why. For some reason this story reminds me of the Winchester Mystery House, but this is probably just a cosmetic connection. Pastula’s prose is slightly more baroque than Breen’s, but it suits the story quite well and provides nice contrast to the second offering. His development of atmosphere is quite skillful, and I look forward to seeing more full prose offerings from the author.

The second story is Tom Breen’s “Our Heart’s Blood Dyed in Every Fold”. It follows an Orford Parish “flag club” (as it were) composed of fathers whose children have gone missing, and who blame a group of astral warriors for taking them. Drawing on a curious old witchcraft custom of Europe, the story evokes both laughter at the absurdity of the situation and pity for the poor, deluded (or are they?) men whose children have been taken. Breen cultivates a very strong voice for the narrative, whose sarcastic comments and snarky asides provide most of the humor in the tale.. No-one’s laughing at the end, though, in a sad and disturbing conclusion with an ambiguous final line that still has me puzzling.

One would think that Pastula’s baroque ghost story would clash with Breen’s dark comedy, but they don’t. The one actually compliments the other (and vice versa), highlighting the good qualities in the story it sits alongside.

The book ends with an appendix that echoes the introduction and gives a more thorough account of Orford Parish flag history. It’s a fascinating bonus, one of the little touches that (like the introduction) really make this book shine.

On the whole, I was thoroughly surprised and impressed by this addition to the Orford Parish Books canon, and was eagerly looking forward to the next book.

You can buy Old Gory: Two Tales of Flag Horror here.

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Three Moves of Doom: Weird Horror from Inside the Squared Circle
by Matthew M. Bartlett, Joseph Pastula, and Tom Breen

Split chapbook, round two!

When I heard that the next book’d be themed after wrestling, I was no longer surprised. That is, it’s not that I was expecting the book to be about wrestling, but I was expecting the book to have a somewhat unusual theme, and that’s what I got.

I also no longer had any doubt in my mind that the book’d be quality. Orford Parish Books had won me over; I was excited for the release and couldn’t wait to see what the team would do.

Speaking of the team, a new member was brought on: the reputable Matthew M. Bartlett, who we might’ve talked about before. This ratcheted up the excitement from ten to fifteen, and when the package finally arrived I tore it open like a ghoul going at a throat.

We jump right into the (mat) action with Bartlett’s “The Dark Match”. It tells of an unnamed man desperately fleeing his hometown of Leeds (and we all know what goes on there!) for the relative safety of a seaside town named Hulse (Bartlett names it in an interview, but not in the story). There he meets a bizarre old man who proceeds to tell him a remarkably grisly story of Hulse’s underground late-night wrestling shows. After the story is finished, our narrator realizes Hulse may not be as safe as he thought. The tale has an intense conclusion that leaves the reader disturbed.

Bartlett’s in fine form here, with his signature brand of surreal horror on full display and an eerie, rapturous prose that draws the reader across the page. It’s also nice to see a change of scenery from Leeds (as much as I love it!) with the decrepit seaside town that this story takes place in. I hope we see a lot more of Hulse in the future! This is a very strong start.

Then we have Joseph Pastula’s truly gruesome “A Severance of Roots”, a shudder-worthy title I didn’t realize the meaning of until writing this post. Our narrator finds an obscure mention of a particularly brutal wrestler called “the Great Hakai” and goes to great lengths to find out more about them. To say anything more would be to spoil the story and its effect. While there is no supernatural element, or even a direct threat to the narrators, the story is possibly the most unsettling in the book. The last paragraph, which isn’t even really a twist, left a cold feeling in my stomach. It mimics the horror of looking back at some terrible past event, the sharp shock of an unexpected monstrosity. I often get this sensation when reading Ambrose Bierce, who could write a horror story like no-one else. In a surprise knockout this entry wins my favorite of the book, despite the incredibly high caliber set by the other two entries.

Finally, we have “The Vision of James Lee Dawson, King of the Death Matches” by Tom Breen. This forms a nice middle ground between the quiet horror of “A Severance of Roots” and the balls-to-the-walls surrealism of “The Dark Match”. It follows a grizzled wrestling veteran to one of his last matches. His eerily quiet opponent, however, isn’t interested in the script. This is probably the biggest treat for those who actually watch and enjoy wrestling. It provides the thrill of the match with the horror promised by the book, and Breen’s characteristically sharp sentences are perfect in their succinctness (another Bierce-like trait). This also has a surreal scene, one of the most utterly strange images in the book (and “The Dark Match” is in this book, so that’s saying something) and a powerful defining image for this slim volume. The ending itself is quite poignant. It rounds things out wonderfully.

There’s another darkly comic faux introduction (attempting to answer the question “Is wrestling real?”), some funny fake bios, and incredibly creepy/hilarious interstitial material taking the form of 1950s-style ads. The services and products advertised are truly bizarre, and (like the bonus content found in Old Gory) add something special to the book.

Wrestling fan or not (and I’m not!), this book is for everyone. Really. I genuinely think anyone can enjoy this book. There’s compelling characters (“The Vision of James Lee Dawson, King of the Deathmatch”), chilling scenarios (“A Severance of Roots”), complete insanity (“The Dark Match”), and some comedy thrown in to lighten the mood (introduction/interstitial material/author bios). It’s an excellent volume that belongs on every shelf.

You can buy Three Moves of Doom: Weird Horror from Inside the Squared Circle here.

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And that’s everything OPB has released so far.

Their line-up is exciting. They’ve a folk horror anthology edited by S.J. Bagley coming out (submissions are still open, if you’re interested!) and their next split chapbook, Letters of Decline: Four Tales of Job Interview Horror (with Pastula and Bartlett returning, with the excellent Jonathan Raab and our very own Sean M. Thompson joining the crew), looks very promising.

Orford Parish Books is the breath of fresh air that the weird horror community needs. It’s funny, it’s weird, it’s scary, it’s quality, and it finds horror in the most unusual of places. I highly recommend you visit their website and their Facebook page.

Or, perhaps, you’d like to visit Orford Parish itself. Sure, it has a Facebook page too, but you want the town itself. I know a fellow who can draw you a map, if you’re willing to pay. He’s at the gas station, drawing circles in his blood, muttering about the ghost worms that eat his wife at night. Or something like that, no-one can understand his language anyway. But when you get the map, you just drive, and you’ll find your way there. You’ll never want to leave.

In Memory of “Salem” (2014 – 2016)

Tags

Folk Horror, Gothic, Halloween, Occult, Salem, Satanic, Television

(This was also posted on my personal blog, Devil Coven. If you haven’t watched Salem – well, watch it, but also beware of very, very mild – mostly censored – spoilers in the below article.)

It was seeing Robert Eggers’ chilling The Witch in February last year that really got me interested in classical Satanic witch lore. Viewing the film was followed by a dive into texts like Heinrich Kramer’s* Malleus Maleficarum, Francesco Maria Guazzo’s Compendium Maleficarum, Montague Summers’ A Popular History of Witchcraft, and so on.

One day, while lazily surfing on Netflix, I came across the first two seasons of Salem. I figured I’d watch it and see if there was any merit to it.

I generally don’t expect much from these types of shows; they usually a) have no respect or solemnity towards the hundreds of innocents that were tried, killed, and defamed as witches, b) have no understanding of the goldmine of material that the witchcraft topic provides, and generally go down a sort of “dark Harry Potter” route, and c) are generally trashy shows. I had similar problems with American Horror Story: Coven, which not even its strong leading cast could save.

So I put on the first episode, “The Vow”, not expecting anything of interest to occur. At worst it would be offensive, at best it would probably be mediocre.

First this happened:

And then there was this:

And there was also this:

And by the time this strange dark pilot was over, I had already given the show five stars.

The show has, ever since I saw it, been my favorite thing on television. It dodges all of the aforementioned problems – it has respect for those who died and acknowledges that they weren’t really witches, it has almost incredible faith to the folklore (right down the Malleus Maleficarum‘s weirdest, most NSFW chapter), and the characters are well-drawn and compelling.

It’s certainly an acquired taste. I appreciate that creators Adam Simon and Brannon Braga go totally out there with their witches. If you’re going to have a show about traditional European/early American witchcraft, you really just have to suspend your disbelief and go balls-to-the-walls. This is possibly the only show that could pull off a certain appendage being transformed into a crow without making me laugh out loud.

The performances, too, are outstanding. Shane West plays the leading man role with grit and intensity. Tamzin Merchant starts out as the innocent childish Anne Hale but beautifully captures the various changes that begin to occur in her life. Seth Gabel plays the Puritanical Cotton Mather, who may not be so bad after all (his father, on the other hand? Ha!), and excellently pulls off the part of the erudite scholar who gets way out of his depth. Oliver Bell, one of my favorite performers in the series, actually, is really very impressive as [spoiler] who later – in one of the most heartbreaking scenes I have ever seen in any medium – becomes [spoiler]. Ashley Madekwe plays one of my favorite characters, Tituba, and excels at it. Joe Doyle is wonderful as the archetypal Gothic prince, while Lucy Lawless – Jesus, she probably scared me more than any other character in a show populated by devils and monsters.

There are some lesser characters I haven’t covered (Elise Eberle, despite playing one of my least favorite characters in the show, does a lot for the role, as do Iddo Goldberg and Jeremy Crutchley; Samuel Roukin is really strange and menacing as Beelzebub; Xander Berkley is admirable as secret witch Magistrate Hale; Stephen Lang and Stuart Townsend and Michael Mulheren so on are all wonderful) – but there’s one cast member who’s the real star of the show. Janet Montgomery…Christ, will someone give this woman an award? She plays Mary Walcott, later Mary Sibley, and even later just Mary. I can’t talk too much about her performance without ruining it, but by God she’s amazing. She’s scary, sympathetic, sometimes quite funny, and always engrossing in her role as the Samhain** of the Essex Hive (or coven). She’s absolutely amazing and her performance alone is a reason to watch the series.

Many consider season one to be the weakest season; I never had a problem with it, and, upon rewatching some of the first half, still don’t see any glaring issues. If anything it was the first half of the third season that might’ve been a little clunky – it was certainly not bad, nor mediocre, but the pacing was decidedly slow and somewhat out of touch with the quick-moving action of its predecessors. This is more than made up for, however, with the second half.

There are some nice references here and there that the discerning eye can catch. There’s a rat familiar named “Brown Jenkins” after H.P. Lovecraft’s seminal Brown Jenkin (from my favorite of his stories, “The Dreams in the Witch House”) while the final episode has some subtle nods to his “The Thing on the Doorstep”. [spoiler]’s transformation in the final episode is redolent of John Carpenter’s The Thing. The witch couple in “Night’s Black Agents” for some reason remind me of Billy Crystal and Carol Kane in The Princess Bride. There are surely a few more, but these I won’t spoil.

Salem is emphatically not a documentary; while it incorporates a few real-life characters like John Alden, Cotton and Increase Mather, Giles Corey, etc., things never appear extremely accurate (compared to, say, the stunning verisimilitude of The Witch). But this is not at all a bad thing: the vision of 1690s New England presented is almost fairy tale-like, an imagined heightened reality that allows for some truly gorgeous costumes and a lot of eloquent (but not archaic) language. Real occurrences like the French-Indian War are frequently implemented, and there’s even some relevance thrown into the mix: in the third season, Salem is struggling from a refugee crisis.

The final episode, which aired last night, was really amazing. It left the door open for future stories while not leaving any loose ends and giving a satisfying conclusion. We found out [spoiler] was pulling the strings all along, and not everyone got their happy ending. I still feel bad about what happened to [spoiler]’s character at the end of season two, but he’s been gone a long time. The peripheral characters met their fates quickly. Poor, cruel [spoiler] did a lot of nasty things, though she certainly didn’t deserve that. But by God, that last scene is going to stay with me till the day I die. It’s one of the most bleak, pessimistic, utterly horrifying things I’ve ever seen. One reviewer described it as “soul-crushing”, which is probably the best way to describe it. I won’t spoil it for you. Just go watch the show. First two seasons are on Netflix and the third is on its way.

I was fortunate enough to see the creators, along with Janet Montgomery and Shane West, at 2016’s New York Comic Con. All of their responses were well thought-out and friendly, and everyone seemed like a really charming person. I was, unfortunately, much too shy to ask any questions, and, while I was dying to go to the signing, a family matter came up and we had to leave. I left very regretful that I never got to meet the gang, especially since that was probably my last opportunity to.

As the past year has been full of both external and internal drama, and I’ve needed something dark and weird to lift my spirits, Salem was a godsend. I’m fourteen years old, which is already a pretty awful time to be alive without all the extra nonsense thrown in, and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to find film/TV that sates my (decidedly niche) interests.

Salem did more than just sate those interests. It helped me get through a lot of stuff, and while I’m sad to see it go, I’m glad it got such a good ending (and that it even exists in the first place!). It’s as terrifying as The Witch and as intricate as Michael Alan Nelson’s Hexed (God. Can we get a Hexed TV series? Please?). It’s nightmarish and absurd and really beautiful and worth watching.

What are you waiting for?

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*“Heinrich Kramer’s“: there is dispute over whether or not Jacob Sprenger – attributed as co-author in many editions, including the original – actually contributed to the work.

**“Samhain“: the leader of a coven is referred to in trial transcripts as the “Grand Devil” or “Coven Devil”, but this often leads to confusion with Satan himself. Salem uses the name of the pagan festival from which Hallowe’en originated as the title for the master of a coven.

Walpurgisnacht 2016: Month of Bartlett Conclusion

Tags

Chapbooks, Collections, Dave Felton, Dim Shores, Dunhams Manor Press, Dynatox Ministries, Episodic, Folk Horror, Leeds, Matthew M. Bartlett, Michael Bukowski, Moloch House, Month of Bartlett, Muzzleland Press, Nathan Ballingrud, Sam Cowan, Satanic, Sean M. Thompson, WXXT, Yves Tourigny

Well, here it is! The final ceremony for the Month of Bartlett! Walpurgisnacht!

We had a great time. Some of my favorite people chipped in for posts, all of which floored me. Now for the conclusion.

I promised some big news, and hell, you’re getting it. But first…my review of all of Matthew M. Bartlett’s work. THEN you get the big announcement. If you can’t wait, skip to the end. But if you can, then I suggest you enjoy some pleasurable suspense.

THE WORKS OF MATTHEW M. BARTLETT

A COMPLETE REVIEW OF ALL MATTHEW M. BARTLETT’S PUBLISHED WORK

(as of April 2016)

THE COLLECTIONS

GATEWAYS TO ABOMINATION

You’re browsing on Amazon, looking for some quality, indie weird fiction. As you do this you stumble across a rather interesting book with very positive reviews. You read a few, and though they are quite favorable, you read two words that inherently evoke suspicion: “self-published”. So much self-published trash these days. But S.P. Miskowski, Scott R. Jones, Michael Wehunt, and Kristi DeMeester all gave it five-star ratings. You scroll back up and get a better look at the cover.

It’s of a town or a city, pleasant urban buildings nestled together amidst suburban touches of shrubbery. Quite nice, really, except there’s something strange – the buildings seem to be a collage of sorts, simple drawings crudely cut out of paper. The cover seems to be weathered, too, worn and used. A pulpy caption towards the bottom advertises sensational diabolism, next to a rather interesting logo reading “GARE OCCULT”. You see naught of this. It’s just a city. Except for a rather strange figure – but its hard to see what that is.

But no, not just a city – a dark shape looms above. It looks to be a radio antenna. But surely it is too large! Why, the largest building is not half its height!

And then you see the goat. It’s almost the same color as the background, so its difficult, but you make it out. Four-horned, smugly smiling, watching over the city with red scribble eyes. The figure near the city is the goat as well, now with a human body, welcoming you to the dark.

That cover art is by Katie Saulnier. That weathered, worn design and occult logo is by Tom Pappalardo. And that book is Gateways to Abomination by Matthew M. Bartlett.

It is quite difficult to categorize this book. The cover reads “Collected Short Fiction”, but I often refer to it as an episodic novel, though even this seems inaccurate. The book consists of pieces bordering on what you might call flash fiction, short-short pieces that read like fractured nightmares. But all share a loose connective tissue that ties them together.

There is a small suburb in Massachusetts named Leeds. And things have gone terribly wrong.

Take the opening piece, “the woods in fall” (all titles are in lowercase), only two and a half pages and not even the shortest in the book. A man is listening to his radio when the cat dials it all the way to the left. Something he hears makes him walk into the woods, where he meets a withered figure who promptly vomits worms. It’s strange and disorienting, yet it manages to sum up all of the connected elements of the book – Leeds, the woods, and the dark radio station WXXT.

Most pieces are the length of “the woods in fall”, if not shorter, with only a few delving into longer territory, but all of them – all of them – manage to punch you in the gut. Take “the ballad of nathan whiteshirt” – it’s only a little over one page, and still managed to be one of the most unnerving reading experiences of my life. Part of this is because of Bartlett’s language. One of the most poetic writers working today, Bartlett manages to make the words ooze off the page and infiltrate your senses. Some reviewers have described getting sick while they read the pieces, the most infamous being “the theories of uncle jeb”, where the titular uncle opens his cancerous navel to let onlookers see inside.

I AM Cancer, he’d intone, and he’d grasp the folds of his stomach, gaping wide his navel, which was never properly tied off (according to Father), stretching it wide, a hole you could pop a child’s head into (if you were of a mind), and the smell was low tide and sprawling arrays of fungus sprouting in the folds of a field of mildewed clothing, of dank basements and bile-strangled wells, carrion and the faeces of the squatting dead.

That is quite nauseating, as is “a world of lucretias and ledas”, where the narrator, Jebediah Blackstye, stares at the streaks in his long black stools.

The stories are interrupted by disturbing news transmissions from “Uncle Red”, who describes all sorts of grisly phenomena in the Leeds/Northampton area. Through these segments and others we learn that the dark influence of WXXT, a witch-cult who have gone to radio, has gone back to at least 1802, and quite probably earlier.

“the ballad of ben stockton” parts one and two describe a visit to the dentist gone horribly wrong. This one in particular is likely to unnerve anyone, as it goes right for the jugular of mutual discomfort. “when i was a boy – a broadcast” describes a young boy’s lust for a corpulent older woman, feeling almost painfully personal and disturbing. “the arrival” parts one and two – presented in reverse – introduce that goatish creature we saw on the cover, the sinister Ben Stockton, who carries an overwhelmingly oppressive air of menace about him. “the gathering in the deep woods” follows a man attending the titular gathering, while “cat-tails and rushes” describes the wreckage after an overwhelming fire. “the investigator” hints at a fascinating plot-line – WXXT’s battle with the F(ederal) C(ommunications) C(ommission), who will stop at nothing to end the witch-cult’s reign of terror.

Bartlett has an eye for the most upsetting images in literature – a dog with multiple and grotesque breasts, drowned men reclining in bathwater, two men grappling over a hook of meat – and yet there’s a darkly comic element to it. There are actual moments where you’ll laugh out loud, which makes the whole thing more unnerving. WXXT twists everything around it, and that doesn’t only include the book. It twists you, the reader, transforming your perception into an ungrounded nightmare.

It’s only appropriate, then, that the collection should end with “the reddening dusk”. Like the opening piece, it captures the essence of the book, but in a slightly different way. While “the woods in fall” was more of a  quiet horror story, “the reddening dusk” is a delirious fever-dream, rupturing the surface of reality into sheer horror. Reading it was almost a guilty experience for me, heightened by the fact that I enjoyed it so much.

As you can see, it has been difficult for me to form my thoughts on this into a coherent post. But know this – Gateways to Abomination is a terrifying experience of a book. I was literally disoriented after reading the book. It’s a masterpiece in any genre and it deserves your applause.

What – another book? That’s exciting…

Buy Gateways to Abomination here. Not “You can buy it” – BUY IT. I have no words to describe how completely freaking awesome it is, which is why this review was so disorderly. How could anything be better than this? How do you follow something like this up?

CREEPING WAVES

Gateways to Abomination floored me, but…Creeping Waves. WOW. I knew it was going to be good, but I never expected something like this.

First, you’ve got that Nick Gucker cover. Nick Gucker! Illustrator of gross and drippy phenomena! He doesn’t disappoint here. Look at all of the disgusting, Bartlettian phenomena – a ossuary WXXT booth, dancing embryos playing with a hanged man (this one is out of view, as its cut off by the spine), a man wrangling worms, a black Satanic snake, Ben Stockton beckoning a child whose mouth is crammed with tiny teeth…all under the landscape of a distorted fair, clownish monoliths rearing up to the sky. Holy hell.

Nathan Ballingrud provides a beautiful introduction, describing how Bartlett burst onto the scene and how he’s back with a vengeance in Creeping Waves. But, as wonderful as it is, it doesn’t even begin to cover the contents.

The book opens with an eerie prologue narrated by Ben Stockton, reminiscing on the genesis of WXXT and covering some ground for those who haven’t read Gateways to Abomination. It is followed by “Spring Thaw”, a short, creepy piece that hints at the horror to come. But the real fun begins with “Rampage”. It’s a dark story. A really, really dark story – one that seems to take some concepts from “path” (a story in Gateways) and warps them into a much more morbid idea. After “Rampage”, you’re doomed.

The book is much more intertwined than Gateways. The whole WXXT gang is back, and the FCC is still after them. What silly shenanigans will they get up to this time? Thematic elements from “Spring Thaw” are woven through the contents. A certain narrative – one about a faded cult leader named Vernon Golden – is serialized throughout the book, along with Anne Gare’s Rare Book and Ephemera Catalogue (discussed in the Companions section). There are sequels, prequels, references and opening chapters. Old ideas are elaborated upon, and new ideas rise along with them.

The book is considerably longer than Gateways, so I’ll focus on the more traditional narratives, the first of which is “Master of Worms”. A dark story about a twisted family patriarch, Bartlett starts off restrained before delving into unbridled surrealism. The opening scene is one of the most shocking things I have ever read.

Next up is “Night Dog”. Wow. This has to be one of the scariest stories in the book. A man named Wendell, working at the ominous Annelid Industries International, has his world turned upside down – no – has his world puréed in a goddamn blender by a strange man who proclaims horrifying revelations as the company meeting approaches. There were times during this story when I was thinking “No, no, NO” as things went from bad to worse to hopeless. Probably my favorite of the longer narratives.

Then “Rangel”, the next longer narrative, comes along. I think it’s safe to assume that this is Bartlett’s most successful story – it’s in the contents of the Year’s Best Weird Fiction Volume Three (ed. Simon Strantzas, series ed. Michael Kelly) and was considered by Ellen Datlow for her latest volume of the Best Horror of the Year. Not only that – originally published as a chapbook by Dim Shores (with creepy illustrations by Aeron Alfrey), it sold out of not one but two limited editions. Reading it, one can certainly see why. I’m not going to talk too much about the plot, but instead I’ll just say this: Halloween parade in Leeds. Something to see! This was my introduction to Bartlett, and look where I am now – reviewing all of his work…

“The Egg” is a deliciously nasty tale, probably one of Bartlett’s most brutal compositions to date. A family is raising chickens – they wanted pets, and chickens were just the best fit for them – and decides to leave the radio on for their comfort. Life lesson: chickens + WXXT = bad news. My description makes it sound almost comical, but trust me, “The Egg” is anything but – and it features one of the cruelest endings in literature.

“Little Leeds” isn’t that long, but I wanted to pause on it because…well, you’ll see. Bartlett has a story coming out soon that ties very smoothly into this, and…well, I don’t want to spoil the fun. A rebellious girl joins a group of teens in the woods. Needless to say, things get very strange very fast.

“The Purging of My Uncle’s House (The Time of the Black Tents)” is a continuation of “the sons of ben” from Gateways to Abomination. This tells of a grim family reunion in an old, secluded house, while some sort of dark ritual takes place outside in the woods. Dripping with mystery and terror, this is a highlight story in the book – and it also brings up more questions about the “Real Leeds”, a ominous location referred to throughout the book.

The exploits of Vernon Golden creep through the book. A bygone leader of a forgotten cult, he contacts the son of a couple who once were amongst his followers, telling him that he needs help fighting the devil in Massachusetts. Of course, nothing is quite as it seems, and the plot takes frantic twists and turns in a delightfully dark form.

The real climax to the book is “Baal Protects the King” (parts one and two). I honestly cannot bring myself to describe this story, and, to be honest, I don’t know if I even really could. It’s a onyx goblet brimming with blood, a raging hurricane of nightmarish imagery and haunting ideas. Its intensely disturbing scenery will stay with you for days after you read it.

Creeping Waves is, as of this date, Bartlett’s masterpiece. It’s…it’s…it’s the best thing ever. It’s the most distressing reading experience I’ve ever had. It’s dark, it’s devilish, and it’s disturbing.

I really can’t describe it better than that.

Buy Creeping Waves here on Amazon and here direct from Muzzleland Press, the publisher.

DEAD AIR

I’m not gonna spend too long on Dead Air since it’s no longer available to the public. Let’s just say that before Gateways and Creeping Waves, Bartlett published a book that reads like an embryotic version of both. It’s extremely rare and hard to find, but I suggest you try to track it down – it’s a treasure. While some pieces are recycled into the newer collections, most of it is basically new, and boy, is it a disturbing book. Since it is an older book, certain characters are almost radically different – Ben Stockton, for example, is more…human than his powerful, demonic contemporary. It also features many eerie photographs, some of which are found in Creeping Waves. But I digress – it’s an excellent book, but I shan’t taunt you with an unavailable book.

THE COMPANIONS

THE WITCH-CULT IN WESTERN MASSACHUSETTS

The Witch-Cult in Western Massachusetts features thirteen one-page entries, each about a dark figure who turns to occult forces. Not all of them have to do with Leeds, but the ones that do expand upon the WXXT mythology. For example – we learn more about old Anne Gare, who runs an ominous bookshop in the twisted town, while we also learn about Virginia Willaby, whose charming home was host to a horrifying event known as “Black Thanksgiving”. It also features absolutely gorgeous illustrations by artist Alex Fienemann, each depicting the witch in question. All of these creepy contents are thus wrapped up into a lovely-looking book, and is a must-own for fans of New England folklore (even though there are no actual folktales contained herein). I would find it hard to imagine that anyone wouldn’t enjoy this book.

Buy The Witch-Cult in Western Massachusetts here.

ANNE GARE’S RARE BOOK AND EPHEMERA CATALOGUE

Now sold out, this book contains several descriptions of evil tomes that Anne Gare possesses. Most of this material can be found in Creeping Waves, but some entries cannot, while Creeping Waves has some new entries of its own. Highlights include the Libellus Vox Larva, which, I think its safe to say, is the Necronomicon of Bartlett’s work; the Stockton Pamphlets, which detail the sinister activities of a colonial Leeds coven; and The Barkerton Parade and Others, a collection of shockingly violent horror stories. Some entries feature snide commentary by the cataloger – presumably Gare herself – which provides some humor amidst the darkness. Overall, a fantastic book. (As if you didn’t know I was going to say that.)

UNCOLLECTED SHORT FICTION

SPETTRINI (chapbook; limited ed.)

A KrallCon 2016 exclusive (though the story will appear in The Stay-Awake Men and Others, a collection coming this December), “Spettrini” focuses on the mysterious disappearence of the titular magician, and what his apprentice does in his absence. Sort of. I don’t think I really described that right, but the story is astounding in its execution. The standout here is how well Bartlett utilizes his descriptive powers. The atmosphere broods from the opening lines, and the setting is so strongly established that you can practically feel the cold night breeze. Since it was an exclusive it got a limited distribution, but I’m excited to see what people think about it when it’s included in the collection. It’s a fantastic story.

CARNOMANCER, OR THE MEAT MANAGER’S PREROGATIVE (Xnoybis #1, ed. Jordan Krall; limited ed.)

A grisly excursion into lust, murder, and meat, “Carnomancer, or the Meat Manager’s Prerogative” (also to be collected in The Stay-Awake Men and Others) follows a man who, working at a convenience store, gets entangled in the madness of the meat manager, Foxcroft. This is one of the nastiest stories I’ve ever read. It’s gruesome and dark – a gross look into the mindscape of a man who needs serious help. In a horrifyingly funny way, the story ends on an almost comical note – closing the story’s warped plotline, though the images and concepts will haunt the reader for a long time afterward.

FOLLOWING YOU HOME (The Siren’s Call eZine #20: Screams in the Night; available online here)

A super-short story, “Following You Home” crams more ideas into its meager two pages then some manage to weave into novels. Merrill, a socially awkward man at an uncomfortable New Year’s Eve party, leaves early, only to be stalked by a frightening figure indeed on his way home. Reminiscent of the best Ramsey Campbell stories, “Following You Home” features a realistic protagonist, a grotesque monster, and a terrifying ending that leaves the reader wondering.

MACHINE WILL START WHEN YOU ARE START (Resonator, ed. Scott R. Jones; available here)

Elaborating on “From Beyond”, this hilariously gross story tells of a creep working at Target who buys the “Tillinghast Masturbator” for sexual pleasure. Unfortunately, the results are kind of alien, and – against the box’s badly misspelled warnings – the guy starts to watch some porn to help along. This does not turn out to well for him. Like “Carnomancer, or the Meat Manager’s Prerogative”, the story ends comically – this time with a practical punchline, a genuinely funny ending that juxtaposes nicely with the earlier gruesome imagery.

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AND NOW…

…the big announcement…the one you’ve all been waiting for…

The Conqueror Weird is producing a full-length audio drama based on Matthew M. Bartlett’s critically acclaimed book Gateways to Abomination. Yes, you heard that right. It’ll be an audio book of sorts – a weird amalgam of readings, dramatizations, sound effects, and music.

The cast includes Andrew Leman, Sean Branney, Sean M. Thompson, Jose Cruz, Jonathan Raab, Sam Cowan, Matthew M. Bartlett, Brian O’Connell, and more. The production will feature a gorgeous original cover by acclaimed artist Michael Bukowski, along with interior artwork by Yves Tourigny, Dave Felton, and more.

You can listen to a sample track here, read by Sean M. Thompson.

Trailers are on the way, as is the cover. Gateways to Abomination is expected to be released by the Conqueror Weird’s record label, Moloch House, sometime in the summer of next year.

That’s all for the Month of Bartlett, leeches. More transmissions coming soon.

A portrait of Matthew M. Bartlett and his cat Larry by the inimitable Dave Felton, done especially for the Conqueror Weird.

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I’m not quite done yet. Just a few tidbits.

In May I’ll be reviewing these books:

• Greener Pastures by Michael Wehunt
• The Lure of the Devouring Light by Michael Griffin
• Orford Parish Murder Houses by Tom Breen
• Tomorrow’s Cthulhu, edited by Scott Gable and C. Dombrowski
• Cthulhu Lies Dreaming, edited by Salomé Jones
• A double Scott Nicolay review: Noctuidae and The Croaker
• The Operating Theater by Christopher Ropes
• A double review of Cody Goodfellow’s Rapture of the Deep and The Free School
• The Nameless Dark by T.E. Grau

Also, my first published story, “Woodland”, appeared yesterday in The Yellow Booke, Vol. Three, edited by Michael Kellermeyer. You can read it for free online here, but I hope you consider buying a paperback copy from Amazon here. It’d mean a lot.

“Woodland” is an unusual story. Written entirely in second person, present tense (even though there are a lot of flashbacks) and heavily inspired by the Bob Dylan song “Ballad of Hollis Brown”. It hints at some things that are coming. I hope you enjoy it (if you read it).

That’s all for now.

“America Bizarrica” by Tom Breen

Tags

Folk Horror, Leeds, Matthew M. Bartlett, Month of Bartlett, Orford Parish, Tom Breen, WXXT

“America Bizarrica”
by Tom Breen

Robinson Hale’s big break came courtesy of a book he bought from a bum in a shabby overcoat selling battered hardcovers from a blanket in Tompkins Square Park.

Hale liked the dust jacket – a stylized illustration of a man in what looked like a Pilgrim costume holding his hand up and averting his face from the viewer. Curious Lore and Customs of the Connecticut River Valley by Abel Pitkin looked almost contemporary, but it was published in 1929.

The book proved to be a treasure for Hale, who had been trying to place stories with America Bizarrica, the popular weird travel website within the vast “lifestyle platform” empire of Tub, once a scabrous fanzine and now a company that took in millions of dollars and put out high-quality Internet content for affluent people under 34.

America Bizarrica published long-form essays, photo slideshows, and crisply-edited video, and the only remit was to be strange and different, not just in tone, but in content from all the other “off the beaten path” and “weird America” sites with their gormless reports of giant balls of twine or the plaque marking the spot where George Washington once ate an entire onion. Best of all, America Bizarrica paid, and paid well.

The odd old collection of tall tales, folklore, and vituperative asides about local customs turned out to be Hale’s way over the wall of indifference that had greeted all of his previous queries to the website.

Like many similar collections published at the time, Pitkin’s looked backward, as electricity, indoor plumbing, and the automobile remade America, sweeping away folkways that in some places had endured since before the Revolution. But whereas many of his contemporaries looked back with nostalgia or tried, however vainly, to argue for the preservation of old customs, Pitkin seemed relieved that “the barbarous ways and verminous superstitions” of the country from Brattleboro south to Old Lyme were passing away.

He regarded with particular loathing two obscure towns in the valley, Orford Parish in Connecticut and Leeds in Massachusetts. While the book treated most of the region’s residents with condescending comedy as bumpkins, scolds, or credulous oafs, Pitkin’s tone sharpened when describing the folkways of Leeds and Orford Parish, and his descriptions took on the character of sermons preached by that  famous Connecticut River Valley divine, Jonathan Edwards.

Hale, though, was thrilled to read of Secret New Year in Orford Parish and the grotesque procession through Leeds on All Hallows’ Eve; of King-Kill House and Sorrow Falls and the Devil’s Wallet; of rituals to make rivals impotent and stories of witches who persisted long after the Salem days.

It was particularly exciting when Hale discovered there was relatively little written about the towns online. The weird travel sites seemed to be unaware they even existed, and in the major newspaper archives he could find only a scattering of short stories about crimes or disputed local elections.

With visions of a four-figure check dancing in his daydreams, he made his first trip north from Williamsburg one summer, to cover Orford Parish’s annual Fourth of July parade or, as the town called the event, “the Procession of Antique Horribles”. When the Bizarrica editor saw Hale’s video of grotesque costumes, fire eaters, drunks in Boy Scout uniforms sleeping on the sidewalk, and the leering, goatish effigy of Thomas Jefferson (“God of Democracy”) paraded through the town at the climax of the berserk celebration, he not only accepted the piece on the spot, but promised to pay for anything “half as weird”.

Following that success, Hale sold three more pieces to the website, all based on things Abel Pitkin had written back in 1929: “goblin money” on the streets of Leeds; Orford Parish elections in which only children could vote; and a phenomenon, in the Connecticut town, in which mayors seemed to disappear with alarming regularity.

In addition to paying his rent, the articles were starting to make a name for Robinson Hale, as they were picked up, rewritten, and spread to other websites, and the Internet began to awaken to the wondrous strangeness of Leeds and Orford Parish. Hale was amused to see his articles had even been noticed in the towns themselves: shortly after his fourth article was posted on America Bizarrica, he read online a letter to the editor of the Orford Parish Vituperator, the town’s shrill, eccentric daily newspaper, in which Hale’s piece was denounced by a reader.

“These fine fellows in Brooklyn City can chortle all they want at the good people of Orford Parish and Leeds, but they should be watchful, lest they find the joke is on them,” the letter concluded.

“Always nice to encounter a fan,” he wrote when tweeting out the link to his growing number of followers.

Two days later, Hale was on the road north from New Haven, crafting in his mind the book pitch about the towns he was sure a publisher would pounce on.

His new story would be the first to directly tie the two towns together, inspired by a passage in Pitkin’s book about something called “wolf stones”:

The early settlers of New England, much afraid for the disposition of their dead, would, in some remote places, resort at times to laying huge stone slabs lengthwise over freshly dug graves. The utility of this practice was in protecting the mortal remains of the deceased from wolves, which in those days prowled the region in great packs, and would, in times of scarce victuals, resort to digging in churchyards for flesh, however corrupt. This was at a time when almost no one was buried in a coffin, and when the proverbial ‘six feet deep’ was scarcely to be found in that rocky and unforgiving soil.

Wolves were extinct from southern New England by 1745, and the frugal Yankee, ever desirous of saving money and labor, was happy to lift the wolf stones from the grave and put them in the countless miles of stonewall that still girdle this part of the world. And so wolf stones followed wolves, and were gone from New England by the time of the Revolution. Today there are only a handful of these stowaways from history that remain in churchyards; a wolf stone in Old Mystic, Conn., and one at York Village in Maine. And there are two in the valley, in those unhappy towns, Leeds and Orford Parish.

The reason the stones have remained at Old Mystic and York Village appears to have been forgetfulness initially and historic preservation latterly, but the reason they are planted still in Leeds and Orford Parish differs, as those towns must. Such things cannot exist in places like Leeds and Orford Parish, pestilential villages fatted on unwholesome deeds, without black rumors attaching themselves, and indeed, it is attested very early in both places that the objective in placing the heavy slabs on the graves was not to keep wolves out, but to keep whatever was buried beneath from rising again.

Pitkin’s book gave the location of both stones, a Google search told Hale the two cemeteries were still extant, and with a terse but encouraging email from his editor, he was on his way from Brooklyn one bright morning in February.

The trip did not begin well. His experience in the Orford Parish cemetery – a tiny burying ground established in 1702 that was located on a twisty, forlorn road in the hilly southern end of town – was mildly unpleasant, and as he drove north on I-91 to Leeds, he consoled himself with the thought that at least it would make a decent anecdote for his story.

When he had arrived at the Connecticut burying ground, he had been nonplussed to find the wolf stone – easy to spot, exactly where Pitkin said it was – surrounded by a group of teenage girls, dressed in their age group’s uniform of skinny jeans and hooded sweatshirts. Not wishing to engage them in conversation, he pretended to study some of the other old stones in the cemetery, nearly all of which were eaten by lichen and cracked by centuries of New England winters, although on one he could make out the epitaph “And now Lord God almighty, true and just are all thy ways, but who can stand before thy cold?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he was startled to see the girls wriggling their jeans to their knees, and taking turns sitting on the wolf stone. He recalled Pitkin had said the stone was seen locally as a cure for infertility – actually, Pitkin had written it was seen as a cure for fertility, but surely that had to have been a typo. As Hale debated whether to try and get interviews about an apparently living folk custom versus the potential for being seen as a creep, a chunk of rock landed near him, and he heard sharp, mocking laughter from the gaggle of teenagers.

A Roman candle of panic went off inside Hale as he recalled Orford Parish had a reputation quite apart from the quirky, macabre superstitions recorded by Pitkin, one rooted in the mundane terrors of heroin and unemployment and violence. But the girls, having achieved whatever end they had in mind with the wolf stone, apparently threw the rock as a parting shot, for they soon left Hale alone in the cemetery to take his photos and hurry back to his car.

It was nearly 3 p.m. when he coasted into the center of Leeds, his phone’s GPS signaling that he had arrived at his destination, although the gnarled, tiny churchyard spotted in Google Streetview was nowhere to be seen. Instead, what confronted him at the address was a small, shabby brick building with a convenience store occupying the ground floor, a hand-written sign proclaiming “We Got ATM $ Cash” in the window.

Parking on the street, he looked in vain for anything that looked like it might be a churchyard, or park, or green space. Probably the convenience store clerk would know where to look, he thought, as he pushed the door open.

Inside, he found a tiny store whose wares appeared to have been organized by a tornado. Items seemed to have not so much been placed on shelves as flung there, and if there were some taxonomy to how they were arranged, he could scarcely imagine it.

There was no one behind the counter but standing in front of the beer cooler was a man plunked somewhere along the timeline of a hard middle age, regarding Hale with a dazed expression. The man clutched a plastic bag in one hand as the other attempted to hitch up his baggy, stained trousers, the cuffs of which engulfed the shoes he was wearing. An untucked dress shirt, garlanded with food stains, and a battered grey hooded sweatshirt completed his look, along with a stink that Hale registered as the likely bouquet of homelessness.

“Hi,” Hale mustered, in the politeness with which he had been raised. “Do you work here?”

“Roger’s taking a dump,” the man said in a glottal voice.

“I’m sorry?” Hale asked.

“Roger. The owner,” the man said, very slowly, as if each word were costing him money. “He’s taking a dump. He told me to watch the store while he’s out taking a dump. Hadda go across the street, ’cause he don’t have a can here.”

“Ah, okay,” Hale said. “Well, maybe you can help me out. I know this is going to sound weird, but I’m looking for a peculiar kind of old-fashioned gravestone. People, I guess, used to call it a ‘wolf stone’.”

He was about to elaborate further, but the man’s eyes flickered at the last two words.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Only, we call it something different. We call it, ah, that is…” and here he trailed off, as if thinking too hard about something.

“So…you know where it is?” Hale asked, the impatience in his voice almost imperceptible.

“Oh, sure,” the man said. “It’s in the basement.”

Hale paused, and his hopes plunged.

“Oh,” he said. “So, they removed the stone and … put it in storage?”

“Oh, no,” the man said, smiling to reveal a set of small, yellow teeth. “No, nobody’s ever removed that stone. No, you see, you see, ah, they used to, this whole block used to be a churchyard, you see. And then when they built up this block, they moved all the graves down the street, only they didn’t move that stone. They just built the building over it.”

This was better than Hale could have dreamed. You couldn’t get more America Bizarrica than that. His hopes were tempered only by his suspicion that the man before him was drunk, brain-damaged, or both.

“Is it something people can go see? Or should I wait for…Roger to come back?” he asked.

“Oh no. Go on down. The basement’s right there,” the man said, motioning over his shoulder to a narrow door on which a New England Patriots calendar from 2007 had been tacked and never removed.

Nodding, Hale tried to hold his breath as he squeezed past the man, only to exhale when his interlocutor held up the plastic bag he had been clutching. The smell from the bag was even worse than the stink coming off its owner, and Hale could see the insides of the bag were streaked with brown gore.

“Hey,” the man said. “You wanna buy some spare ribs? Best in town. Cut these just this morning. Make my own sauce. Ten bucks.”

“Uh, thanks, but maybe when I come back up,” Hale said, hurrying past.

He heard the man chuckle as he descended the stairs, flicking on a light switch as he went. When he reached the bottom, the basement was much larger than he had imagined, stretching not only under the convenience store but perhaps the whole block. Some areas of it were ringed with iron picket fences about three feet high, while stone slabs leaned against the whitewashed walls as far as the light would let him see.

About 20 feet from the staircase was a grave like the one he had seen in Orford Parish: a headstone resting on a dirt floor, with a white stone laid lengthwise over it. Removed from the burying ground setting, it looked like an art installation, and Hale forgot the unpleasantness of his encounter upstairs as he paused before it, trying to read the inscription on the wolf stone.

He traced his fingers in the shallow grooves, and mouthed the words he thought he felt there. “Taller Jeems will not be the man who will not,” he whispered, trying to make the words form a semblance of reasonable order, when the headstone toppled backward, shattering on the ground.

Startled, Hale scanned the basement and then moved quickly for the stairs, worrying that no one would believe he hadn’t pushed the stone over, trying to decide on a way to explain to – who? – that he wasn’t some vandal from New York, just a writer trying to tell a quirky story.

He was so distracted by his anxiety that he tripped over the tree root, thick as an elephant’s tusk, which lay at the threshold of the doorway. He tried to catch himself but fell, not on the greasy tile of the convenience store, but onto wet grass and spongy moss.

Leeds – the sad, low-slung brick buildings, the dusty cars at untended parking meters, the cheap diners and the crumbling old houses – was gone, and around him there was a forest, wild and tangled and shuddering with life.

Stumbling to his feet, he shook his head as if to reorder the sight before him to something comprehensible, but tripped again when glistening, ropey tendrils snaked from beneath a row of ferns to grasp at his ankles and wrists, probing his face, moving with vegetable indifference into his mouth, nose, ears, and eyes, pulling him down into the soft dampness.

He could see the trees above him fall, the brush cut away, the first crude houses spring up, and then sturdier dwellings, and then men in Colonial dress with solemn faces laying a huge stone over him, and then the roads grew broad and well-traveled, and the town disgorged its sons to die in war, and the rain fell on the corn, and the buildings were larger and the carriages disappeared as hard streets coursed through the town, and the river turned the wheels of a mill until the mill was no more and at last a vast antenna tower sprouted from where he lay and waved over the town as night came.

The last thing, before he was joined forever to the black soil of Leeds, was the sound of a radio crackling into life, its staticky tendrils testing the air, beckoning to the unwary.

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Tom Breen is a former newspaper and wire service journalist who lives and works in Eastern Connecticut. His short fiction has appeared in the anthologies Broken Worlds and Creepy Campfire Quarterly Vol. 2, and his chapbook, Orford Parish Murder Houses: a Visitor’s Guide (to be reviewed by the Conqueror Weird soon), was published in February, 2016. The best places to find him are Colonial graveyards in New England, or on Twitter as @TJBreen.

“In Leeds” by John Linwood Grant

Tags

Folk Horror, greydogtales, Leeds, Matthew M. Bartlett, Month of Bartlett, WXXT

“In Leeds”
by John Linwood Grant
with apologies to Matthew M. Bartlett

I won’t touch you, Matthew. Maybe it’s the sweat on your palms, the way your hands are shaking. Maybe I just don’t get the whole contact thing, the need to reach out. I didn’t have to reach out to bring you over, did I?

You can call me John. It’s easy on the tongue, if you have one. Some folk round here don’t, and they get along just fine.

Here? This is Leeds, Matthew.

Not your Leeds, of course. I’ve been there, and it’s a dark and dandy place, but it sings a different tune. Over there you’re too close to those silver-stringed gee-tars, those holy-rollers and a chance of redemption.

There’s no redemption here. No chance that if you turn that radio on, you’ll hear a preacher, or some sweet country gal with her panties dry and her momma’s cross hanging round her neck. The sounds on our airwaves are old, older than you’ve ever dreamed.

You hear that? That’s a legionary, pissing on a cross seventeen centuries ago, the night before the locals hooked out his guts and made him eat them. He was happy that night, because he was going home. He was leaving. Ten years of crotch-rot and sodden tunics, women – and men – whose diseases hadn’t even been thought of where he came from.

Not much has changed. We’ll drive a little, and I’ll show you.

These are the graveyards, edging the city, yellowed grass around soot-stained teeth. You can still read what it says on some of the stones. Twelve children, this one had, all dead before a year. Each tiny mouth chewed a part of her away, and she joined them before she was thirty. The cholera came that year, and played on her street, played hopscotch through the stinking refuse – this house, then that one.

See, she’s smiling at you. Or maybe not. That lower jaw’s probably somewhere round here, if we look hard…

No? Let’s go further in, then. Mills and homes, homes and mills. Each fed the other. Nothing Satanic about these mills, only the clatter of engines as they did the work of a fine new God. Limbs trapped in grinding gears, lungs clogged with fibre, backs breaking…

That man by the towering chimney? He’s no-one. Don’t nod, don’t look. He’ll unbutton his waistcoat and show you the cancers and ulcers that wealth bought him but wealth couldn’t cure. Wet things that cling to him still, whispering of new acquisitions and mergers, new sacrifices for the mills to the glory of…Leeds, I suppose.

There’s still money here, but it gathers in the fine quarters, chokes itself on cocaine and fancy gin.  Brass plaques on the gates, and women in tight leather trousers, vomiting their children into schools to make room for another handful of tablets and a top up.

The radio? You really have a thing about it, don’t you? Let’s see… here’s a channel you’ll like. A local channel for local people. Stanley Earnshaw and his Dancehall Tunes. There’s nothing like a nice bit of piano music on a damp night.

Maybe it doesn’t sound right yet, but you’re new here. Stanley lost his fingers in the ice and cold of the Baltic convoys. Each blackened digit came away with his Royal Navy woollen mittens, and now he plays much better, hammering the keyboard and weeping because his wedding ring is somewhere north of Riga and the sea doesn’t care.

Where does it come from? Out in the woods, maybe. No, I’m kidding. They say there are transmitters, but that’s not true. We don’t need them. Our Leeds carries sound like diseased blood speeds the virus. I could turn the radio off, and you’d still hear Stanley, crouched over his piano and smiling for the microphone.

We’re not going to the woods to look, no. You’ll have to trust me. Alder and birch crowd the streams, trees with hate in their thin bodies and a passion for drowning. I have to look after you, Matthew. If I don’t, you might not want to come again.

Instead, we’re going deeper into the city, past the cardboard, mould-infested estates where the white boys cry in their beds, ready for another day of spit and prejudice. Boys who drown cats because their fathers are too strong, or too absent, for the real violence to begin.

Victoria rules here, grief-swollen source of monumental buildings, expensive boutiques like fancy escorts next to huge, stately matrons. The small businesses, the second-hand book shops and the grubby sex-stores have been bulldozed to worship the mall, and the man you saw by the blackened chimney is here as well, a double-breasted, fashionable suit holding his sickness in, hiding the leeches which cling to his greed.

And here we are, nearer the river. They called us the Ladenses, the people of the fast flowing river, but we built too hard and too high for the river to win. Watch yourself, now, we’ve reached the infirmary, see?

A thousand crooked eyes of glass, scanning the streets for the smallest wound or bruise, hungry beyond measure. A mall and a mill, a maelstrom of victims, so brave, so brave. The arterial roads bleed ambulance-diesel, bringing home the sheaves. Don’t even dare a paper-cut while it’s watching. There are miles of low corridors, hissing steam pipes, alcoves piled with the broken footballers left from United’s surge to glory, old men whose hips rejected them and the children of tough love on every estate. You don’t want to go there.

But you do want to be here, in the shadow of the infirmary. Why? Because it’s all about you, Matthew, and Leeds, Massachusetts, and the sucking fear of that figure by the river. You know it, because you write its kind. Lank grey hair, plastered to an ulcerous scalp, while the Stocktons and Whiteshirts and Gares titter in the woods.

You made a slight mistake, Matthew, and maybe that’s why you came so easily when I called. Maybe that’s why I’m John, paving the way for your glory. And making sure that you carry on.

Get out of the vehicle and I’ll show you. She’s here, in this neat little medical museum, and she’s been waiting for you. She’s not yours, you see. She’s the Leeds witch, Mary Bateman, hanged for her gifts and her sins, and she knows her colonial brothers and sisters very well.  This is her skeleton, see, stripped of vanity, and around those bony feet the ant-men wait, guarding her until her skin returns.

They sold it, her skin, like swatches of cloth from the mills, like carpet samples from the malls. They stripped it from her in 1809, without a by-your-leave, but Mary knew that her time would come. She knew that you would come.

The ant-men are close, with their blades of broken glass, discarded scalpels from the infirmary. Their small eyes gleam red, like all good monsters, but they are kind, in their own way. They will only write on your skin this time, and mark it for future use.

What will they write?

Why, WXXT, of course.

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John Linwood Grant is the editor of greydogtales, a blog about lurchers, longdogs, psychic phenomena, and writing. His debut novel, A Study in Grey, is available here.

“The Hillbilly Moonshine Massacre” (Review)

Tags

Conspiracy Theories, Folk Horror, Jonathan Raab, Muzzleland Press, Novel

The Hillbilly Moonshine Massacre
by Jonathan Raab

I have a confession – I don’t enjoy conspiracy theories. I laugh at them outright, in fact. Maybe that’s a bad thing. Maybe that’s what the government wants me to think. And some areas fascinate me, of course – secret societies (for the record, the Illuminati was merely an atheistic organization that was persecuted by the church), Satanic cults, and the occasional alien abduction all pique my interest. But, for the most part, I tend to shy away from these kinds of stories, preferring either grander or more personal explorations of the Weird.

Lest I forget the potency of some of these conspiracy theories, I read The Hillbilly Moonshine Massacre by Jonathan Raab, courtesy of Muzzleland Press. I admit I was initially skeptical, but as soon as I had finished the first chapter I tossed these doubts to the wind. Massacre is an insanely fun journey through all sorts of conspiracy tropes, but it’s written like a more traditionally (forgive the expression) “serious” novel, a Ballingrudian mixture of pulpy adventure and literary formality.

Larry “Bucky” Green – a known moonshiner – needs to get arrested, but it seems like the FBI is overcompensating. Namely that the FBI is even involved, as well as the SWAT team. Unfortunately, it seems that this was not overcompensation but underestimation, and things go south quickly. Green escapes with a particularly sinister agenda – and a particularly nasty batch of moonshine.

Under the influence of this moonshine, one becomes cannibalistic and violent, turning on one’s fellows with the ferocity of a wild animal (Raab is careful to pull back the curtain slowly on this). As weirdness rapidly escalates in the lonely hills of Cattaraugus County, New York, a small band of heroes attempts to fight back against God knows what – a group including Sergeant Abraham Richards (really the book’s protagonist) and the quirky Sheriff Cecil Kotto, who hosts a late-night radio show exploring the very forces that threaten his town.

Muzzleland Press (did not publish this particular book, but since it is managed by Raab I connect the two easily) is going some great work in the horror/Weird field, and this book is no exception. It’s a delicate and delightful romp through every trope and weird legend imaginable – but, under the restraint and control of Raab’s beautiful prose, it seems fresh, original, and (above all) well-handled. It’s hard to say something like that for a book like this, but I can say it without certainty – this is a well-crafted book.

In fact, I’d consider it to be the Forrest Gump of horror – well, maybe not of horror, but this particular conspiracy-themed subgenre of horror, termed by Raab “high strange”. While Forrest Gump was an exploration of American culture through the mid-to-late 20th century, The Hillbilly Moonshine Massacre explores all (and I mean all) of the odd socio-political fears (i.e., the government turning against you, secret societies of dubious figures puppeteering behind the scenes) some people possess, as well as more traditional Lovecraftian horrors. It’s the Phillip K. Dick of high strange, an unusual, under-the-radar book of considerable quality.

Never before have I seen something like this attempted, and it’s hard to imagine we’ll see something like it again.

Although the above statement might seem like an exaggeration, it is true.

This, of course, should convince you to buy The Hillbilly Moonshine Massacre as soon as you can. One small disclaimer – something in the book’s printing must attract insects, for bugs seemed to swarm about me whenever I read it. In fact, just today, when I was looking back to certain passages, a rather large wasp-like pest (though it seemed to have traits of…well, I suppose, a lizard) stung me on the back of the neck. Oh, don’t worry, it didn’t hurt – it almost felt pleasant, and there seems to be no wound. But still, it gave me a lingering headache for a while…hm. So tired.

It’s actually giving me a headache just th…thinking about how…whuh…what’s happ…ugh…dv’iv lfg rm gsv srooh, mviwh. Blfi ullorhs tlevimnvmg nzb gib gl wvgvi fh uli z dsrov hl gsvb xzm fgrorav blfi nvzgb ulinh uli gsvri uizmpob fmvgsrxzo vckvirnvmgh, yfg gsvb’oo mvevi tvg irw lu fh. Zmw lmxv dv’iv lfg…

…yikes. Don’t know what THAT was about. Anyway, you can (and should) order The Hillbilly Moonshine Massacre here (on Amazon), or here from Muzzleland Press. Jeez, I hope that last stretch didn’t freak anybody out. I can’t help but thinking that there’s more weird stuff hidden in the review…

“‘Where is Abby?’ & Other Tales” (Review)

Tags

Cadabra Records, Folk Horror, Lee Brown Coye, Record, Vinyl

“Where is Abby?” & Other Tales
by Lee Brown Coye
Read by Robert Coye

The last remnants of the recent snowfall are outside, gently melting away. The sky, while not smothered by night just yet, is starting to darken. And “Where is Abby?” & Other Tales, an audio production from Cadabra Records, is playing on my record player in the corner.

Oh! Lee Brown Coye! What an amazing artist, one who perfectly captured the essence of nightmare in black-and-white! That seems to be the best descriptor: the pieces of artwork created by Lee Brown Coye are nightmarish visions, straight out of the depths of dream. They feature grotesque people and fearful shadows and distorted proportions.

But what’s this? Coye, a writer? Yes, my friends: Lee Brown Coye, famous illustrator of pulp horror stories, did indeed write stories. From 1964 to 1970, a series of short stories entitled “Chips & Shavings” were published in the Mid-York Weekly. They were peculiar and disturbing vignettes, one that left indelible impressions on the mind long after the paper was put down and the fire had burned out.

The stories have been difficult to find for so long, but Cadabra Records has unearthed some of the finest tales from that wonderful series and has recorded them for audio, read by none other than Coye’s son, Robert.

And how successful it is! The majority of the stories are not necessarily supernatural, but starkly and unblinkingly disturbing, with a gruesome vein of humor reminiscent of the EC Comics. Take the grisly yarn of “What Remained of Margaret Rogers”, about the burial of the fattest woman on Earth, or the poems “…and Portions of Hannah” and “The Undertaker”, two tongue-in-cheek shorts with endings that will certainly bring a dark smile to one’s face. Coye retells the actual legend of the Lincoln Train, and though the story has been done to death, his eloquent language made it seems original. “Where is Abby?” (the entirety of which you can listen to here) is the perfect tone-setter for the record, a nasty tale of winter nightmares and what could be lying under the snow.

My personal favorite of the record, “The Cradle”, is not supernatural at all, and does not have any supernatural elements, yet it manages to disturb me incredibly deeply. This is my first day with the record, so I shall not be surprised if I suffer from nightmares tonight. There is a particular image which has been sticking with me since I first heard it, and it certainly ties in with Coye’s fascination with the grotesque.

That’s a theme that runs through the stories – the grotesque. The record runs amok with exaggerated characters: the obese, the senile, even the short. This is not a disadvantage; it in fact assists the nightmarish quality of the stories.

Robert Coye does not fail to impress. His voice is plain, casual, warm, as if he were relating these horrific tales sitting next to the fire. It is thus appropriate that there is no music or sound effects on the record – these tales are meant to be stark and unelaborate, as opposed to, say, the neo-Gothic extravagances of Lovecraft. This is more Bierce than Lovecraft – uneasy curiosities and macabre local legends. This is not the drama of Andrew Leman; this is the voice of an old-timer telling you something that happened many years ago in a small town. This, again, works to the record’s favor: not just because of Coye’s excellent narration (I am very glad that they include signed prints with their orders!), but because of the stark sound design. It is, perhaps, best appreciated on vinyl (normal or special edition), but one is also available to grab a CD if one wishes to do so. Either way, it is a must-have for any horror fan.

The sky is completely dark now. Coye is relating the ghastliness of obese Margaret Rogers’ death. The snow outside is pale and frozen, and, if I squint my eyes, I can almost see a slick, damp shoe, just rising out of the icy white.