Fields of Mars
By Scott Wilson
Word Count 2147
It was nearly dusk when I drew close to the Gas Fields, and already the scarlet vapors were about, riding across the sunken levels like restless ghosts in a graveyard. Though I had set forth in a mood of wild delight, I had sobered in the lonely ride across the fields of Mars and was now uneasily edgy and somewhat frightened. As my speeder jerked down the dusty slopes that fell away to the jaws of the gas fields I could see thin streams of mist rise slowly, hover like wraiths above the moist red ground, and then, turning gradually more material, go blowing heavily away across the flat. The appearance of the place at this desolate hour, so remote from human society and so darkly significant of evil presences, struck me with a certain wonder that she should have chosen this spot for our meeting.
She was a familiar of the Gas Fields, where I had invariably encountered her; but it was like her arrogant caprice to test my devotion by some such dreary assignation. The wide and horrid prospect depressed me beyond reason, but the fact of her neighborhood drew me on, and my spirits mounted at the thought that at last she was to put me in possession of herself. Tethering my speeder upon the verge of the Gas Fields, I soon discovered the path that crossed it, and entering struck out boldly for the heart. The track could have been little used, for the natural red mounds of Martian Ant hills, which stood high above the level of my eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere across in low arches, through which I dodged, and broke my way with some inconvenience and much impatience. A full half hour I was solitary in that wilderness, and when at last a sound other than my own footsteps broke the silence the dusk had fallen.
I was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition, which it seemed to me now must surely be a cruel jest she had played upon me. While some such reluctance held me, I was suddenly arrested by a hoarse croaking which broke out upon my left, sounding somewhere from the ant hills in the gas streams. A little further it came again from close at hand, and when I had passed on a few more steps in wonder and perplexity, I heard it for the third time. I stopped and listened, but the Gas Fields were as a grave, and so taking the noise for the signal of some alien froglike creature that inhabited the desolate fields, I resumed my way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, and coming quickly to a stand I pushed the ant hills aside and peered into the darkness. I could see nothing, but at the immediate moment of my pause I thought I detected the sound of somebody trailing through the thick wisps of cloudy red gas. My distaste for the adventure grew with this suspicion, and had it not been for my delirious infatuation I had assuredly turned back and sped home. The ghastly sound pursued me at intervals along the track, until at last, irritated beyond endurance by the sense of this persistent and invisible company, I broke into a sort of run.
This, it seemed, the creature (whatever it was) could not achieve, for I heard no more of it, and continued my way in peace. My path at length ran out from among the ant hills upon the smooth flat of which she had spoken, and here my heart quickened, and the gloom of the dreadful place lifted. The flat lay in the very centre of the Gas Fields, and here and there in it a gaunt bush or withered tree rose like a specter against the scarlet mists. At the further end I fancied some kind of building loomed up; but the fog which had been gathering ever since my entrance upon the passage sailed down upon me at that moment and the prospect went out with suddenness. As I stood waiting for the clouds to pass, a voice cried to me out of its centre, and I saw her next second with bands of mist swirling about her body, come rushing to me from the darkness. She put her long arms about me, and, drawing her close, I looked into her liquid silver like eyes. Far down in them, it seemed to me, I could discern a mystic laughter dancing in the wells of light, and I had that ecstatic sense of nearness to some spirit of fire which was wont to possess me at her contact.
"At last," she said, "at last, my beloved!" I caressed her.
"Why," I said, tingling at the nerves, "why have you put this dolorous journey between us? And what mad freak is your presence in this Gas Fields?" She uttered her cold laugh, and nestled to me again.
"I am the creature of this place," she answered. "This is my home. I have sworn you should behold me in my native sin here you ravished me away."
"Come, then," I said; "I have seen; let there be an end of this. I know you, what you are. This alien field chokes up my heart. I don’t want you to spend more of your days here. Come."
"You are in haste," she cried. "There is yet much to learn. Look, my lover," she said, "you who know me, what I am. This is my prison, and I have inherited its properties. Have you no fear?"
For answer I pulled her to me, and her warm lips drove out the horrid humors of the night; but the swift passage of a flickering mockery over her eyes struck me as a flash of lightning, and I grew chill again.
"I have the Martian gas in my blood," she whispered: "the toxins and the fog of it. Think ere you vow to me, for I am the cloud in a starry night."
A lithe and lovely creature, palpable of warm flesh, she lifted her magic face to mine and besought me plaintively with these words. The dews of the nightfall hung on her lashes, and seemed to plead with me for her forlorn and solitary plight.
"Behold!" I cried, "Demon or devil of the Gas Field, you shall come with me! I have known you on the Gas Fields, a roving apparition of beauty; nothing more I know, nothing more I ask. I care not what this dismal haunt means; not what these strange and mystic eyes. You have powers and senses above me; your sphere and habits are as mysterious and incomprehensible as your beauty. But that," I said, "is mine, and the world that is mine shall be yours also."
She moved her head nearer to me with an antic gesture, and her gleaming eyes glanced up at me with a sudden flash, the semblance of a hooded viper. Starting, I fell away, but at that moment she turned her face and set it fast towards the fog that came rolling in thick volumes over the flat. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon us, and all dazed and troubled I watched her watching it in silence. It was as if she awaited some omen of horror, and I too trembled in the fear of its coming.
Then suddenly out of the night issued the hoarse and hideous croaking I had heard upon my passage. I reached out my arm to take her hand, but in an instant the mists broke over us, and I was groping in the vacancy. Something like panic took hold of me, and, beating through the blind obscurity, I rushed over the flat, calling upon her.
In a little the swirl went by, and I perceived her upon the margin of the Gas Fields, her arm raised as in imperious command. I ran to her, but stopped, amazed and shaken by a fearful sight. Low by the crimson ant hills crouched a small squat thing, in the likeness of a monstrous frog, coughing and choking in its throat. As I stared, the creature rose upon its legs and disclosed a horrid human resemblance. Its face was scarlet and thin, with long black warty tendrils similar to hair; its body gnarled and twisted as with the age of a thousand years. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing a skeleton finger at the woman by my side.
"Your eyes were my guide," it quavered. "Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your eyes? Lo, is there aught of evil in you I am not instructed in? This is the Hell you designed for me, and now you would leave me to a greater."
The wretch paused, and panting leaned upon a scarlet mound, while she stood silent, mocking him with her eyes, and soothing my terror with her soft touch.
"Hear!" he cried, turning to me, "hear the tale of this woman that you may know her as she is. She is the Presence of the Gas Fields of Mars. Woman or Devil I know not, but only that the accursed fields have crept into her soul and she herself is becomes its Evil Spirit; she herself, that lives and grows young and beautiful by it, has its full power to blight and chill and slay. I, who was once as you are, have this knowledge. What bones lie deep in this black Gas Fields who can say but she? She has drained of health, she has drained of mind and of soul; what is between her and her desire that she should not drain also of life? She has made me a devil in her Hell, and now she would leave me to my solitary pain, and go search for another victim. But she shall not!" he screamed through his chattering teeth; "she shall not! My Hell is also hers! She shall not!"
Her smiling untroubled eyes left his face and turned to me: she put out her arms, swaying towards me, and so fervid and so great a light glowed in her face that, as one distraught of superhuman means, I took her into my embrace. And then the madness seized me.
"Woman or devil," I said, "I will go with you! Of what account this pitiful past? Blight me even as that wretch, so be only you are with me."
She laughed, and, disengaging herself, leaned, half-clinging to me, towards the coughing creature by the ant hills.
"Come," I cried, catching her by the waist. "Come!" She laughed again a cold-ringing laugh. She moved with me slowly across the flat to where the track started for the portals of the Gas Fields. She laughed and clung to me.
But at the edge of the track I was startled by a shrill, hoarse screaming; and behold, from my very feet, that loathsome creature rose up and wound his long black arms about her shrieking and crying in his pain. Stooping I pushed him from her skirts, and with one sweep of my arm drew her across the pathway; as her face passed mine her eyes were wide and smiling. Then of a sudden the still mist enveloped us once more; but ere it descended I had a glimpse of that contorted figure trembling on the margin, the scarlet face drawn and full of desolate pain. At the sight an icy shiver ran through me. And then through them yellow gloom the shadow of her darted past me to the further side. I heard the hoarse cough, the dim noise of a struggle, a swishing sound, a thin cry, and then the sucking of the geysers over something in the mist. I leapt forward: and once again the fog thinned, and I beheld her, woman or devil, standing upon the verge, and peering with smiling eyes into the wispy crimson clouds of gas. With a sharp cry wrung from my nerveless soul, I turned and fled down the narrow way from that accursed spot; and as I ran the thickening fog closed round me, and I heard far off and lessening still the cold sound of her mocking laughter.
Why she had not shown her true nature to me in the preceding months of our courtship, I do not know; nor do I know why now she revealed her alter ego to me at this time. I do know that I have never returned to the Fields of Mars again and never will, lest I encounter this demon again and loose my soul to its evil charms.
THE END
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Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Practice
The Practice
By Scott Wilson
Word Count" 8115
In the year 2858 I had established a flourishing practice in Hampvale; a practice which I owed a considerable portion of, not to my ability, I am afraid, but to the fact that I occupied the singular position of a man professional, who was entirely independent of his profession.
Doubtless, had I been a poor man, struggling to earn a bare existence for wife and family, I might have been the cleverest physician that ever administered a bolus, yet have remained in my poverty to the end of time. But it was not so, you see. I was the second son of a nobleman, and had honorable attached to my name; and I practiced the profession solely and entirely because I had become enamored of it, and because I was disgusted at the useless existence of a fashionable and idle young man, and determined that I, at least, would not add another to their ranks.
And so I had a handsome establishment in a fashionable portion of the city, and my door was besieged with grav-mobiles, from one end of the week to the other. Many of the occupants were disappointed, however, for I would not demean myself by taking fees from some vaporize Miss or dissipated Dowager. Gout in vain came rolling to my door, even though it excruciated the leg of a Duke; I undertook none but cases that enlisted my sympathy, and after a time the fact became known and my levees were not so well attended.
One day I was returning on grav-mobile toward the city. I had been paying a visit to a patient in whom I was deeply interested, and for whom I had ordered the quiet and purer air of a rural residence. I had reached a spot in the neighborhood of Kale, where the villas were enclosed in large Bio-domes. On the opposite side of the road stood a small outlander-looking inn, which I had patronized before, and I pulled up my grav-mobile and alighted, for the purpose of having some rest and refreshment after my journey.
As I sat in a front room sipping my sweat ale and bitters, my thoughts were fully occupied with a variety of personal concerns. I had received a letter from my mother that morning, and the condition of the patient I had recently left was precarious in the extreme.
It was fortunate that I was thought-occupied and not dependent upon outward objects to amuse them, for although the window at which I sat was open, it presented no view whatever, save the bare, blank, frosted-glass wall belonging to a house at the opposite side of the road. That is to say, I presume, it enclosed some residence, for from where I say not even the top of a roof was visible.
Presently, however, the sound of vehicles attracted my eyes from the pattern of the wall-paper at which I had been unconsciously gazing, and I looked out to see a handsome, but very plain grav-grav-carriage drawn up at a small door that pierced the glass wall I have alluded to; and almost at the same moment the door opened and closed again behind two figures in a most singular attire. They were both of the Carlgeery Race, and one of them was the servant; but it was the dress of these persons that most strangely interested me. They were attired in silver from head to heel; coats, vests, trousers, hats, shoes, not to speak of shirts at all, all were silver as mercury.
While I stared at this strange spectacle, the gentlemen stepped into the vehicle; but although he did so the coachman made no movement toward driving onward, nor did the attendant leave his post at the grav-carriage door. At the expiration, however, of about a quarter of an hour, the servant closed the door and re-entered through the little gate, closing it, likewise, carefully behind him. Then the driver leisurely made a start, only, however, to stop suddenly again, when the door of the vehicle was burst open and a gentleman jumped out and rapped loudly at the gate.
He turned his face hurriedly around as he did so, hiding, it seemed to me, meanwhile, behind the wall so as not to be seen when it opened.
Judge of my astonishment when I recognized in this gentleman the one who had but a few minutes before entered the grav-carriage dressed in silver, for he was now in garments of the hue of Erebus. While I wondered at this strange metamorphosis, the door in the wall opened, and the gentleman, now attired in black, after giving some hasty instructions to the servant, sprang once more into the grav-grav-carriage and was driven rapidly toward Hampvale.
My curiosity was strangely excited; and as I stood at the door before hoping in my vehicle, I asked the landlord who and what the people who occupied the opposite dwelling were.
"Well, sir," he replied, looking curiously at the dead wall over against him. "They've been there now a Maddoxter of six months, I dare say, and you've seen as much of them as I have. I believe the whole crew of them, servants and all is outlander of a kind, and we, that are the neighbors around, sir, calls them the silver mad people.'"
"What! Do they always wear that singular dress?"
"Always, sir, saving as soon as ever the old gentleman goes outside and puts black on in the grav-carriage, and as soon as he comes back takes it off again, and leaves it in the grav-carriage."
"And why in the name of gracious does he not dress himself inside?"
"Oh, that I can't tell you, sir! Only it's just as you see, always.
The driver or coachman never even goes inside the walls or the vehicles of any one thing that isn't silver in color, sir; and if the people aren't mad after that, what else can it be?"
"It seems very like it, indeed; but do you mean to say that everything inside the garden wall is silver? Surely you must be exaggerating a little?"
"Not a bit on it, sir! The coachman, who can't speak much English, sir, comes here for a drink now and then. He doesn’t live in the house, you see, and is idle most of his time. Well, he told me himself, one day, that every article in the house was silver, from the garret to the drawing-room, and that everything outside it is silver I can swear, for I saw it myself, and a stranger sight surely no eye ever saw."
"How did you manage to get into the enchanted castle, then?"
"I didn't get in sir; I only saw it outside, and from a place where you can see for yourself too, if you have a mind. When first the people came to the place over there, you see, sir, old Maddox the sexton and bell-ringer of the church there, began to talk of the strange goings on he had seen from the belfry; and so may curiosity took me there one day to look for myself. Blest if I ever heard of such a strange sight! No wonder they call them the silver mad folk."
"Well, you've roused my curiosity," I said, as I got on my vehicle, "and I'll certainly pay old Maddox's belfry a visit the very next time I pass this way, if I'm not hurried."
It appeared unaccountable to even myself that these mysterious people should make such a singular impression on me; I thought of little else during the next two days. I attended to my duties in an absent manner, and my mind was ever recurring to the one subject--viz. an attempt to account for the strange employment of one hue only in the household of this foreign gentleman. Of whom did the household consist? Had he any family? And could one account for the eccentricity in any other way save by ascribing it to lunacy, as mine host of the inn had already done. As it happened, the study of brain diseases had been my hobby during my novitiate, and I was peculiarly interested in observing a new symptom of madness, if this was really one.
At length I escaped to pay my country patient his usual visit, and on my return alighted at the inn, and desired the landlord to have my vehicle put in the garage for a bit.
"I'm going to have a peep at your madhouse," I said, "Do you think I shall find old Maddox about?"
"Yes, doctor; I saw him at work in the churchyard not half an hour ago, but at any rate he won't be farther off than his cottage, and it lies just against the yard wall."
The church was an old, ivy-wreathed structure, with a square Norman belfry, and a large surrounding of grey and grass-grown old headstones. It was essentially a country church, and a country churchyard; and one wondered to find it so close to the borders of a mighty city, until they remembered that the mighty city had crept into the country, year by year, until it had covered with stone and mortar the lowly site of many a cottage home, and swallowed up many an acre of green meadow and golden corn. Old Maddox was sitting in the middle of the graves; one tombstone forming his seat, and he was engaged in scraping the moss from a headstone that seemed inclined to tumble over, the inscription on which was all but obliterated by a growth of green slimy-looking moss.
"Good-day, friend, you are busy," I said. "One would fancy that stone so old now, that the living had entirely forgotten their loss. But I suppose they have not, or you would not be cleaning it."
"It's only a notion of my own, sir; I'm idle, and when I was a lad I had a sort o' likin' for this stone, Lord only knows why. But you see I've clean forgotten what name was on it, and I thought I'd like to see."
"Well, I want to have a look at these 'silver mad folk' of yours, Maddox, will you let me into the belfry? Mr. Gorgeoloft tells me you can see something queer up there."
"By jove you can, sir!" he replied, rising with alacrity. "I often spend an hour watching the mad folk; faith if they had my old church and yard they'd silverwash 'em, belfry and all!" and the old man led the way into the tower.
Of course my first look on reaching the summit was in the direction of the strange house, and I must confess to an ejaculation of astonishment as I peeped through one of the crevices. The belfry was elevated considerably above the premises in which I was interested, and not at a very great distance, so that grounds and house lay spread beneath me like a map.
I scarcely know how to commence describing it to you, it was something I had never seen or imagined. The mansion itself was a square and handsome building of two stories, built in the Corinthian style, with pillared portico, and pointed windows. But the style attracted my attention but little, it was the universal silver, silver everywhere that drew from me the ejaculation to which I have alluded.
From the extreme top of the chimneys to the basement, roof, windows, everything was pure silver; not a shade lurked even inside a window; the windows themselves were painted silver, and the curtains were of silver muslin that fell over every one of them. Every yard of the broad space that one might reasonably have expected to see decorated with flowers and grass and shrubberies, was covered with a glaring and sparkling silver gravel, the effect of which, even in the hot brilliant sun of a Hampvale afternoon, was to dazzle, and blind, and aggravate.
And as if this was not enough, the inside of the very brick walls was silverwashed like liquid steel, and at intervals, here and there, were placed a host of silver marble statues and urns that only increased the, to me, horrible aspect of the place.
"I don't wonder they are mad!" I exclaimed, "I should soon become mad in such a place myself."
"Like enough, sir," replied old Maddox, stolidly, "but you see it didn't make the mad, for they did it themselves, so they must 'a been mad afore."
An incontrovertible fact, according to the old man's way of putting it; and as I had no answer for it, I went down the old stone stairs, and having given my guide his donation, left the churchyard as bewildered as I had entered it. Nay, more so, for then I had not seen the extraordinary house that had made so painful an impression upon me.
I was in no humor for a gossip with mine host, but just as I was about to hop in my vehicle, which had been brought round, the same grav-carriage drove round to the mysterious gate, and the same scene was enacted to which I had before been a witness. I drew back until the old gentleman had stepped inside and performed his toilet, and when the grav-carriage drove rapidly toward the city, I drove thoughtfully onward toward home.
I was young, you see, and although steady, and, unlike most young gentlemen of my age and position in society, had a strong vein of romance in my character. That hard study and a sense of its inutility had kept it under, had not rendered it one whit less ready to be at a moment's call; and, in addition to all this, I had never yet, in the seclusion of my student life, met with an opportunity of falling in love, so that you will see I was in the very best mood for making the most of the adventure which was about to befall me, and which had so tragic a termination.
My thoughts were full of the "Silver mad folk," as I reached my own door; and there, to my utter astonishment, I saw drawn up the very grav-carriage of the silver house, which had preceded me. Hastily giving my vehicle to the valet I passed through the hall and was informed by a servant that a gentleman waited in my private consulting-room.
Very rarely indeed had my well-strung nerves been so troublesome as upon that occasion; I was so anxious to see this gentleman, and yet so fearful of exposing the interest I had already conceived in his affairs, that my hand absolutely trembled as I turned the handle of the door of the room in which he was seated. The first glance, however, at the aristocratic old gentleman who rose on my entrance, restored all my self-possession, and I was myself once more. In the calm, sweet face of the perfectly dressed gentleman before me there was no trace of the lunacy that had created that strange abode near Kale; the principal expression in his face was that of ingrained melancholy, and his deep mourning attire might have suggested to a stranger the reason of that melancholy. He addressed me in perfect English, the entire absence of idiom alone declaring him to be a foreigner.
"I have the pleasure of addressing Doctor Elveston?" he said.
I bowed, and placed a chair in which he re-seated himself, while I myself took possession of another.
"And Doctor Elveston is a clever physician and a man of honour?"
"I hope to be worthy of the former title, sir, while my position ought at least to guarantee the latter."
"Your public character does, sir," said the old gentleman, emphatically, "and it is because I believe that you will preserve the secret of an unfortunate family that I have chosen you to assist me with your advice."
My heart was beating rapidly by this time. There was a secret then, and I was about to become the possessor of it. Had it anything to do with the mania for silver?
"Anything in my power," I hastened to reply, "you may depend on; my advice, I fear, may be of little worth, but such as it is--"
"I beg your pardon, Doctor," interrupted he, "it is your medical advice that I allude to, and I require it for a young female relative."
"My dear sir, that is, of course, an everyday affair, my professional advice and services belong to the public, and as the public's they are of course yours."
"Oh, my dear young friend, but mine is not an everyday affair, and because it is not is the reason that I have applied to you in particular. It is a grievous case, sir, and one which fills many hearts with a bitterness they are obliged to smother from a world whose sneers are poison."
The old gentleman spoke in tones of deep feeling, and I could not help feeling sorry for him at the bottom of my very heart.
"If you will confide in me, my dear sir," I said, “believe that I will prove a fiend as faithful and discreet as you could wish."
He pressed my hand, turned away for a moment to collect his agitated feelings and then he spoke again.
"I shall not attempt to hide my name from you sir, though I have hitherto carefully concealed it. I am the Duke la Efenite, and circumstances, which it is impossible for me to relate to you, have driven me to Tanderall to keep watch and ward over my sister's daughter, the Duchess Candimore. It is for this young lady I wish your attendance; her health is rapidly failing within the last week."
"Nothing can be simpler," I observed, eagerly, "I can go with you at once--this very moment."
"Dear Doctor, it is unfortunately far from being as simple a matter as you think," he replied, solemnly, "for my wretched niece is mad."
"Mad!"
"Alas! Yes, frightfully--horribly mad!" and he shuddered as if a cold wind had penetrated his bones.
"Has this unhappy state of mind been of long duration?" I questioned.
"God knows; the first indication her friends had of it was about two years ago, when it culminated in such a fearful event that horrified them. I cannot explain it to you, however, for the honor of a noble house is deeply concerned; and even the very existence of the unfortunate being I beg of you to keep a secret forever."
"You must at any rate tell me what you wish me to do," I observed, "and give me as much information as you can guide me, or I shall be powerless."
"The sight of one color has such an effect on the miserable girl that we have found out, by bitter experience, the only way to avoid a repetition of the most fearful tragedies, is to keep every hue or shade away from her vision; for, although it is only one color that affects her, any of the others seems to suggest that one to her mind and produce uncontrollable agitation. In consequence of this she is virtually imprisoned within the grounds of the house I have provided for her, and every object that meets her eye are silver, even the ground, and the very roof of the mansion."
"How very strange!"
"It will be necessary for you, my dear sir," the Duke continued, "to attire yourself in a suit of silver. I have brought one in the grav-carriage for your use, and if you will now accompany me I shall be grateful."
Of course I was only too glad to avail myself of the unexpected opportunity of getting into the singular household, and becoming acquainted with the lunatic Duchess; and in a few moments we were being whirled on our way toward Kale.
On stopping at the gate of the Duke's residence, I myself became an actor in the scene which had so puzzled me on two previous occasions.
My companion produced two suits of silver, and proceeded to turn the vehicle into a dressing-room, though not without many apologies for the necessity. I followed his example, and in a few moments we stood inside the gate, and I had an opportunity of more closely surveying the disagreeable enclosure I had seen from the church belfry. And a most disagreeable survey it was; the sun shining brilliantly did not render the unavoidable contact with the silver glare, absolutely painful to the eye; nor was it any escape to stand in the lofty vestibule, save that there the absence of sunshine made the uniformity more bearable.
My companion led the way up a broad staircase covered with silver cloth, and balustrade with carved rails, the effect of which was totally destroyed by their covering of silver paint. The very stair- rods were of silver enamel, and the corners and landing places served as room for more marble statues, that held enameled silver lamps in their hands, lamps that were shaded by globes of ground glass. At the door of an apartment pertaining, as he informed me, to the Duchess Candimore, the Duke stopped, and shook my hand, "I leave you to make your own way," he said, pointing to the door. "She has never showed any symptoms of violence while under the calm influence of silver; but, nevertheless, we shall be at hand, the least sound will bring you assistance," and he turned away.
I opened the door without a word, and entered the room, full of curiosity as to what I should see and hear of this mysterious Duchess. It was a room of vast and magnificent proportions, and, without having beheld such a scene, one can hardly conceive the strange cold look the utter absence of colour gave it. A Venelior carpet that looked like a woven fall of fine steel; silver satin damask on chair, couch, and ottoman; draped satin and shimmering lace around the windows, with rod, rings, and snowy marble, and paper on the walls of purest silver; altogether it was a weird-looking room, and I shook with cold as I entered it.
The principal object of my curiosity was seated in a deep chair with her side toward me, and I had an opportunity of examining her leisurely, as she neither moved nor took the slightest notice of my entrance; most probably she was quite unaware of it. She was the most lovely being I had ever beheld, a fair and perfect peace of statuary one might have thought, so immobile and abstracted, nay, so entirely expressionless were her beautiful features. Her dress was pure silver, her hair of a pale golden hue, and her eyes dark as midnight. Her hands rested idly on her lap, her gaze seemed intent on the high silver wall that shot up outside the window near her; and in the whole room there was neither the heavy, silver-covered furniture, nor the draping curtains. I advanced directly before her and bowed deeply, and then I calmly drew forward a chair and seated myself. As I did so she moved her eyes from the window and rested them on me, but, for all the interest they evinced, I might as well have been the silver-washed wall outside. She was once more returning her eyes to the blank window, when I took her hand and laid my fingers on her blue-veined wrist. The action seemed to arouse her, for she looked keenly into my face, and then she laughed sadly.
"One may guess you are a physician," she said, in a musical, low, voice, and with a slightly foreign accent, that was in my opinion a great improvement to our harsh language.
"I am," I replied, with a smile, "your uncle has sent me to see about your health, which alarms him."
"Poor man!" she said, with a shade of commiseration clouding her beautiful face, "poor uncle! But I assure you there is nothing the matter with me; nothing but what must be the natural consequence of the life I am leading."
"Why do you lead one which you know to be injurious then?" I asked, still keeping my fingers on the pulse, that beat as calmly as a sleeping infant's, and was not increased by a single throb though a stranger sat beside her.
"How can I help it?" she asked, calmly meeting my inquisitorial gaze, "do you think a sane person would choose to be imprisoned thus, and to be surrounded by the color of a prison ever? Had mine not been a strong mind I should have been mad long ago."
"Mad!" I could not help ejaculating, in a puzzled tone.
"Yes, mad," she replied, "could you live here, month after month, in a hueless atmosphere and with nothing but that to look at," and she pointed her slender finger toward the silver wall, "could you, I ask, and retain your reason?"
"I do not believe I could!" I answered, with sudden vehemence, "then, again I repeat why do it?"
"And again I reply, how can I help it?"
I was silent. I was looking in the eyes of the beautiful being before me for a single trace of the madness I had been told of, but I could not find it. It was a lovely girl, pale and delicate from confinement, and was about twenty years old, perhaps, and the most perfect creature, I have already said, that I had ever beheld; and so we sat looking into each other's eyes; and mine expressed I cannot say, but hers were purity, and sweetness itself.
"Who are you?" she asked, suddenly. "Tell me something of yourself.
It will be at least a change from this silver solitude."
"I am a doctor, as you have guessed; and a rich and fashionable doctor," I added, smilingly.
"To be either is to be also the other," she remarked, "you need not have used the repetition."
"Come," I thought to myself, "there is little appearance of lunacy in that observation."
"But you doubtless have a name, what is it?"
"My name is Elveston--Doctor Elveston."
"You’re Christian name?"
"No, my Christian name is Charles."
"Charles," she repeated dreamily.
"I think it is your turn now," I remarked, "it is but fair that you should make me acquainted with your name, since I have told you mine."
"Oh! My name is Candimore--Jessica Candimore. Perhaps it was in consequence of my Christian name that my poor uncle decided upon burying me in silver," she added, with a look round the cold room, "poor old man!"
"Why do you pity him so?" I asked. "He seems to me little to require it. He is strong and rich, and the uncle of Jessica," I added, with a bow; but the compliment seemed to glide off her as if it had been a liquid, and she were made of glassy marble like one of the statues that stood behind her.
"And you are a physician," she said, looking wonderingly at me, "and have been in the Duke's company, without discovering it?"
"Discovering what, my dear young lady?"
"That he is mad."
"Mad!" How often had I already ejaculated that word since I had become interested in this singular household; but this time it must assuredly have expressed the utmost astonishment, for I was never more confounded in my life; and yet a light seemed to be breaking in upon my bewilderment, as I stared in wondering silence at the calm face of the lovely maiden before me.
"Alas, yes!" she replied, sadly, to my look, "my poor uncle is a maniac, but a harmless one to all but me; it is I who suffer all."
"And why you?" I gasped.
"Because it is his mania to believe me mad," she replied, "and so he treats me."
"But in the name of justice why should you endure this?" I cried, angrily starting to my feet, "you are in a free land at least, and doors will open!"
"Calm yourself, my friend," she said, laying her silver hand on my arm, and the contact, I confess, thrilled through every nerve of my system, "compose yourself, and see things as they are; what could a young, frail girl like me do out in the world alone? And I have not a living relative but my uncle. Besides, would it be charitable to desert him and leave him to his own madness thus! Poor old man!"
"You are an angel!" I ejaculated, "And I would die for you!"
The reader need not be told that my enthusiastic youth was at last beginning to make its way through the crust of worldly wisdom that had hitherto subdued it.
"It is not necessary that anyone should die for me; I can do that for myself, and no doubt shall ere long, die of the want of color and air," she said, with a sad smile.
There is little use following our conversation to the end. I satisfied myself that there was really nothing wrong with her constitution, save the effects of the life she was obliged to lead; and I determined, instead of interfering with her at present, to devote myself to the poor Duke, with a hope that I might be of service to him, and succeed in gaining the liberation of poor Jessica. We parted, I might almost say as lovers, although no words of affection were spoken; but I carried away her image entwined with every fiber of my heart, and in the deep sweetness of her lingering eyes I fancied I read hope and love.
The Duke was waiting impatiently in the corridor as I left the lovely girl, and he led me into another apartment to question me eagerly.
What did I think of the Duchess's state of health? Had she shown any symptoms of uneasiness during my visit? As the old gentleman asked these questions he watched my countenance keenly; while on my part I observed him with deep interest to discover traces of his unfortunate mental derangement.
"My dear sir, I perceive nothing alarming whatever in the state of your niece; she is simply suffering from confinement and monotony of existence, and wants nothing whatever but fresh air and amusement, and exercise; in short, life."
"Alas! You know that is impossible; have I not told you that her state precludes everything of the sort?"
"You must excuse me, my friend," I said, firmly, "I have conversed for a considerable time with the Duchess Candimore, and I am a medical man accustomed to dealing with, and the observation of, lunacy, and I give you my word of honor there is no weakness whatever in the brain of this fair girl; you are simply killing her, it is my duty to tell you so, killing her under the influence of some, to me, most unaccountable whim."
The Duke wrung his hands in silence, but his excited eye fell under my steady gaze. It was apparently with a strong effort that he composed in himself sufficiently to speak, and when he did his words had a solemnity in their tone that ought to have made a deep impression upon me; but it did not, for the sweetness of the imprisoned Jessica's voice was still lingering in my ears.
"You are a young man, Doctor Elveston; it is one of the happy provisions of youth, no doubt, to be convinced of its own infallibility. But you must believe that one of my race does not lie, and I swear to you that my niece is the victim of a most fearful insanity, which but to name makes humanity shudder with horror."
"I do not doubt that you believe such to be the case, my dear sir," I said, soothingly, for I fancied I saw the fearful light of insanity in his glaring eye at that moment, "but to my vision everything seems different."
"Well, my young friend, do not decide yet too hastily. Visit us again, but Go in mercy grant that you may never see the reality as I have seen it!"
And so I did repeat my visits, and repeat them so often and that without changing my opinion, that the Duke, in spite of his mania began to see that they were no longer necessary. One day on my leaving Jessica he requested a few moments of my time, and drawing me into his study, locked the door. I began to be a little alarmed, and more particularly as he seemed to be in a state of great agitation; but, as it appeared, my alarm of personal violence was entirely without foundation.
He placed a chair for me, and I seated myself with all the calmness I could muster, while I kept my eyes firmly fixed upon his as he addressed me.
"My dear young friend, I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that these are no idle words, for I have truly conceived an ardent appreciation of your character; yet it is absolutely necessary that I should put a stop to your visits to my niece. Good Heavens, what could I say--how could I ever forgive myself if any--any---"
"I beg of you to go no farther, Duke," I said, interrupting him. "You have only by a short time anticipated what I was about to communicate myself. If your words allude to an attachment between Jessica and myself, your care is now too late. We love each other, and intend, subject to your approval, to be united immediately."
Had a sudden clap of thunder reverberated in the quiet room the poor man could not have been more affected. He started to his feet, and glared into my eyes with terror.
"Married!" he gasped. "Married! Jessica Candimore wedded! Oh God!" and then he fell back into his chair as powerless as a child.
"And why should this alarm you?" I asked. "She is youthful and lovely, and as sane, I believe in my soul, as I am myself. I am rich, and of a family which may aspire to mingle with the best. You are her only relative and guardian, and you say that you esteem me; whence then this great distaste to hear even a mention of your fair ward's marriage?"
"She is not my ward!" he cried, hoarsely, and it seemed to me angrily, "her father and mother are both in existence, and destroyed for all time by the horror she had brought around them! But, my God, what is the use of speaking--I talk to a madman!" and he turned to his desk and began to write rapidly.
There I sat in bewilderment. I had not now the slightest doubt but that my poor friend was the victim of monomania; his one idea was uppermost, and that idea was that his unfortunate niece was mad. I was fully determined now to carry her away and make her my wife at once, so as to relieve the poor girl from an imprisonment, to which there seemed no other prospect of an end. And my hopes went still farther; who could tell but that the sight of Jessica living and enjoying life as did others of her sex, might have a beneficial effect upon the poor duke's brain, and help to eradicate his fixed idea.
As I was thus cogitating, the old gentleman rose from his desk and handed me a letter addressed, but unsealed. His manner was now almost unearthly calm, as if he had come to some great determination, to which he had only been driven by the most dreadful necessity.
"My words are wasted, Charles," he said, "and I cannot tell the truth; but if you ever prized home and name, friends or family, mother or wife, send that letter to its address after you have perused it, and await its reply."
I took the letter and put it into my pocket, and then I took his hand and pressed it warmly. I was truly sorry for the poor old gentleman, who suffered, no doubt, as much from his fancied trouble as if it were the most terrible of realities.
"I hope you will forgive me for grieving you, my dear sir; believe me it pains me much to see you thus. I will do as you wish about the letter. But oh, how I wish you could see Jessica with my eyes! To me she is the most perfect of women!"
"You have never seen her yet!"--he responded, bitterly, "Could you-- dare you only once witness but a part of her actions under one influence, you would shudder to your very marrow!"
"To what influence do you elude, dear sir!"
"To that of color--one color."
"And that color? Have you any objection to name it?"
"It is red!" and as the duke answered he turned away abruptly, and left me standing bewildered, but still unbelieving.
I hastened home that day, anxious to peruse the letter given me by the duke, and as soon as I had reached my own study drew it from my pocket and spread it before me. It was addressed to the Prince Candimore, Chateau Gris, Melun, France; and the following were its singular contents:---
"DEAR BROTHER.--A terrible necessity for letting another into our fearful secret has arisen. A young gentleman of birth and fortune has, in spite of my assurances that she is insane, determined to wed Jessica. Such a sacrifice cannot be permitted, even were such a thing not morally impossible. You are her parent; it is then your place to inform this unhappy young man of the unspoken curse that rests on our wretched name. I enclose his address. Write to him at once.
"Your afflicted brother.
"LA EFENITE."
I folded up this strange epistle and dispatched it; and then I devoted nearly an hour to pondering over the strange contradictions of human nature, and more particularly diseased human nature. Of course I carried the key to this poor man's strangeness in my firm conviction of his insanity, and my entire belief in the martyrdom of Jessica; yet I could not divest myself of an anxiety to receive a reply to this letter, a reply which I was certain would explain the duke's lunacy, and beg of me to pardon it. That is to say if such a party as the Prince Candimore existed at all, and I did not quite lose sight of the fact that Jessica had assured me that, with the exception of her uncle, she had not a living relative.
It seemed a long week to me ere the French reply, that made my hand tremble as I received it, was put into it. I had abstained from visiting my beloved Jessica, under a determination that I would not do so until armed with such a letter as I anticipated receiving; or until I should be able to say, "Ample time for a reply to your communication has elapsed; none to come, give me then my betrothed." Here then at last was the letter, and I shut myself into my own room and opened it; the words are engraved on my memory and will never become less vivid.
"SIR,--You wish to wed my daughter, the Duchess Jessica Candimore. Words would vainly try to express the pain with which I expose our disgrace--our horrible secret--to a stranger, but it is to save from a fate worse than death. Jessica Candimore is an anthropophagus, already has one of her own family fallen victim to her thirst for human blood. Spare us if you can, and pray for us.
"CANDIMORE."
I sat like one turned to stone and stared at the fearful paper! An anthropophagus! A cannibal! Good heavens, the subject was just now engaging the attention of the medical world in a remarkable degree, in consequence of two frightful and well-authenticated cases that had lately occurred in France! All the particulars of these cases, in which I had taken a deep interest, flashed before me, but not for one moment did I credit the frightful story of my beloved. Some perverse plot had been formed against her, for what vile purpose, or what end in view I was ignorant; and I cast the whole subject from my mind with an effort, and went to attend my daily round of duties. During the two or three hours that followed, and under the influence of the human suffering I had witnessed, a revolution took place in my feelings, God only knows by what means induced; but when I returned home, to prepare for my eventful visit to the "silver house," a dreadful doubt had stolen into my heart, and filled it with a fearful determination.
Having ordered my grav-carriage and prepared the silver suit, which I was now possessor of, I went directly to the conservatory, and looked around among the brilliant array of blossoms most suitable to my purpose. I chose the flaring scarlet verbena to form my bouquet; a tasteless one it is true, but one decidedly distinctive in color. I collected quite a large nosegay of this flower, without a single spray of green to relieve its bright hue. Then I went to my grav-carriage, and gave directions to be driven to Kale.
At the gate of the Duke's residence I dressed myself in the silver suit mechanically, and followed the usual servant into the house, carefully holding my flowers, which I had enveloped in a newspaper. I was received as usual also by the Duke, and in a few seconds we stood, face to face in his study. In answer to his look of fearful inquiry I handed him my French epistle, and stood silently by as he read it tremblingly.
"Well, are you satisfied now?" he asked, looking at me pitifully in the face, "has this dreadful exposure convinced you?"
"No!" I answered, recklessly. "I am neither satisfied nor convinced of anything save that you are either a lunatic yourself, or in collusion with the writer of that abominable letter!" and as I spoke I uncovered my scarlet bouquet and shook out its blossoms. The sight of it made a terrible impression upon my companion; his knees trembled as if he were about to fall, and his face grew silver than his garments.
"In the name of heaven what are you going to do?" he gasped.
"I am simply going to present my bride with a bouquet," I said, and as I said so I laughed an empty, hollow laugh. I cannot describe my strange state of mind at that moment; I felt as if myself under the influence of some fearful mania.
"By all you hold sacred, Charles Elveston, I charge you to desist! Who or what are you that you should set your youth, and ignorance of this woman against my age and bitter experience?"
"Ha, ha!" was my only response, as I made toward the door.
"By heavens, he is mad!" cried the excited nobleman. "Young man, I tell you that you carry in your hand a color which had better be shaken in the eyes of a mad bull than be placed in sight of my miserable niece! Fool! I tell you it will arouse in her an unquenchable thirst for blood, and the blood may be yours!"'
"Let it!" I cried, and passed on my way to Jessica.
I was conscious of the Duke's cries to the servants as I hurried up the broad staircase, and guessed that they were about to follow me; but to describe my feelings is utterly impossible.
I was beginning now to believe that my betrothed was something terrible, and I faced her desperately, as one who had lost everything worth living for, or placed his last stake upon the cast of a die.
I opened the well-known door of the silver room, that seemed to me colder, and more death-like than ever; and I saw the figure of Jessica seated in her old way, and in her old seat, looking out of the window.
I did not wait to scan her appearance just then, however, for I caught a glimpse of myself in a large mirror opposite, and was fascinated, as it were by the strange sight.
The mirror reflected, in unbroken stillness, the cold sterility of the large apartment, but it also reflected my face and form, wearing an expression that half awoke me to a consciousness of physical indisposition. There was a wild look in my pallid countenance, and a reckless air in my figure which the very garments seemed to have imbibed, and which was awry; the collar of my shirt was unbuttoned, and I had even neglected to put on my neck-tie; but it was upon the blood-red bouquet that my momentary gaze became riveted.
It was such a contrast; the cold, pure silver of all the surroundings, and that circled patch of blood-color that I held in my hand was so suggestive! "Of what?" I asked myself. "Am I really mad?" and then I laughed loudly and turned toward Jessica.
Possibly the noise of the opening door had attracted her, for when I turned she was standing on her feet, directly confronting me. Her eyes were distended with astonishment at my peculiar examination of myself in the mirror, no doubt, but they flashed into madness at the sight of the flowers as I turned. Her face grew scarlet, her hands clenched, and her regards devoured the scarlet bouquet, as I madly held it towards her. At this moment my eye caught a side glimpse of half-a- dozen terrified faces peeping in the doorway, and conspicuous and foremost that of the poor terrified Duke; but my fate must be accomplished, and I still held the bouquet tauntingly toward the transfixed girl. She gave one wild look into my face, and recognized the sarcasm which I felt in my eyes, and then she snatched the flowers from my hand, and scattered them in a thousand pieces at her feet.
How well I remember that picture to-day. The silver room--the torn and brilliant flowers--and the mad fury of that lovely being. A laugh echoed again upon my lips, an involuntary laugh it was, for I knew not that I laughed; and then there was a rush, and silver teeth were at my throat, tearing flesh, and sinews, and veins; and a horrible sound was in my ears, as if some wild animal was tearing at my body! I dreamt that I was in a jungle of Africa, and that a tiger, with a tawny coat, was devouring my still living flesh, and then I became insensible!
When I opened my eyes faintly, I lay in my own bed, and the form of the Duke was bending over me. One of my medical confreres held my wrist between his fingers, and the room was still and dark.
"How is this, Bernard?" I asked, with difficulty, for my voice seemed lost, and the weakness of death hanging around my tongue. "What has happened?"
"Hush! My dear fellow, you must not speak. You have been nearly worried to death by a maniac, and you have lost a fearful quantity of blood."
"Oh!" I recollected it all, and turned to the Duke, "and Jessica?"
"She is dead, thank God!" he whispered, calmly.
I shuddered through every nerve and was silent.
It was many long weeks ere I was able to listen to the Duke as he told the fearful tale of the dead girl's disease. The first indication her wretched relatives had of the horrible thing was upon the morning of her eighteenth year. They went to her room to congratulate her, and found her lying upon the dead body of her younger sister, who occupied the same chamber; she had literally torn her throat with her teeth, and was sucking the hot blood as she was discovered. No words could describe the horror of the wretched parents. The end we have seen.
I never asked how Jessica had died, I did not wish to know; but I guessed that force had been obliged to be used in dragging her teeth from my throat, and that the necessary force was sufficient to destroy her. I have never since met with a case of anthropophagi, but I fancy I still feel Jessica's teeth at my throat.
THE END
By Scott Wilson
Word Count" 8115
In the year 2858 I had established a flourishing practice in Hampvale; a practice which I owed a considerable portion of, not to my ability, I am afraid, but to the fact that I occupied the singular position of a man professional, who was entirely independent of his profession.
Doubtless, had I been a poor man, struggling to earn a bare existence for wife and family, I might have been the cleverest physician that ever administered a bolus, yet have remained in my poverty to the end of time. But it was not so, you see. I was the second son of a nobleman, and had honorable attached to my name; and I practiced the profession solely and entirely because I had become enamored of it, and because I was disgusted at the useless existence of a fashionable and idle young man, and determined that I, at least, would not add another to their ranks.
And so I had a handsome establishment in a fashionable portion of the city, and my door was besieged with grav-mobiles, from one end of the week to the other. Many of the occupants were disappointed, however, for I would not demean myself by taking fees from some vaporize Miss or dissipated Dowager. Gout in vain came rolling to my door, even though it excruciated the leg of a Duke; I undertook none but cases that enlisted my sympathy, and after a time the fact became known and my levees were not so well attended.
One day I was returning on grav-mobile toward the city. I had been paying a visit to a patient in whom I was deeply interested, and for whom I had ordered the quiet and purer air of a rural residence. I had reached a spot in the neighborhood of Kale, where the villas were enclosed in large Bio-domes. On the opposite side of the road stood a small outlander-looking inn, which I had patronized before, and I pulled up my grav-mobile and alighted, for the purpose of having some rest and refreshment after my journey.
As I sat in a front room sipping my sweat ale and bitters, my thoughts were fully occupied with a variety of personal concerns. I had received a letter from my mother that morning, and the condition of the patient I had recently left was precarious in the extreme.
It was fortunate that I was thought-occupied and not dependent upon outward objects to amuse them, for although the window at which I sat was open, it presented no view whatever, save the bare, blank, frosted-glass wall belonging to a house at the opposite side of the road. That is to say, I presume, it enclosed some residence, for from where I say not even the top of a roof was visible.
Presently, however, the sound of vehicles attracted my eyes from the pattern of the wall-paper at which I had been unconsciously gazing, and I looked out to see a handsome, but very plain grav-grav-carriage drawn up at a small door that pierced the glass wall I have alluded to; and almost at the same moment the door opened and closed again behind two figures in a most singular attire. They were both of the Carlgeery Race, and one of them was the servant; but it was the dress of these persons that most strangely interested me. They were attired in silver from head to heel; coats, vests, trousers, hats, shoes, not to speak of shirts at all, all were silver as mercury.
While I stared at this strange spectacle, the gentlemen stepped into the vehicle; but although he did so the coachman made no movement toward driving onward, nor did the attendant leave his post at the grav-carriage door. At the expiration, however, of about a quarter of an hour, the servant closed the door and re-entered through the little gate, closing it, likewise, carefully behind him. Then the driver leisurely made a start, only, however, to stop suddenly again, when the door of the vehicle was burst open and a gentleman jumped out and rapped loudly at the gate.
He turned his face hurriedly around as he did so, hiding, it seemed to me, meanwhile, behind the wall so as not to be seen when it opened.
Judge of my astonishment when I recognized in this gentleman the one who had but a few minutes before entered the grav-carriage dressed in silver, for he was now in garments of the hue of Erebus. While I wondered at this strange metamorphosis, the door in the wall opened, and the gentleman, now attired in black, after giving some hasty instructions to the servant, sprang once more into the grav-grav-carriage and was driven rapidly toward Hampvale.
My curiosity was strangely excited; and as I stood at the door before hoping in my vehicle, I asked the landlord who and what the people who occupied the opposite dwelling were.
"Well, sir," he replied, looking curiously at the dead wall over against him. "They've been there now a Maddoxter of six months, I dare say, and you've seen as much of them as I have. I believe the whole crew of them, servants and all is outlander of a kind, and we, that are the neighbors around, sir, calls them the silver mad people.'"
"What! Do they always wear that singular dress?"
"Always, sir, saving as soon as ever the old gentleman goes outside and puts black on in the grav-carriage, and as soon as he comes back takes it off again, and leaves it in the grav-carriage."
"And why in the name of gracious does he not dress himself inside?"
"Oh, that I can't tell you, sir! Only it's just as you see, always.
The driver or coachman never even goes inside the walls or the vehicles of any one thing that isn't silver in color, sir; and if the people aren't mad after that, what else can it be?"
"It seems very like it, indeed; but do you mean to say that everything inside the garden wall is silver? Surely you must be exaggerating a little?"
"Not a bit on it, sir! The coachman, who can't speak much English, sir, comes here for a drink now and then. He doesn’t live in the house, you see, and is idle most of his time. Well, he told me himself, one day, that every article in the house was silver, from the garret to the drawing-room, and that everything outside it is silver I can swear, for I saw it myself, and a stranger sight surely no eye ever saw."
"How did you manage to get into the enchanted castle, then?"
"I didn't get in sir; I only saw it outside, and from a place where you can see for yourself too, if you have a mind. When first the people came to the place over there, you see, sir, old Maddox the sexton and bell-ringer of the church there, began to talk of the strange goings on he had seen from the belfry; and so may curiosity took me there one day to look for myself. Blest if I ever heard of such a strange sight! No wonder they call them the silver mad folk."
"Well, you've roused my curiosity," I said, as I got on my vehicle, "and I'll certainly pay old Maddox's belfry a visit the very next time I pass this way, if I'm not hurried."
It appeared unaccountable to even myself that these mysterious people should make such a singular impression on me; I thought of little else during the next two days. I attended to my duties in an absent manner, and my mind was ever recurring to the one subject--viz. an attempt to account for the strange employment of one hue only in the household of this foreign gentleman. Of whom did the household consist? Had he any family? And could one account for the eccentricity in any other way save by ascribing it to lunacy, as mine host of the inn had already done. As it happened, the study of brain diseases had been my hobby during my novitiate, and I was peculiarly interested in observing a new symptom of madness, if this was really one.
At length I escaped to pay my country patient his usual visit, and on my return alighted at the inn, and desired the landlord to have my vehicle put in the garage for a bit.
"I'm going to have a peep at your madhouse," I said, "Do you think I shall find old Maddox about?"
"Yes, doctor; I saw him at work in the churchyard not half an hour ago, but at any rate he won't be farther off than his cottage, and it lies just against the yard wall."
The church was an old, ivy-wreathed structure, with a square Norman belfry, and a large surrounding of grey and grass-grown old headstones. It was essentially a country church, and a country churchyard; and one wondered to find it so close to the borders of a mighty city, until they remembered that the mighty city had crept into the country, year by year, until it had covered with stone and mortar the lowly site of many a cottage home, and swallowed up many an acre of green meadow and golden corn. Old Maddox was sitting in the middle of the graves; one tombstone forming his seat, and he was engaged in scraping the moss from a headstone that seemed inclined to tumble over, the inscription on which was all but obliterated by a growth of green slimy-looking moss.
"Good-day, friend, you are busy," I said. "One would fancy that stone so old now, that the living had entirely forgotten their loss. But I suppose they have not, or you would not be cleaning it."
"It's only a notion of my own, sir; I'm idle, and when I was a lad I had a sort o' likin' for this stone, Lord only knows why. But you see I've clean forgotten what name was on it, and I thought I'd like to see."
"Well, I want to have a look at these 'silver mad folk' of yours, Maddox, will you let me into the belfry? Mr. Gorgeoloft tells me you can see something queer up there."
"By jove you can, sir!" he replied, rising with alacrity. "I often spend an hour watching the mad folk; faith if they had my old church and yard they'd silverwash 'em, belfry and all!" and the old man led the way into the tower.
Of course my first look on reaching the summit was in the direction of the strange house, and I must confess to an ejaculation of astonishment as I peeped through one of the crevices. The belfry was elevated considerably above the premises in which I was interested, and not at a very great distance, so that grounds and house lay spread beneath me like a map.
I scarcely know how to commence describing it to you, it was something I had never seen or imagined. The mansion itself was a square and handsome building of two stories, built in the Corinthian style, with pillared portico, and pointed windows. But the style attracted my attention but little, it was the universal silver, silver everywhere that drew from me the ejaculation to which I have alluded.
From the extreme top of the chimneys to the basement, roof, windows, everything was pure silver; not a shade lurked even inside a window; the windows themselves were painted silver, and the curtains were of silver muslin that fell over every one of them. Every yard of the broad space that one might reasonably have expected to see decorated with flowers and grass and shrubberies, was covered with a glaring and sparkling silver gravel, the effect of which, even in the hot brilliant sun of a Hampvale afternoon, was to dazzle, and blind, and aggravate.
And as if this was not enough, the inside of the very brick walls was silverwashed like liquid steel, and at intervals, here and there, were placed a host of silver marble statues and urns that only increased the, to me, horrible aspect of the place.
"I don't wonder they are mad!" I exclaimed, "I should soon become mad in such a place myself."
"Like enough, sir," replied old Maddox, stolidly, "but you see it didn't make the mad, for they did it themselves, so they must 'a been mad afore."
An incontrovertible fact, according to the old man's way of putting it; and as I had no answer for it, I went down the old stone stairs, and having given my guide his donation, left the churchyard as bewildered as I had entered it. Nay, more so, for then I had not seen the extraordinary house that had made so painful an impression upon me.
I was in no humor for a gossip with mine host, but just as I was about to hop in my vehicle, which had been brought round, the same grav-carriage drove round to the mysterious gate, and the same scene was enacted to which I had before been a witness. I drew back until the old gentleman had stepped inside and performed his toilet, and when the grav-carriage drove rapidly toward the city, I drove thoughtfully onward toward home.
I was young, you see, and although steady, and, unlike most young gentlemen of my age and position in society, had a strong vein of romance in my character. That hard study and a sense of its inutility had kept it under, had not rendered it one whit less ready to be at a moment's call; and, in addition to all this, I had never yet, in the seclusion of my student life, met with an opportunity of falling in love, so that you will see I was in the very best mood for making the most of the adventure which was about to befall me, and which had so tragic a termination.
My thoughts were full of the "Silver mad folk," as I reached my own door; and there, to my utter astonishment, I saw drawn up the very grav-carriage of the silver house, which had preceded me. Hastily giving my vehicle to the valet I passed through the hall and was informed by a servant that a gentleman waited in my private consulting-room.
Very rarely indeed had my well-strung nerves been so troublesome as upon that occasion; I was so anxious to see this gentleman, and yet so fearful of exposing the interest I had already conceived in his affairs, that my hand absolutely trembled as I turned the handle of the door of the room in which he was seated. The first glance, however, at the aristocratic old gentleman who rose on my entrance, restored all my self-possession, and I was myself once more. In the calm, sweet face of the perfectly dressed gentleman before me there was no trace of the lunacy that had created that strange abode near Kale; the principal expression in his face was that of ingrained melancholy, and his deep mourning attire might have suggested to a stranger the reason of that melancholy. He addressed me in perfect English, the entire absence of idiom alone declaring him to be a foreigner.
"I have the pleasure of addressing Doctor Elveston?" he said.
I bowed, and placed a chair in which he re-seated himself, while I myself took possession of another.
"And Doctor Elveston is a clever physician and a man of honour?"
"I hope to be worthy of the former title, sir, while my position ought at least to guarantee the latter."
"Your public character does, sir," said the old gentleman, emphatically, "and it is because I believe that you will preserve the secret of an unfortunate family that I have chosen you to assist me with your advice."
My heart was beating rapidly by this time. There was a secret then, and I was about to become the possessor of it. Had it anything to do with the mania for silver?
"Anything in my power," I hastened to reply, "you may depend on; my advice, I fear, may be of little worth, but such as it is--"
"I beg your pardon, Doctor," interrupted he, "it is your medical advice that I allude to, and I require it for a young female relative."
"My dear sir, that is, of course, an everyday affair, my professional advice and services belong to the public, and as the public's they are of course yours."
"Oh, my dear young friend, but mine is not an everyday affair, and because it is not is the reason that I have applied to you in particular. It is a grievous case, sir, and one which fills many hearts with a bitterness they are obliged to smother from a world whose sneers are poison."
The old gentleman spoke in tones of deep feeling, and I could not help feeling sorry for him at the bottom of my very heart.
"If you will confide in me, my dear sir," I said, “believe that I will prove a fiend as faithful and discreet as you could wish."
He pressed my hand, turned away for a moment to collect his agitated feelings and then he spoke again.
"I shall not attempt to hide my name from you sir, though I have hitherto carefully concealed it. I am the Duke la Efenite, and circumstances, which it is impossible for me to relate to you, have driven me to Tanderall to keep watch and ward over my sister's daughter, the Duchess Candimore. It is for this young lady I wish your attendance; her health is rapidly failing within the last week."
"Nothing can be simpler," I observed, eagerly, "I can go with you at once--this very moment."
"Dear Doctor, it is unfortunately far from being as simple a matter as you think," he replied, solemnly, "for my wretched niece is mad."
"Mad!"
"Alas! Yes, frightfully--horribly mad!" and he shuddered as if a cold wind had penetrated his bones.
"Has this unhappy state of mind been of long duration?" I questioned.
"God knows; the first indication her friends had of it was about two years ago, when it culminated in such a fearful event that horrified them. I cannot explain it to you, however, for the honor of a noble house is deeply concerned; and even the very existence of the unfortunate being I beg of you to keep a secret forever."
"You must at any rate tell me what you wish me to do," I observed, "and give me as much information as you can guide me, or I shall be powerless."
"The sight of one color has such an effect on the miserable girl that we have found out, by bitter experience, the only way to avoid a repetition of the most fearful tragedies, is to keep every hue or shade away from her vision; for, although it is only one color that affects her, any of the others seems to suggest that one to her mind and produce uncontrollable agitation. In consequence of this she is virtually imprisoned within the grounds of the house I have provided for her, and every object that meets her eye are silver, even the ground, and the very roof of the mansion."
"How very strange!"
"It will be necessary for you, my dear sir," the Duke continued, "to attire yourself in a suit of silver. I have brought one in the grav-carriage for your use, and if you will now accompany me I shall be grateful."
Of course I was only too glad to avail myself of the unexpected opportunity of getting into the singular household, and becoming acquainted with the lunatic Duchess; and in a few moments we were being whirled on our way toward Kale.
On stopping at the gate of the Duke's residence, I myself became an actor in the scene which had so puzzled me on two previous occasions.
My companion produced two suits of silver, and proceeded to turn the vehicle into a dressing-room, though not without many apologies for the necessity. I followed his example, and in a few moments we stood inside the gate, and I had an opportunity of more closely surveying the disagreeable enclosure I had seen from the church belfry. And a most disagreeable survey it was; the sun shining brilliantly did not render the unavoidable contact with the silver glare, absolutely painful to the eye; nor was it any escape to stand in the lofty vestibule, save that there the absence of sunshine made the uniformity more bearable.
My companion led the way up a broad staircase covered with silver cloth, and balustrade with carved rails, the effect of which was totally destroyed by their covering of silver paint. The very stair- rods were of silver enamel, and the corners and landing places served as room for more marble statues, that held enameled silver lamps in their hands, lamps that were shaded by globes of ground glass. At the door of an apartment pertaining, as he informed me, to the Duchess Candimore, the Duke stopped, and shook my hand, "I leave you to make your own way," he said, pointing to the door. "She has never showed any symptoms of violence while under the calm influence of silver; but, nevertheless, we shall be at hand, the least sound will bring you assistance," and he turned away.
I opened the door without a word, and entered the room, full of curiosity as to what I should see and hear of this mysterious Duchess. It was a room of vast and magnificent proportions, and, without having beheld such a scene, one can hardly conceive the strange cold look the utter absence of colour gave it. A Venelior carpet that looked like a woven fall of fine steel; silver satin damask on chair, couch, and ottoman; draped satin and shimmering lace around the windows, with rod, rings, and snowy marble, and paper on the walls of purest silver; altogether it was a weird-looking room, and I shook with cold as I entered it.
The principal object of my curiosity was seated in a deep chair with her side toward me, and I had an opportunity of examining her leisurely, as she neither moved nor took the slightest notice of my entrance; most probably she was quite unaware of it. She was the most lovely being I had ever beheld, a fair and perfect peace of statuary one might have thought, so immobile and abstracted, nay, so entirely expressionless were her beautiful features. Her dress was pure silver, her hair of a pale golden hue, and her eyes dark as midnight. Her hands rested idly on her lap, her gaze seemed intent on the high silver wall that shot up outside the window near her; and in the whole room there was neither the heavy, silver-covered furniture, nor the draping curtains. I advanced directly before her and bowed deeply, and then I calmly drew forward a chair and seated myself. As I did so she moved her eyes from the window and rested them on me, but, for all the interest they evinced, I might as well have been the silver-washed wall outside. She was once more returning her eyes to the blank window, when I took her hand and laid my fingers on her blue-veined wrist. The action seemed to arouse her, for she looked keenly into my face, and then she laughed sadly.
"One may guess you are a physician," she said, in a musical, low, voice, and with a slightly foreign accent, that was in my opinion a great improvement to our harsh language.
"I am," I replied, with a smile, "your uncle has sent me to see about your health, which alarms him."
"Poor man!" she said, with a shade of commiseration clouding her beautiful face, "poor uncle! But I assure you there is nothing the matter with me; nothing but what must be the natural consequence of the life I am leading."
"Why do you lead one which you know to be injurious then?" I asked, still keeping my fingers on the pulse, that beat as calmly as a sleeping infant's, and was not increased by a single throb though a stranger sat beside her.
"How can I help it?" she asked, calmly meeting my inquisitorial gaze, "do you think a sane person would choose to be imprisoned thus, and to be surrounded by the color of a prison ever? Had mine not been a strong mind I should have been mad long ago."
"Mad!" I could not help ejaculating, in a puzzled tone.
"Yes, mad," she replied, "could you live here, month after month, in a hueless atmosphere and with nothing but that to look at," and she pointed her slender finger toward the silver wall, "could you, I ask, and retain your reason?"
"I do not believe I could!" I answered, with sudden vehemence, "then, again I repeat why do it?"
"And again I reply, how can I help it?"
I was silent. I was looking in the eyes of the beautiful being before me for a single trace of the madness I had been told of, but I could not find it. It was a lovely girl, pale and delicate from confinement, and was about twenty years old, perhaps, and the most perfect creature, I have already said, that I had ever beheld; and so we sat looking into each other's eyes; and mine expressed I cannot say, but hers were purity, and sweetness itself.
"Who are you?" she asked, suddenly. "Tell me something of yourself.
It will be at least a change from this silver solitude."
"I am a doctor, as you have guessed; and a rich and fashionable doctor," I added, smilingly.
"To be either is to be also the other," she remarked, "you need not have used the repetition."
"Come," I thought to myself, "there is little appearance of lunacy in that observation."
"But you doubtless have a name, what is it?"
"My name is Elveston--Doctor Elveston."
"You’re Christian name?"
"No, my Christian name is Charles."
"Charles," she repeated dreamily.
"I think it is your turn now," I remarked, "it is but fair that you should make me acquainted with your name, since I have told you mine."
"Oh! My name is Candimore--Jessica Candimore. Perhaps it was in consequence of my Christian name that my poor uncle decided upon burying me in silver," she added, with a look round the cold room, "poor old man!"
"Why do you pity him so?" I asked. "He seems to me little to require it. He is strong and rich, and the uncle of Jessica," I added, with a bow; but the compliment seemed to glide off her as if it had been a liquid, and she were made of glassy marble like one of the statues that stood behind her.
"And you are a physician," she said, looking wonderingly at me, "and have been in the Duke's company, without discovering it?"
"Discovering what, my dear young lady?"
"That he is mad."
"Mad!" How often had I already ejaculated that word since I had become interested in this singular household; but this time it must assuredly have expressed the utmost astonishment, for I was never more confounded in my life; and yet a light seemed to be breaking in upon my bewilderment, as I stared in wondering silence at the calm face of the lovely maiden before me.
"Alas, yes!" she replied, sadly, to my look, "my poor uncle is a maniac, but a harmless one to all but me; it is I who suffer all."
"And why you?" I gasped.
"Because it is his mania to believe me mad," she replied, "and so he treats me."
"But in the name of justice why should you endure this?" I cried, angrily starting to my feet, "you are in a free land at least, and doors will open!"
"Calm yourself, my friend," she said, laying her silver hand on my arm, and the contact, I confess, thrilled through every nerve of my system, "compose yourself, and see things as they are; what could a young, frail girl like me do out in the world alone? And I have not a living relative but my uncle. Besides, would it be charitable to desert him and leave him to his own madness thus! Poor old man!"
"You are an angel!" I ejaculated, "And I would die for you!"
The reader need not be told that my enthusiastic youth was at last beginning to make its way through the crust of worldly wisdom that had hitherto subdued it.
"It is not necessary that anyone should die for me; I can do that for myself, and no doubt shall ere long, die of the want of color and air," she said, with a sad smile.
There is little use following our conversation to the end. I satisfied myself that there was really nothing wrong with her constitution, save the effects of the life she was obliged to lead; and I determined, instead of interfering with her at present, to devote myself to the poor Duke, with a hope that I might be of service to him, and succeed in gaining the liberation of poor Jessica. We parted, I might almost say as lovers, although no words of affection were spoken; but I carried away her image entwined with every fiber of my heart, and in the deep sweetness of her lingering eyes I fancied I read hope and love.
The Duke was waiting impatiently in the corridor as I left the lovely girl, and he led me into another apartment to question me eagerly.
What did I think of the Duchess's state of health? Had she shown any symptoms of uneasiness during my visit? As the old gentleman asked these questions he watched my countenance keenly; while on my part I observed him with deep interest to discover traces of his unfortunate mental derangement.
"My dear sir, I perceive nothing alarming whatever in the state of your niece; she is simply suffering from confinement and monotony of existence, and wants nothing whatever but fresh air and amusement, and exercise; in short, life."
"Alas! You know that is impossible; have I not told you that her state precludes everything of the sort?"
"You must excuse me, my friend," I said, firmly, "I have conversed for a considerable time with the Duchess Candimore, and I am a medical man accustomed to dealing with, and the observation of, lunacy, and I give you my word of honor there is no weakness whatever in the brain of this fair girl; you are simply killing her, it is my duty to tell you so, killing her under the influence of some, to me, most unaccountable whim."
The Duke wrung his hands in silence, but his excited eye fell under my steady gaze. It was apparently with a strong effort that he composed in himself sufficiently to speak, and when he did his words had a solemnity in their tone that ought to have made a deep impression upon me; but it did not, for the sweetness of the imprisoned Jessica's voice was still lingering in my ears.
"You are a young man, Doctor Elveston; it is one of the happy provisions of youth, no doubt, to be convinced of its own infallibility. But you must believe that one of my race does not lie, and I swear to you that my niece is the victim of a most fearful insanity, which but to name makes humanity shudder with horror."
"I do not doubt that you believe such to be the case, my dear sir," I said, soothingly, for I fancied I saw the fearful light of insanity in his glaring eye at that moment, "but to my vision everything seems different."
"Well, my young friend, do not decide yet too hastily. Visit us again, but Go in mercy grant that you may never see the reality as I have seen it!"
And so I did repeat my visits, and repeat them so often and that without changing my opinion, that the Duke, in spite of his mania began to see that they were no longer necessary. One day on my leaving Jessica he requested a few moments of my time, and drawing me into his study, locked the door. I began to be a little alarmed, and more particularly as he seemed to be in a state of great agitation; but, as it appeared, my alarm of personal violence was entirely without foundation.
He placed a chair for me, and I seated myself with all the calmness I could muster, while I kept my eyes firmly fixed upon his as he addressed me.
"My dear young friend, I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that these are no idle words, for I have truly conceived an ardent appreciation of your character; yet it is absolutely necessary that I should put a stop to your visits to my niece. Good Heavens, what could I say--how could I ever forgive myself if any--any---"
"I beg of you to go no farther, Duke," I said, interrupting him. "You have only by a short time anticipated what I was about to communicate myself. If your words allude to an attachment between Jessica and myself, your care is now too late. We love each other, and intend, subject to your approval, to be united immediately."
Had a sudden clap of thunder reverberated in the quiet room the poor man could not have been more affected. He started to his feet, and glared into my eyes with terror.
"Married!" he gasped. "Married! Jessica Candimore wedded! Oh God!" and then he fell back into his chair as powerless as a child.
"And why should this alarm you?" I asked. "She is youthful and lovely, and as sane, I believe in my soul, as I am myself. I am rich, and of a family which may aspire to mingle with the best. You are her only relative and guardian, and you say that you esteem me; whence then this great distaste to hear even a mention of your fair ward's marriage?"
"She is not my ward!" he cried, hoarsely, and it seemed to me angrily, "her father and mother are both in existence, and destroyed for all time by the horror she had brought around them! But, my God, what is the use of speaking--I talk to a madman!" and he turned to his desk and began to write rapidly.
There I sat in bewilderment. I had not now the slightest doubt but that my poor friend was the victim of monomania; his one idea was uppermost, and that idea was that his unfortunate niece was mad. I was fully determined now to carry her away and make her my wife at once, so as to relieve the poor girl from an imprisonment, to which there seemed no other prospect of an end. And my hopes went still farther; who could tell but that the sight of Jessica living and enjoying life as did others of her sex, might have a beneficial effect upon the poor duke's brain, and help to eradicate his fixed idea.
As I was thus cogitating, the old gentleman rose from his desk and handed me a letter addressed, but unsealed. His manner was now almost unearthly calm, as if he had come to some great determination, to which he had only been driven by the most dreadful necessity.
"My words are wasted, Charles," he said, "and I cannot tell the truth; but if you ever prized home and name, friends or family, mother or wife, send that letter to its address after you have perused it, and await its reply."
I took the letter and put it into my pocket, and then I took his hand and pressed it warmly. I was truly sorry for the poor old gentleman, who suffered, no doubt, as much from his fancied trouble as if it were the most terrible of realities.
"I hope you will forgive me for grieving you, my dear sir; believe me it pains me much to see you thus. I will do as you wish about the letter. But oh, how I wish you could see Jessica with my eyes! To me she is the most perfect of women!"
"You have never seen her yet!"--he responded, bitterly, "Could you-- dare you only once witness but a part of her actions under one influence, you would shudder to your very marrow!"
"To what influence do you elude, dear sir!"
"To that of color--one color."
"And that color? Have you any objection to name it?"
"It is red!" and as the duke answered he turned away abruptly, and left me standing bewildered, but still unbelieving.
I hastened home that day, anxious to peruse the letter given me by the duke, and as soon as I had reached my own study drew it from my pocket and spread it before me. It was addressed to the Prince Candimore, Chateau Gris, Melun, France; and the following were its singular contents:---
"DEAR BROTHER.--A terrible necessity for letting another into our fearful secret has arisen. A young gentleman of birth and fortune has, in spite of my assurances that she is insane, determined to wed Jessica. Such a sacrifice cannot be permitted, even were such a thing not morally impossible. You are her parent; it is then your place to inform this unhappy young man of the unspoken curse that rests on our wretched name. I enclose his address. Write to him at once.
"Your afflicted brother.
"LA EFENITE."
I folded up this strange epistle and dispatched it; and then I devoted nearly an hour to pondering over the strange contradictions of human nature, and more particularly diseased human nature. Of course I carried the key to this poor man's strangeness in my firm conviction of his insanity, and my entire belief in the martyrdom of Jessica; yet I could not divest myself of an anxiety to receive a reply to this letter, a reply which I was certain would explain the duke's lunacy, and beg of me to pardon it. That is to say if such a party as the Prince Candimore existed at all, and I did not quite lose sight of the fact that Jessica had assured me that, with the exception of her uncle, she had not a living relative.
It seemed a long week to me ere the French reply, that made my hand tremble as I received it, was put into it. I had abstained from visiting my beloved Jessica, under a determination that I would not do so until armed with such a letter as I anticipated receiving; or until I should be able to say, "Ample time for a reply to your communication has elapsed; none to come, give me then my betrothed." Here then at last was the letter, and I shut myself into my own room and opened it; the words are engraved on my memory and will never become less vivid.
"SIR,--You wish to wed my daughter, the Duchess Jessica Candimore. Words would vainly try to express the pain with which I expose our disgrace--our horrible secret--to a stranger, but it is to save from a fate worse than death. Jessica Candimore is an anthropophagus, already has one of her own family fallen victim to her thirst for human blood. Spare us if you can, and pray for us.
"CANDIMORE."
I sat like one turned to stone and stared at the fearful paper! An anthropophagus! A cannibal! Good heavens, the subject was just now engaging the attention of the medical world in a remarkable degree, in consequence of two frightful and well-authenticated cases that had lately occurred in France! All the particulars of these cases, in which I had taken a deep interest, flashed before me, but not for one moment did I credit the frightful story of my beloved. Some perverse plot had been formed against her, for what vile purpose, or what end in view I was ignorant; and I cast the whole subject from my mind with an effort, and went to attend my daily round of duties. During the two or three hours that followed, and under the influence of the human suffering I had witnessed, a revolution took place in my feelings, God only knows by what means induced; but when I returned home, to prepare for my eventful visit to the "silver house," a dreadful doubt had stolen into my heart, and filled it with a fearful determination.
Having ordered my grav-carriage and prepared the silver suit, which I was now possessor of, I went directly to the conservatory, and looked around among the brilliant array of blossoms most suitable to my purpose. I chose the flaring scarlet verbena to form my bouquet; a tasteless one it is true, but one decidedly distinctive in color. I collected quite a large nosegay of this flower, without a single spray of green to relieve its bright hue. Then I went to my grav-carriage, and gave directions to be driven to Kale.
At the gate of the Duke's residence I dressed myself in the silver suit mechanically, and followed the usual servant into the house, carefully holding my flowers, which I had enveloped in a newspaper. I was received as usual also by the Duke, and in a few seconds we stood, face to face in his study. In answer to his look of fearful inquiry I handed him my French epistle, and stood silently by as he read it tremblingly.
"Well, are you satisfied now?" he asked, looking at me pitifully in the face, "has this dreadful exposure convinced you?"
"No!" I answered, recklessly. "I am neither satisfied nor convinced of anything save that you are either a lunatic yourself, or in collusion with the writer of that abominable letter!" and as I spoke I uncovered my scarlet bouquet and shook out its blossoms. The sight of it made a terrible impression upon my companion; his knees trembled as if he were about to fall, and his face grew silver than his garments.
"In the name of heaven what are you going to do?" he gasped.
"I am simply going to present my bride with a bouquet," I said, and as I said so I laughed an empty, hollow laugh. I cannot describe my strange state of mind at that moment; I felt as if myself under the influence of some fearful mania.
"By all you hold sacred, Charles Elveston, I charge you to desist! Who or what are you that you should set your youth, and ignorance of this woman against my age and bitter experience?"
"Ha, ha!" was my only response, as I made toward the door.
"By heavens, he is mad!" cried the excited nobleman. "Young man, I tell you that you carry in your hand a color which had better be shaken in the eyes of a mad bull than be placed in sight of my miserable niece! Fool! I tell you it will arouse in her an unquenchable thirst for blood, and the blood may be yours!"'
"Let it!" I cried, and passed on my way to Jessica.
I was conscious of the Duke's cries to the servants as I hurried up the broad staircase, and guessed that they were about to follow me; but to describe my feelings is utterly impossible.
I was beginning now to believe that my betrothed was something terrible, and I faced her desperately, as one who had lost everything worth living for, or placed his last stake upon the cast of a die.
I opened the well-known door of the silver room, that seemed to me colder, and more death-like than ever; and I saw the figure of Jessica seated in her old way, and in her old seat, looking out of the window.
I did not wait to scan her appearance just then, however, for I caught a glimpse of myself in a large mirror opposite, and was fascinated, as it were by the strange sight.
The mirror reflected, in unbroken stillness, the cold sterility of the large apartment, but it also reflected my face and form, wearing an expression that half awoke me to a consciousness of physical indisposition. There was a wild look in my pallid countenance, and a reckless air in my figure which the very garments seemed to have imbibed, and which was awry; the collar of my shirt was unbuttoned, and I had even neglected to put on my neck-tie; but it was upon the blood-red bouquet that my momentary gaze became riveted.
It was such a contrast; the cold, pure silver of all the surroundings, and that circled patch of blood-color that I held in my hand was so suggestive! "Of what?" I asked myself. "Am I really mad?" and then I laughed loudly and turned toward Jessica.
Possibly the noise of the opening door had attracted her, for when I turned she was standing on her feet, directly confronting me. Her eyes were distended with astonishment at my peculiar examination of myself in the mirror, no doubt, but they flashed into madness at the sight of the flowers as I turned. Her face grew scarlet, her hands clenched, and her regards devoured the scarlet bouquet, as I madly held it towards her. At this moment my eye caught a side glimpse of half-a- dozen terrified faces peeping in the doorway, and conspicuous and foremost that of the poor terrified Duke; but my fate must be accomplished, and I still held the bouquet tauntingly toward the transfixed girl. She gave one wild look into my face, and recognized the sarcasm which I felt in my eyes, and then she snatched the flowers from my hand, and scattered them in a thousand pieces at her feet.
How well I remember that picture to-day. The silver room--the torn and brilliant flowers--and the mad fury of that lovely being. A laugh echoed again upon my lips, an involuntary laugh it was, for I knew not that I laughed; and then there was a rush, and silver teeth were at my throat, tearing flesh, and sinews, and veins; and a horrible sound was in my ears, as if some wild animal was tearing at my body! I dreamt that I was in a jungle of Africa, and that a tiger, with a tawny coat, was devouring my still living flesh, and then I became insensible!
When I opened my eyes faintly, I lay in my own bed, and the form of the Duke was bending over me. One of my medical confreres held my wrist between his fingers, and the room was still and dark.
"How is this, Bernard?" I asked, with difficulty, for my voice seemed lost, and the weakness of death hanging around my tongue. "What has happened?"
"Hush! My dear fellow, you must not speak. You have been nearly worried to death by a maniac, and you have lost a fearful quantity of blood."
"Oh!" I recollected it all, and turned to the Duke, "and Jessica?"
"She is dead, thank God!" he whispered, calmly.
I shuddered through every nerve and was silent.
It was many long weeks ere I was able to listen to the Duke as he told the fearful tale of the dead girl's disease. The first indication her wretched relatives had of the horrible thing was upon the morning of her eighteenth year. They went to her room to congratulate her, and found her lying upon the dead body of her younger sister, who occupied the same chamber; she had literally torn her throat with her teeth, and was sucking the hot blood as she was discovered. No words could describe the horror of the wretched parents. The end we have seen.
I never asked how Jessica had died, I did not wish to know; but I guessed that force had been obliged to be used in dragging her teeth from my throat, and that the necessary force was sufficient to destroy her. I have never since met with a case of anthropophagi, but I fancy I still feel Jessica's teeth at my throat.
THE END
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hope Lodge
Hope Lodge
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 1015
Hope Lodge, Hayloft Hotel, August 16th, 1945; this day is memorable in the annals of the history as the centenary of the purchase by a Company of the Glendale Ore Mine on the Glendale, and will be celebrated by a grand gala.
One hundred years ago a few individuals of limited means subscribed together, with much difficulty, the (at that time large) sum of £20,000. With this they purchased from the Local Government, twenty thousand acres of mineral land; and the spot fixed on is that immense tract of country now occupied by the seven great and flourishing cities--Insgal, Glendale, Grangley, and Breach Falls.
At that time the district was approached only by great difficulty, the roads over hill and dale being infested with werewolves and the natives, locally known as ourang-outangs, and almost impassable to other than travelers on horseback, the few wheeled vehicles which existed being clumsy conveyances called drays, and drawn by bullocks; for so great was the demand for, and scarcity of, horses at that time, that bullocks, goats, and even dogs were employed in drawing the valuable ore to the port of shipment, which was the now inconsiderable port of Adelaide. The splendid harbor of Helmsfield Bay was then either unknown or treated with a neglect almost inconceivable to those who now know it as the most important resort for shipping in the known world. Atmospheric railways and aerial machines were, it is true, talked of, but the matter-of-fact men of the day considered them theoretical, visionary, and impracticable; and when we consider that the vessels of the period occupied a space of four months in transferring the ore (for no means for smelting were then established) to England, then the only market for it, we shall cease to wonder that, for a length of time, it was doubtful whether the scheme would prove successful or otherwise.
To those who are acquainted with the immense wealth of the proprietors of this property--the Dukes of the soil; to those who look at their palaces, their castles, and their villas, it is almost Incredible that, so short a time back as one century, their ancestors were at immense trouble to raise the paltry amount referred to, which each of the one thousand proprietors could now readily pay ten times over; that, in fact, two great political parties, called the Earls and Cardiff’s, actually coalesced to attain this object, notwithstanding the almost frantic opposition offered by two gentlemen of the name of Chieftains, who apparently held very influential positions in the principality, or rather, as it was called at that time, the colony.
The City of Adelaide, then, as now, the seat of Government, boasted few of the splendid buildings which now embellish it. The ancient monument in the midst of Light-square was scarcely completed. A monument erected by the Odd Fellows, to the memory of a deceased brother, was only then in the course of erection.
A few of the oldest Churches and Chapels that are dotted over our vast city were certainly in existence, and one Catholic Bishop had lately arrived in the place.
No splendid Cathedral, either Protestant or Catholic, reared its proud head in this our embryo city. The Duke's palace, the palaces of the Archbishops and Bishops, were not thought of. The great man of the place, who, from his advanced years, was known by the soubriquet of the Grey Governor, resided in a portion of the Duke's palace, which those curious in antiquarian researches may still find occupied as apartments and offices by the Lord Steward's clerks; and one unpretending Chapel, in the Monastery of St Murphy, is still pointed out by the venerable father O'Recollect as the nucleus of that great building.
No Colleges actually existed, except in the legends of the oldest inhabitants, who spoke (without, however, anything like confidence) of a College which had existed in air in earlier days.
The great-grandfather of our present beloved Duke was then but an infant in the cradle; and the land was governed by nominees of our great ally, England, with whom friendly relations have been maintained from that time to the present; indeed, as our readers must be aware, this ancestor of our beloved Duke was afterwards the renowned Reginald the First of England.
Records have, however, been handed down of a visit to this clime paid by King Sanders, who died eight hundred years ago; after which a long blank of seven hundred years occurs in the documents in the hands of the Lord Keeper of Records.
We are afraid we are occupying too much space in the oldest established journal of the principality, but cannot resist one more circumstance, which is amusing to those who consider the rude state in which our ancestors carried on their commercial arrangements. It is a well-recorded fact that the great monetary medium was a simple paper document, signed chiefly by one of the Mr. Chieftains before alluded to, which was taken currently as cash, the knowledge of electricity being so confined at that time that our present excellent monetary system was unthought-of of, and he who had proposed such a scheme would have been looked upon as a madman.
One fact more. It is said that wheat-seed was sown months before it was reaped, and the fructification was left entirely to nature. Much doubt has arisen in the minds of many scientific men as to the possibility of growing wheat without electricity; and we have the satisfaction of informing our readers that a series of experiments are now being carried on by Professor Barnes to ascertain the fact.
But the ringing of bells and the firing of the great steam cannon at Fort Helmsfield announce the fact that the festivities of the day have now commenced, and as our Lodge takes a prominent part in them, I must resign my seat in the electro-phonotypographical chair to some one more worthy to fill it.
THE END
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 1015
Hope Lodge, Hayloft Hotel, August 16th, 1945; this day is memorable in the annals of the history as the centenary of the purchase by a Company of the Glendale Ore Mine on the Glendale, and will be celebrated by a grand gala.
One hundred years ago a few individuals of limited means subscribed together, with much difficulty, the (at that time large) sum of £20,000. With this they purchased from the Local Government, twenty thousand acres of mineral land; and the spot fixed on is that immense tract of country now occupied by the seven great and flourishing cities--Insgal, Glendale, Grangley, and Breach Falls.
At that time the district was approached only by great difficulty, the roads over hill and dale being infested with werewolves and the natives, locally known as ourang-outangs, and almost impassable to other than travelers on horseback, the few wheeled vehicles which existed being clumsy conveyances called drays, and drawn by bullocks; for so great was the demand for, and scarcity of, horses at that time, that bullocks, goats, and even dogs were employed in drawing the valuable ore to the port of shipment, which was the now inconsiderable port of Adelaide. The splendid harbor of Helmsfield Bay was then either unknown or treated with a neglect almost inconceivable to those who now know it as the most important resort for shipping in the known world. Atmospheric railways and aerial machines were, it is true, talked of, but the matter-of-fact men of the day considered them theoretical, visionary, and impracticable; and when we consider that the vessels of the period occupied a space of four months in transferring the ore (for no means for smelting were then established) to England, then the only market for it, we shall cease to wonder that, for a length of time, it was doubtful whether the scheme would prove successful or otherwise.
To those who are acquainted with the immense wealth of the proprietors of this property--the Dukes of the soil; to those who look at their palaces, their castles, and their villas, it is almost Incredible that, so short a time back as one century, their ancestors were at immense trouble to raise the paltry amount referred to, which each of the one thousand proprietors could now readily pay ten times over; that, in fact, two great political parties, called the Earls and Cardiff’s, actually coalesced to attain this object, notwithstanding the almost frantic opposition offered by two gentlemen of the name of Chieftains, who apparently held very influential positions in the principality, or rather, as it was called at that time, the colony.
The City of Adelaide, then, as now, the seat of Government, boasted few of the splendid buildings which now embellish it. The ancient monument in the midst of Light-square was scarcely completed. A monument erected by the Odd Fellows, to the memory of a deceased brother, was only then in the course of erection.
A few of the oldest Churches and Chapels that are dotted over our vast city were certainly in existence, and one Catholic Bishop had lately arrived in the place.
No splendid Cathedral, either Protestant or Catholic, reared its proud head in this our embryo city. The Duke's palace, the palaces of the Archbishops and Bishops, were not thought of. The great man of the place, who, from his advanced years, was known by the soubriquet of the Grey Governor, resided in a portion of the Duke's palace, which those curious in antiquarian researches may still find occupied as apartments and offices by the Lord Steward's clerks; and one unpretending Chapel, in the Monastery of St Murphy, is still pointed out by the venerable father O'Recollect as the nucleus of that great building.
No Colleges actually existed, except in the legends of the oldest inhabitants, who spoke (without, however, anything like confidence) of a College which had existed in air in earlier days.
The great-grandfather of our present beloved Duke was then but an infant in the cradle; and the land was governed by nominees of our great ally, England, with whom friendly relations have been maintained from that time to the present; indeed, as our readers must be aware, this ancestor of our beloved Duke was afterwards the renowned Reginald the First of England.
Records have, however, been handed down of a visit to this clime paid by King Sanders, who died eight hundred years ago; after which a long blank of seven hundred years occurs in the documents in the hands of the Lord Keeper of Records.
We are afraid we are occupying too much space in the oldest established journal of the principality, but cannot resist one more circumstance, which is amusing to those who consider the rude state in which our ancestors carried on their commercial arrangements. It is a well-recorded fact that the great monetary medium was a simple paper document, signed chiefly by one of the Mr. Chieftains before alluded to, which was taken currently as cash, the knowledge of electricity being so confined at that time that our present excellent monetary system was unthought-of of, and he who had proposed such a scheme would have been looked upon as a madman.
One fact more. It is said that wheat-seed was sown months before it was reaped, and the fructification was left entirely to nature. Much doubt has arisen in the minds of many scientific men as to the possibility of growing wheat without electricity; and we have the satisfaction of informing our readers that a series of experiments are now being carried on by Professor Barnes to ascertain the fact.
But the ringing of bells and the firing of the great steam cannon at Fort Helmsfield announce the fact that the festivities of the day have now commenced, and as our Lodge takes a prominent part in them, I must resign my seat in the electro-phonotypographical chair to some one more worthy to fill it.
THE END
AHWA NEWS DIGEST [01.03.09-15.03.09]
AHWA NEWS DIGEST [01.03.09-15.03.09]
The following digest of recent horror news is compiled from pieces published to HorrorScope and the Australian Horror Writers' Association website.
A Dark New World: Anatomy of Australian Horror Films
While the rest of the Australian film industry is languishing, horror movies are alive and thriving and reaping in the big bucks according to a Queensland University of Technology researcher. Dr. Mark David Ryan has completed the first in-depth study into the re-emergence of horror films and the reasons why horror hungry fans can't get enough of our Aussie schlock. Mark's thesis has been released online and can be downloaded from: http://eprints.qut.edu.au/18351/
Masques Anthology Launch
Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild (CSFG) Publishing would like to invite you to the launch of its eighth anthology Masques on 20th March 2009, from 5.00pm. Special guest author Gary Hampson will unveil Masques at the National Archives of Australia on Queen Victoria Terrace. Some authors and editors will be in attendance to sign copies of Masques. Based in Canberra, the CSFG aims to assist science fiction, fantasy, horror writers and illustrators Australia-wide to develop their craft through critiquing, and sharing news and experiences. 30 authors from across Australia (and beyond) come together in Masques.
Chuck McKenzie's Deadwalkers
AHWA member Chuck McKenzie has launched his second "fictional blog" of serialized fiction, with the following statement: "Deadwalkers is a tale set quite a bit further into the future than most post-apocalyptic zombie fare, and one which - hopefully - throws a few new ingredients into the mix. But you'll have to read it to judge for yourselves. So please consider yourselves invited to visit, read, hopefully enjoy, and comment. A new chapter will go up weekly, and the prologue has already been posted. Hey, it's free, so what have you got to lose?"
Manifest 2009 - Melbourne Anime Festival - New Venue!
The following news has been published by the management of Manifest 2009 - Melbourne Anime Festival. "To celebrate our 10th anniversary Melbourne Anime Festival has uprooted and released itself from the shackles of the University of Melbourne and is now going to be held at the Melbourne Showgrounds. After many years of preparing we are finally taking the leap and a big one at that." A Minifest will be held at Melbourne University (10:00am - 8:00pm, 4th April, Architecture Building, University of Melbourne) as well as a Sakura House Cosplay Dinner in the wilds of Wantirna South on April 1st.
Infinitas Newsletter March 2009
The Infinitas Newsletter - published by Infinitas Bookshop - is now available for March 2009 at www.infinitas.com.au. This month's newsletter has a short story, plenty of news and lots of great new books to tempt you. Scan through for your favourite authors and series.
Aeon Award 2008 Winners
Grand Judge of the Aeon Award, respected SF author Ian Watson, has made his decision on the winners of the 2008 contest. Ian chose as winner Twinkle, Twinkle by British author Colin Henchley, who receives the 1000 euro Grand Prize and publication in the next issue (#36) of Albedo One. In second place Ian chose Aegis by U.S. author David T. Neale, who receives 200 euro and will be published in issue 37 of Albedo One. In third place was The Better to See You With by U.S. author Allison Francisco. The Aeon Award 2009 is currently open to submissions, and hopes to continue to promote new writers and writing in the speculative fiction genres.
Clarion South Needs Donations
The Clarion South writers workshop, known as the Australian 'boot camp' for speculative fiction writers, is experiencing trouble and calling for donations to ensure the next workshop goes ahead in 2011. A call for support from Kate Eltham, co-director of Clarion South, states: "There are a few ways you can help... 1. Donate to our Fundraising Appeal - simply go to www.clarionsouth.org/donate.htm to make a PayPal donation directly to Clarion South. 2. Spread the word - even if you can't donate to the Appeal, we would love your support to spread the word about our fundraising drive. By the end of March, we are hoping to raise $4,000 for Clarion South. Thank you in advance for your love and support. We're incredibly passionate about Clarion South and would like to see it thrive and continue into the future."
Midnight Echo III
Midnight Echo III, the magazine of the Australian Horror Writers' Association, is open for business and receptive to unique reverberations. Editor Stephen Studach has issued a call for submissions - "...works of dark fantasy up to 5000 words. That imposed number, however, should be considered a flexible margin. If a work runs to twice that, and you are confident of its worth, then give me a look. Sorry, definitely nothing past 10,000 words this time. Whilst the type of story is almost completely open on this one, if anyone wants to work to a theme try an auditory one; sound, echoes, resonances. Be they literal, metaphoric, or both. But, remember, I am open to all types of tale. Except... No funnies, please. The only humour allowed this time is the black stuff that can sometimes be distilled from seriously dark works. Things tittered out nervously in lieu of a scream or a crazed laugh. The macabre slapstick that sometimes occurs when battling shadows for one's life and sanity. Stylistically you can send me Gothic, old school, cutting edge, atmospheric, mood or experimental pieces, I am a devotee of all of these. If in doubt, send it anyway." For poetry and fine art guidelines, read the full news item at HorrorScope.
Stay Tuned for a special A Night Of Horror International Film Festival AHWA News Digest supplementary edition!
Submitting News
If you have news about Australian and New Zealand Horror publishing and film, or news of professional development opportunities in the field, feel free to submit news to Talie Helene, AHWA News Editor. Just visit HorrorScope, and click on the convenient email link. (International news is not unwelcome, although relevance to Antipodean literary arts practitioners is strongly preferred.)
For information on the Australian Horror Writers' Association, visit australianhorror.com.
This AHWA NEWS DIGEST has been compiled, written, and republished in select Australian horror haunts by Talie Helene. Currently archived at the AHWA MySpace page, Southern Horror, and Darklands, and hosted by AHWA members Felicity Dowker, Jeff Ritchie, Brenton Tomlinson, and Scott Wilson.
If you would like to support the AHWA News effort by hosting a copy of the AHWA News Digest on your blog or website, contact Talie to receive a fully formatted HTML edition of the digest by email.
The following digest of recent horror news is compiled from pieces published to HorrorScope and the Australian Horror Writers' Association website.
A Dark New World: Anatomy of Australian Horror Films
While the rest of the Australian film industry is languishing, horror movies are alive and thriving and reaping in the big bucks according to a Queensland University of Technology researcher. Dr. Mark David Ryan has completed the first in-depth study into the re-emergence of horror films and the reasons why horror hungry fans can't get enough of our Aussie schlock. Mark's thesis has been released online and can be downloaded from: http://eprints.qut.edu.au/18351/
Masques Anthology Launch
Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild (CSFG) Publishing would like to invite you to the launch of its eighth anthology Masques on 20th March 2009, from 5.00pm. Special guest author Gary Hampson will unveil Masques at the National Archives of Australia on Queen Victoria Terrace. Some authors and editors will be in attendance to sign copies of Masques. Based in Canberra, the CSFG aims to assist science fiction, fantasy, horror writers and illustrators Australia-wide to develop their craft through critiquing, and sharing news and experiences. 30 authors from across Australia (and beyond) come together in Masques.
Chuck McKenzie's Deadwalkers
AHWA member Chuck McKenzie has launched his second "fictional blog" of serialized fiction, with the following statement: "Deadwalkers is a tale set quite a bit further into the future than most post-apocalyptic zombie fare, and one which - hopefully - throws a few new ingredients into the mix. But you'll have to read it to judge for yourselves. So please consider yourselves invited to visit, read, hopefully enjoy, and comment. A new chapter will go up weekly, and the prologue has already been posted. Hey, it's free, so what have you got to lose?"
Manifest 2009 - Melbourne Anime Festival - New Venue!
The following news has been published by the management of Manifest 2009 - Melbourne Anime Festival. "To celebrate our 10th anniversary Melbourne Anime Festival has uprooted and released itself from the shackles of the University of Melbourne and is now going to be held at the Melbourne Showgrounds. After many years of preparing we are finally taking the leap and a big one at that." A Minifest will be held at Melbourne University (10:00am - 8:00pm, 4th April, Architecture Building, University of Melbourne) as well as a Sakura House Cosplay Dinner in the wilds of Wantirna South on April 1st.
Infinitas Newsletter March 2009
The Infinitas Newsletter - published by Infinitas Bookshop - is now available for March 2009 at www.infinitas.com.au. This month's newsletter has a short story, plenty of news and lots of great new books to tempt you. Scan through for your favourite authors and series.
Aeon Award 2008 Winners
Grand Judge of the Aeon Award, respected SF author Ian Watson, has made his decision on the winners of the 2008 contest. Ian chose as winner Twinkle, Twinkle by British author Colin Henchley, who receives the 1000 euro Grand Prize and publication in the next issue (#36) of Albedo One. In second place Ian chose Aegis by U.S. author David T. Neale, who receives 200 euro and will be published in issue 37 of Albedo One. In third place was The Better to See You With by U.S. author Allison Francisco. The Aeon Award 2009 is currently open to submissions, and hopes to continue to promote new writers and writing in the speculative fiction genres.
Clarion South Needs Donations
The Clarion South writers workshop, known as the Australian 'boot camp' for speculative fiction writers, is experiencing trouble and calling for donations to ensure the next workshop goes ahead in 2011. A call for support from Kate Eltham, co-director of Clarion South, states: "There are a few ways you can help... 1. Donate to our Fundraising Appeal - simply go to www.clarionsouth.org/donate.htm to make a PayPal donation directly to Clarion South. 2. Spread the word - even if you can't donate to the Appeal, we would love your support to spread the word about our fundraising drive. By the end of March, we are hoping to raise $4,000 for Clarion South. Thank you in advance for your love and support. We're incredibly passionate about Clarion South and would like to see it thrive and continue into the future."
Midnight Echo III
Midnight Echo III, the magazine of the Australian Horror Writers' Association, is open for business and receptive to unique reverberations. Editor Stephen Studach has issued a call for submissions - "...works of dark fantasy up to 5000 words. That imposed number, however, should be considered a flexible margin. If a work runs to twice that, and you are confident of its worth, then give me a look. Sorry, definitely nothing past 10,000 words this time. Whilst the type of story is almost completely open on this one, if anyone wants to work to a theme try an auditory one; sound, echoes, resonances. Be they literal, metaphoric, or both. But, remember, I am open to all types of tale. Except... No funnies, please. The only humour allowed this time is the black stuff that can sometimes be distilled from seriously dark works. Things tittered out nervously in lieu of a scream or a crazed laugh. The macabre slapstick that sometimes occurs when battling shadows for one's life and sanity. Stylistically you can send me Gothic, old school, cutting edge, atmospheric, mood or experimental pieces, I am a devotee of all of these. If in doubt, send it anyway." For poetry and fine art guidelines, read the full news item at HorrorScope.
Stay Tuned for a special A Night Of Horror International Film Festival AHWA News Digest supplementary edition!
Submitting News
If you have news about Australian and New Zealand Horror publishing and film, or news of professional development opportunities in the field, feel free to submit news to Talie Helene, AHWA News Editor. Just visit HorrorScope, and click on the convenient email link. (International news is not unwelcome, although relevance to Antipodean literary arts practitioners is strongly preferred.)
For information on the Australian Horror Writers' Association, visit australianhorror.com.
This AHWA NEWS DIGEST has been compiled, written, and republished in select Australian horror haunts by Talie Helene. Currently archived at the AHWA MySpace page, Southern Horror, and Darklands, and hosted by AHWA members Felicity Dowker, Jeff Ritchie, Brenton Tomlinson, and Scott Wilson.
If you would like to support the AHWA News effort by hosting a copy of the AHWA News Digest on your blog or website, contact Talie to receive a fully formatted HTML edition of the digest by email.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Plague Ship
Plague Ship
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 420
He leaned against the headboard with nothing more than a coverlet draped loosely over the two of them. His fingers intertwined with her hair, loosening the woven pattern as his other hand slipped down to her . . .
"What’s wrong, darling?" she asked playfully.
He shook his head. "I fear what I may have caught whilst giving this week's alms at the zombie's hospital."
His eyes snapped open. The grass under the tree had not been as soft on his bones as it first appeared.
He stepped aside as a team of prancing steeds overtook him, and tried to ignore the shouts and insults of those around him.
He limped toward Brisbane. The wood clapper announced his presence with each painful step. He covered his face as the peasants approached. They kept a wide berth around him, repulsed. He smiled to himself -- how ironic. One of them shouted: zombie's hospital is at the edge of the city.
`I had read the sign at the crossroads,' he said in his mind. `I'm not illiterate.' He still looked down on these peasants.
He did not realize until it was too late. The infected pushed passed the hospital like a flock of sheep, toward an awaiting ship. He heard a voice to his left announce something about the hospital being full. Wait on the hospital ship.
The smell of the plague and zombie victims packed so near nauseated him, even though, he didn't smell much better -- not with the rotting, ulcerating flesh peeling from his once handsome, virile body.
The anchor scraped against the side of the ship as it lurched out of the water. The ship moved away with the current and, it leaked. He was trapped, to drown. Cold water lapped around his ankles. He shivered. Someone leaned against him, closer than anyone had in years. He felt a pinching sensation on his neck.
He could not move.
"What...are you doing to me?"
"A little late to worry about that, James of Brussels’?"
"You know me? I've the plague."
"Look around you? Everyone is dying on this ship. The perfect place for me to feed off them, don't you think? No one will notice. No one will care. They say they no longer know what to do with all the plague victims, so they are isolated them on this ship."
Water filled his lungs. He closed his eyes.
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 420
He leaned against the headboard with nothing more than a coverlet draped loosely over the two of them. His fingers intertwined with her hair, loosening the woven pattern as his other hand slipped down to her . . .
"What’s wrong, darling?" she asked playfully.
He shook his head. "I fear what I may have caught whilst giving this week's alms at the zombie's hospital."
His eyes snapped open. The grass under the tree had not been as soft on his bones as it first appeared.
He stepped aside as a team of prancing steeds overtook him, and tried to ignore the shouts and insults of those around him.
He limped toward Brisbane. The wood clapper announced his presence with each painful step. He covered his face as the peasants approached. They kept a wide berth around him, repulsed. He smiled to himself -- how ironic. One of them shouted: zombie's hospital is at the edge of the city.
`I had read the sign at the crossroads,' he said in his mind. `I'm not illiterate.' He still looked down on these peasants.
He did not realize until it was too late. The infected pushed passed the hospital like a flock of sheep, toward an awaiting ship. He heard a voice to his left announce something about the hospital being full. Wait on the hospital ship.
The smell of the plague and zombie victims packed so near nauseated him, even though, he didn't smell much better -- not with the rotting, ulcerating flesh peeling from his once handsome, virile body.
The anchor scraped against the side of the ship as it lurched out of the water. The ship moved away with the current and, it leaked. He was trapped, to drown. Cold water lapped around his ankles. He shivered. Someone leaned against him, closer than anyone had in years. He felt a pinching sensation on his neck.
He could not move.
"What...are you doing to me?"
"A little late to worry about that, James of Brussels’?"
"You know me? I've the plague."
"Look around you? Everyone is dying on this ship. The perfect place for me to feed off them, don't you think? No one will notice. No one will care. They say they no longer know what to do with all the plague victims, so they are isolated them on this ship."
Water filled his lungs. He closed his eyes.
Alone
Alone
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 435
Jane checks outside before she leaves. She sees her neighbor down by his truck, holding his Chihuahua, Alfred, and a cup of tea. It freaks Jane out how he is out there almost every morning. It is far too frequently to be a coincidence. Jane has never intentionally given him the wrong impression and she does not want his attention or affection. She talks pleasantly all day at work. She dreads starting this soon.
He is not attractive, or even plain. His thinning black hair always in a pathetic comb over. His serial killer smile makes her skin creep.
She cannot be late again. She balances her purse, lunch and house keys and steps outside, desperately wanting to close the door quietly and avoid bringing his attention to her.
``Morning, Jane. Off to work?''
``It’s Monday, Tony. Some of us still have to work?'' The words are out before she can bite her lip. When she bites, too late, she draws blood. Tony probably enjoyed this; after all, he gave her the creeps and was probably a mass murderer.
``I sometime wish I were not retrenched,'' He looks too happy to be talked to. “Forced into an early retirement, cause not much work for a fifty-four year old laborer.
``Sorry, I did not mean it like that, Tony. I am running late. Damned alarm did not go off again.'' She turns and feels his smile collapse. Teeth and chin disintegrate. He dissolves like popcorn in milk. She feels him speak to himself unkindly.
***
Tony walks outside, carrying Alfred. Most of his neighbors leave for work about now. If his wife had not passed away the year before he retired, he would not really care. Now, now, he is alone. The only words he said yesterday were to the checkout girl at Coles.
Last night he had that dream where he screams and no sound comes out. He came awake with his mouth open. He reached for the end of the bed, touched Alfred and went back to sleep.
Jane comes out of her apartment. She seems nice. Plain. Always in a hurry. They've never had much of a conversation.
He throws out some small talk about work, glad to use his voice. Her face looks like she is chewing stones. She rarely smiles. He thinks of making her a birdhouse.
She says goodbye. He nods and walks back toward his truck, considering the materials he will need for the project. He puts the dog down and drinks from his insulated mug. The mouthful of heat brings him fully awake and he forgets his dream.
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 435
Jane checks outside before she leaves. She sees her neighbor down by his truck, holding his Chihuahua, Alfred, and a cup of tea. It freaks Jane out how he is out there almost every morning. It is far too frequently to be a coincidence. Jane has never intentionally given him the wrong impression and she does not want his attention or affection. She talks pleasantly all day at work. She dreads starting this soon.
He is not attractive, or even plain. His thinning black hair always in a pathetic comb over. His serial killer smile makes her skin creep.
She cannot be late again. She balances her purse, lunch and house keys and steps outside, desperately wanting to close the door quietly and avoid bringing his attention to her.
``Morning, Jane. Off to work?''
``It’s Monday, Tony. Some of us still have to work?'' The words are out before she can bite her lip. When she bites, too late, she draws blood. Tony probably enjoyed this; after all, he gave her the creeps and was probably a mass murderer.
``I sometime wish I were not retrenched,'' He looks too happy to be talked to. “Forced into an early retirement, cause not much work for a fifty-four year old laborer.
``Sorry, I did not mean it like that, Tony. I am running late. Damned alarm did not go off again.'' She turns and feels his smile collapse. Teeth and chin disintegrate. He dissolves like popcorn in milk. She feels him speak to himself unkindly.
***
Tony walks outside, carrying Alfred. Most of his neighbors leave for work about now. If his wife had not passed away the year before he retired, he would not really care. Now, now, he is alone. The only words he said yesterday were to the checkout girl at Coles.
Last night he had that dream where he screams and no sound comes out. He came awake with his mouth open. He reached for the end of the bed, touched Alfred and went back to sleep.
Jane comes out of her apartment. She seems nice. Plain. Always in a hurry. They've never had much of a conversation.
He throws out some small talk about work, glad to use his voice. Her face looks like she is chewing stones. She rarely smiles. He thinks of making her a birdhouse.
She says goodbye. He nods and walks back toward his truck, considering the materials he will need for the project. He puts the dog down and drinks from his insulated mug. The mouthful of heat brings him fully awake and he forgets his dream.
Friday, March 6, 2009
HOORAY - Passion for Orestes
My Dark Erotic story, Passion for Orestes has been accepted for publishing in the next print issue of Sinister Tales (Volume 4.1) http://darknessproductions.com/guidelines.htm
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
HOORAY - Cup Of Joe
My story "Cup of Joe" has been published by MicroHorror, http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/scott-wilson/cup-of-joe/
Sunday, March 1, 2009
AHWA NEWS DIGEST [01.02.09-01.03.09]
The following digest of recent horror news is compiled from pieces published to HorrorScope and the Australian Horror Writers' Association website.
Australian Shadows Award finalists
On Black Friday the Australian Horror Writers' Association (AHWA) selected five of the best and scariest works of Australian horror fiction from 2008 as the finalists in the annual Australian Shadows Award. The Australian Shadows Award is an annual jury-judged literary award issued by the AHWA that honours the very best works of Australian dark fiction published in the preceding year. The winner of the 2008 Australian Shadows Award, to be determined by guest judge Sarah Endacott (acclaimed editor of Orb magazine) will be announced on March 13. The judges for this year's awards were Shane Jiraiya Cummings (AHWA Vice President and author of Shards), Brett McBean (author of The Mother), and Chuck McKenzie (author of Confessions of a Pod Person). The winners' history and further details are available at www.australianhorror.com.
Hope webzine - a fundraiser for victims of the Victorian bushfire disaster
Hope is a new multi-part fanzine raising money for bushfire relief in the Australian state of Victoria. Edited by Grant Watson, with contributions donated by writers, artists and fans in Australia and from overseas. It is supported by the Western Australian Science Fiction Foundation (WASFF), and has received assistance from the Film & Television Institute of WA, Supanova and Big Finish Productions. Hope #1 contains contributions from Mo Ali, Sophie Ambrose, R.J. Astruc, Lyn Battersby, K.K. Bishop, Matthew Chrulew, Stephen Dedman, Mark S. Deniz, d.n.l, Paul Haines, Simon Haynes, Kathleen Jennings, Ju Landeesse, Damian Magee, David A. McIntee, Simon Petrie, Andrew Phillips, Gillian Polack, Robert Shearman and Daniel Smith. The cover is by Rebecca Handcock.
Tasmaniac launches soft cover edition of The Nobody by Tom Piccirilli
The 4th novella release from Tasmaniac Publications is available to buy - The Nobody by Tom Piccirilli! Lettered hardcovers sold out pre-publication, but the soft cover edition is available at $22.95 with free shipping within Australia, limited to only 180 copies!
Richard Morgan to appear at Swancon
Richard Morgan, author of The Steel Remains and Black Man, is a Guest of Honour at this year’s Swancon, the 34th Annual West Australian Science Fiction Convention. The convention is held at the All Seasons Hotel in Northbridge, Perth, from April 9-13.
La Miranda Film Festival at ACMI
Screening as part of a special presentation is Vampir-Cuadecuc, a combination of documentary, narrative and experimental film styles. Shot on the set of Jesus Franco’s Italian horror film Count Dracula, and featuring the stars of that film, Christopher Lee and sex symbol Soledad Miranda, Vampir is a gentle homage to early films about the vampire legend, particularly Dreyer’s Vampyr and Murnau’s Nosferatu. Jesus Franco was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award at the 2009 Goya Awards.
Terra Incognita Podcast #4
Coeur de Lion's fourth podcast features a reading by Louise Katz of The Little Demon, and host Keith Stevenson reviewing Star Wars: Force Unleashed by Sean Williams.
Monsters Vs Aliens at Sydney Film School
Sydney Film School students, graduates, teachers and friends are invited to join the SFS at 11am on Friday March 6th for the Q&A session with the new Paramount/DreamWorks animation film director Conrad Vernon (Shrek 2). Find out all about the first InTru 3D Movie before it comes to the Cinemas. Not to be missed!
Supanova 2009
Gathered from the wonderful worlds of science-fiction, pulp TV/movies, toys, console gaming, trading cards, animation/cartoons, fantasy, comic books, entertainment technology, books, music, sport, internet sites and fan-clubs, Supanova Pop Culture Expo is where the adoring public comes face to face with the creative talent that inspire their imaginary worlds under one big roof.
Borderlands Press Writers' Boot Camp now accepting submissions for 2010
If you’re serious about improving your writing skills, Borderlands Press Writers' Boot Camp is the place to be. Borderlands Press celebrated it 8th Writers Boot Camp in January, 2009 with 40 attending “grunts”—20 each in short fiction and novel programs. An impressive number of Boot Camp graduates have gone on to sell their short fiction to many magazines and anthologies, and writers such as Michael McBride, Lisa Manetti, John Little, Cameron Pierce, David Bell, and Daniel Waters have since sold their novels to major publishers. Antipodean writers please note: the Borderlands Press Writers' Boot Camp is based in the USA.
Animania Festival 2009
Animania Festival 2009 will bring Sydney-siders - and people from all over - a range of events and entertainment including staple favourites Karaoke, Doodling competitions, all-day Screenings and video games in the Gamer Room. Cosplayers can also expect the first of three World Cosplay Summit Preliminaries to grace the Main Stage as well as the mixed bag game show, Olympia.
BrokenSea Audio Productions in Conan copyright controversy
BrokenSea Audio Productions, a not-for-profit fan broadcaster of audio drama, have received international attention due to an ongoing copyright fracas with intellectual property company Conan Properties International LLC. The contested content are adaptations of Conan stories by author Robert E Howard (1909-1936), and the conflict hinges on the question of whether the stories are now in the public domain, or not?
Popcorn Taxi presents Acolytes screening and live Q&A with Jon Hewitt
Directed by Jon Hewitt and starring Joel Edgerton, this award winning film has taken audiences by storm with the heavy nature of its unrelenting story. It also happens to be the first film in the southern hemisphere to be shot using the revolutionary new Viper Filmstream HD camera – making the eerie cinematography applicable to the frightening nature of this brilliant thriller. Winner of Best Film, Best Actor and Best Cinematography at the 2008 Melbourne Underground Film Festival, and with a soundtrack comprising the likes of Wolf & Cub, Midnight Juggernauts, Died Pretty, Battles and I Heart Hiroshima... this film will kill you! Followed by an audience Q&A with Australia’s most prolific and successful maverick filmmaker Jon Hewitt.
AntipodeanSF #129
AntipodeanSF Issue 129 is published for your enjoyment on the web. As usual there are ten fantastic pieces of speculative flash fiction to enjoy! At AntipodeanSF you'll also find the usual reviews, Going Critical and Vide, along with a new display area featuring information about freshly minted books here down-under. If you register with the site using the automated system, this allows you to vote and make comments about the stories online.
The Year Of Crime with Robin Bowles
Victorian Writers' Centre presents The Year of Crime. Robin shares her skills as a researcher, marketer and bestselling writer in a comprehensive course ranging from honing the idea, to writing something worth publishing. The course covers fiction and non-fiction writing, and is suitable for beginners searching for the right concept, through to those who have done a lot of work and are now looking for advice and direction to improve their work in preparation for offering it to publishers. Australia’s foremost true-crime writer, Robin has written bestselling books including Justice Denied (about the Jaidyn Leskie murder) and Dead Centre. Her first novel The Curse of the Golden Yo Yo was followed by the sequel The Mystery of the Missing Masterpiece in 2008.
The Stephen Cleary Adaptation Workshop
Presented by Film Victoria, this workshop is a mixture of lectures, project work, modules and intimate group discussions. The workshop has three main strands, which are 1.) Adaptation: Theory, including the three kinds of adaptation - reconstruction, re-imagining, deconstruction. 2.) Adaptation: Development Practice, including adaptation's analytic documents. 3.) Project work: individual teams work on the adaptation project they have brought to the workshop, in partnership with a workshop tutor. Stephen Cleary was Head of Development at the UK's national film Agency, British Screen, for three and a half years. He developed over 60 produced feature films including Land of Freedom (Ken Loach), Before the Rain (Milcho Manchevski, Acadamy Award nominee for best foreign film, winner Golden Lion, Venice Film Festival), Rob Roy (Michael Caton-Jones), and Butterfly Kiss (Michael Winterbottom).
The Year Of Speculative Fiction – The SF Novel Challenge with Lucy Sussex
Victorian Writers' Centre presents The Year of Speculative Fiction. Speculative fiction is all around us: in film, TV and the prognostications of Earth’s future. It can vary from alternate worlds (Nazis win WW2), to near-future thrillers, supernatural romances, space opera (Star Trek novels) and dispatches from the frontiers of the human imagination. The challenge in this series of workshops is to write a speculative fiction novel in 2009, workshop it and learn how to market it – even sell it! Award-winning writer Lucy Sussex hosts the challenge, which includes guest spots from editors, publishers and publicists. To be eligible, sample chapters and story outlines are required to be submitted by Friday 6 March (max 1000 words).
Genre and Genre Hybrids Seminar: Jonathan Rawlinson & Simon van der Borgh
Prsented by Film Victoria, this seminar will examine how to work with genre and genre hybrids, and how to incorporate genre elements into your work. Simon van der Borgh and Jonathan Rawlinson will lead a practical, interactive workshop exploring film genre for writers, directors, producers and developers. Why Genre and Genre Hybrids? Bad genre may be easy, but great genre is incredibly tough; and Genre Hybrids (such as SHAUN OF THE DEAD) and dramas that incorporate genre elements (such as LANTANA) are a great way for independent films to appeal to a wider audience.
The Bullsheet #84
The Australian Science Fiction Bullsheet #84, March 2009 edition is now available. This issue details various publishing news, and an overview of upcoming writing, speculative fiction and fan events.
Chauvel 'Summertime Bloodbath' program
Chauvel Cinema presents 'a season of horror and spaghetti western films. Blood, revenge, murder and mayhem. Perfect films for the long hot nights this summer!' The program includes Il Mercenario (Sergio Corbucci,1968), Motel Hell (Kevin Conno, 1980), Nigh Of The Comet (Thomas Eberhardt, 1984), The Good The Bad And The Ugly (Sergio Leone, 1969), and Robocop (Paul Verhoeven, 1987).
Screen Sect program for March 2009
This month Screen Sect present a variety of cult and classic cinema including The Big Heat (Fritz Lang, 1953), Dead Man (Jim Jarmusch, 1995), Daughters Of Darkness (Harry Kumel, 1970), Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (David Lynch, 1992), and the Sweet Smell Of Success (Alexander MacKendrick, 1958). Screen Sect is a film-night in Melbourne - devoted to rarely seen, obsessively loved and criminally neglected cult classics of cinema. Revisit old favourites, uncover hidden celluloid gems, indulge guilty pleasures, or just get yourself an education.
The Dark Fiction Guild
The Dark Fiction Guild is a new association for authors, editors and publishers of high quality dark fiction, poetry and drama, including such sub-genres as horror, suspense, occult, supernatural, gothic and neo-gothic literature. Membership applications are screened by the Guild - levels based on professional experience. The Guild's mission is 'to create an inexpensive and inclusive writers' association that encourages and supports high artistic standards'.
Dymocks Southland bestselling horror titles for February ‘09
Dymocks Southland is a general bookshop in Cheltenham, Victoria, boasting an extensive range of genre stock. Click through to view the top 10 bestselling horror titles for February 2009. Dymocks Southland also publishes a monthly SF, fantasy and horror newsletter, Dymensions.
Brett McBean author signing at Dymocks Southland
This month Dymocks Southland will be hosting an exciting author event with Brett McBean - rising star of Australian horror! On Saturday 7th March, 12-1pm, Brett will be signing copies of his Aurealis Award-nominated novel, The Mother. There will also be extremely limited quantities of some of Brett's overseas publications, including the recently-released New Dark Voices II - so get in early if you want to grab a copy! Dymocks Southland is located on the third floor of Westfield Shopping Centre in Cheltenham, Victoria. Tel: 03-95841245. The event is free, and registration is not required.
Trudi Canavan's The Magician’s Apprentice
Orbit are proud to announce the brand new novel of high fantasy adventure from Trudi Canavan. A standalone prequel to the best-selling Black Magician Trilogy set hundreds of years before the events of The Magicians’ Guild, The Magician’s Apprentice is the perfect introduction to the world of Trudi Canavan’s internationally bestselling Black Magician Trilogy.
Short Sited is set to scream in 2009 - new special horror category!
Festival Director, Tom Subjak can confirm that the 2009 installment of the Short Sited Film Festival, the illawarra’s largest and longest running film festival since 1996, is gearing up with full cooperation and funding support from the NSW Film and Television Office. Start howling at the moon, Short Sited the 13th is creeping out from the shadows. The festival will scream Friday March 13, 2009 at University Hall UOW.
AHWA Critiquing Groups
The Australian Horror Writers' Association is accepting expressions of interest from AHWA members wishing to take part in facilitating critiquing groups. Enquiries should be directed toward the AHWA Critique Group Coordinator, Mark Farrugia, from the 25th of February. (See full story for contact details.) For information on how to join the Australian Horror Writers' Association, and on the many benefits of membership, visit www.australianhorror.com.
Submitting News
If you have news about Australian and New Zealand Horror publishing and film, or news of professional development opportunities in the field, feel free to submit news to Talie Helene, AHWA News Editor. Just visit HorrorScope, and click on the convenient email link. (International news is not unwelcome, although relevance to Antipodean literary arts practitioners is strongly preferred.)
For information on the Australian Horror Writers' Association, visit australianhorror.com.
This AHWA NEWS DIGEST has been compiled, written, and republished in select Australian horror haunts by Talie Helene. Currently archived at the AHWA MySpace page, Southern Horror, and Darklands, and hosted by AHWA members Felicity Dowker, Jeff Ritchie, Brenton Tomlinson, and Scott Wilson.
If you would like to support the AHWA News effort by hosting a copy of the AHWA News Digest on your blog or website, contact Talie to receive a fully formatted HTML edition of the digest by email.
The following digest of recent horror news is compiled from pieces published to HorrorScope and the Australian Horror Writers' Association website.
Australian Shadows Award finalists
On Black Friday the Australian Horror Writers' Association (AHWA) selected five of the best and scariest works of Australian horror fiction from 2008 as the finalists in the annual Australian Shadows Award. The Australian Shadows Award is an annual jury-judged literary award issued by the AHWA that honours the very best works of Australian dark fiction published in the preceding year. The winner of the 2008 Australian Shadows Award, to be determined by guest judge Sarah Endacott (acclaimed editor of Orb magazine) will be announced on March 13. The judges for this year's awards were Shane Jiraiya Cummings (AHWA Vice President and author of Shards), Brett McBean (author of The Mother), and Chuck McKenzie (author of Confessions of a Pod Person). The winners' history and further details are available at www.australianhorror.com.
Hope webzine - a fundraiser for victims of the Victorian bushfire disaster
Hope is a new multi-part fanzine raising money for bushfire relief in the Australian state of Victoria. Edited by Grant Watson, with contributions donated by writers, artists and fans in Australia and from overseas. It is supported by the Western Australian Science Fiction Foundation (WASFF), and has received assistance from the Film & Television Institute of WA, Supanova and Big Finish Productions. Hope #1 contains contributions from Mo Ali, Sophie Ambrose, R.J. Astruc, Lyn Battersby, K.K. Bishop, Matthew Chrulew, Stephen Dedman, Mark S. Deniz, d.n.l, Paul Haines, Simon Haynes, Kathleen Jennings, Ju Landeesse, Damian Magee, David A. McIntee, Simon Petrie, Andrew Phillips, Gillian Polack, Robert Shearman and Daniel Smith. The cover is by Rebecca Handcock.
Tasmaniac launches soft cover edition of The Nobody by Tom Piccirilli
The 4th novella release from Tasmaniac Publications is available to buy - The Nobody by Tom Piccirilli! Lettered hardcovers sold out pre-publication, but the soft cover edition is available at $22.95 with free shipping within Australia, limited to only 180 copies!
Richard Morgan to appear at Swancon
Richard Morgan, author of The Steel Remains and Black Man, is a Guest of Honour at this year’s Swancon, the 34th Annual West Australian Science Fiction Convention. The convention is held at the All Seasons Hotel in Northbridge, Perth, from April 9-13.
La Miranda Film Festival at ACMI
Screening as part of a special presentation is Vampir-Cuadecuc, a combination of documentary, narrative and experimental film styles. Shot on the set of Jesus Franco’s Italian horror film Count Dracula, and featuring the stars of that film, Christopher Lee and sex symbol Soledad Miranda, Vampir is a gentle homage to early films about the vampire legend, particularly Dreyer’s Vampyr and Murnau’s Nosferatu. Jesus Franco was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award at the 2009 Goya Awards.
Terra Incognita Podcast #4
Coeur de Lion's fourth podcast features a reading by Louise Katz of The Little Demon, and host Keith Stevenson reviewing Star Wars: Force Unleashed by Sean Williams.
Monsters Vs Aliens at Sydney Film School
Sydney Film School students, graduates, teachers and friends are invited to join the SFS at 11am on Friday March 6th for the Q&A session with the new Paramount/DreamWorks animation film director Conrad Vernon (Shrek 2). Find out all about the first InTru 3D Movie before it comes to the Cinemas. Not to be missed!
Supanova 2009
Gathered from the wonderful worlds of science-fiction, pulp TV/movies, toys, console gaming, trading cards, animation/cartoons, fantasy, comic books, entertainment technology, books, music, sport, internet sites and fan-clubs, Supanova Pop Culture Expo is where the adoring public comes face to face with the creative talent that inspire their imaginary worlds under one big roof.
Borderlands Press Writers' Boot Camp now accepting submissions for 2010
If you’re serious about improving your writing skills, Borderlands Press Writers' Boot Camp is the place to be. Borderlands Press celebrated it 8th Writers Boot Camp in January, 2009 with 40 attending “grunts”—20 each in short fiction and novel programs. An impressive number of Boot Camp graduates have gone on to sell their short fiction to many magazines and anthologies, and writers such as Michael McBride, Lisa Manetti, John Little, Cameron Pierce, David Bell, and Daniel Waters have since sold their novels to major publishers. Antipodean writers please note: the Borderlands Press Writers' Boot Camp is based in the USA.
Animania Festival 2009
Animania Festival 2009 will bring Sydney-siders - and people from all over - a range of events and entertainment including staple favourites Karaoke, Doodling competitions, all-day Screenings and video games in the Gamer Room. Cosplayers can also expect the first of three World Cosplay Summit Preliminaries to grace the Main Stage as well as the mixed bag game show, Olympia.
BrokenSea Audio Productions in Conan copyright controversy
BrokenSea Audio Productions, a not-for-profit fan broadcaster of audio drama, have received international attention due to an ongoing copyright fracas with intellectual property company Conan Properties International LLC. The contested content are adaptations of Conan stories by author Robert E Howard (1909-1936), and the conflict hinges on the question of whether the stories are now in the public domain, or not?
Popcorn Taxi presents Acolytes screening and live Q&A with Jon Hewitt
Directed by Jon Hewitt and starring Joel Edgerton, this award winning film has taken audiences by storm with the heavy nature of its unrelenting story. It also happens to be the first film in the southern hemisphere to be shot using the revolutionary new Viper Filmstream HD camera – making the eerie cinematography applicable to the frightening nature of this brilliant thriller. Winner of Best Film, Best Actor and Best Cinematography at the 2008 Melbourne Underground Film Festival, and with a soundtrack comprising the likes of Wolf & Cub, Midnight Juggernauts, Died Pretty, Battles and I Heart Hiroshima... this film will kill you! Followed by an audience Q&A with Australia’s most prolific and successful maverick filmmaker Jon Hewitt.
AntipodeanSF #129
AntipodeanSF Issue 129 is published for your enjoyment on the web. As usual there are ten fantastic pieces of speculative flash fiction to enjoy! At AntipodeanSF you'll also find the usual reviews, Going Critical and Vide, along with a new display area featuring information about freshly minted books here down-under. If you register with the site using the automated system, this allows you to vote and make comments about the stories online.
The Year Of Crime with Robin Bowles
Victorian Writers' Centre presents The Year of Crime. Robin shares her skills as a researcher, marketer and bestselling writer in a comprehensive course ranging from honing the idea, to writing something worth publishing. The course covers fiction and non-fiction writing, and is suitable for beginners searching for the right concept, through to those who have done a lot of work and are now looking for advice and direction to improve their work in preparation for offering it to publishers. Australia’s foremost true-crime writer, Robin has written bestselling books including Justice Denied (about the Jaidyn Leskie murder) and Dead Centre. Her first novel The Curse of the Golden Yo Yo was followed by the sequel The Mystery of the Missing Masterpiece in 2008.
The Stephen Cleary Adaptation Workshop
Presented by Film Victoria, this workshop is a mixture of lectures, project work, modules and intimate group discussions. The workshop has three main strands, which are 1.) Adaptation: Theory, including the three kinds of adaptation - reconstruction, re-imagining, deconstruction. 2.) Adaptation: Development Practice, including adaptation's analytic documents. 3.) Project work: individual teams work on the adaptation project they have brought to the workshop, in partnership with a workshop tutor. Stephen Cleary was Head of Development at the UK's national film Agency, British Screen, for three and a half years. He developed over 60 produced feature films including Land of Freedom (Ken Loach), Before the Rain (Milcho Manchevski, Acadamy Award nominee for best foreign film, winner Golden Lion, Venice Film Festival), Rob Roy (Michael Caton-Jones), and Butterfly Kiss (Michael Winterbottom).
The Year Of Speculative Fiction – The SF Novel Challenge with Lucy Sussex
Victorian Writers' Centre presents The Year of Speculative Fiction. Speculative fiction is all around us: in film, TV and the prognostications of Earth’s future. It can vary from alternate worlds (Nazis win WW2), to near-future thrillers, supernatural romances, space opera (Star Trek novels) and dispatches from the frontiers of the human imagination. The challenge in this series of workshops is to write a speculative fiction novel in 2009, workshop it and learn how to market it – even sell it! Award-winning writer Lucy Sussex hosts the challenge, which includes guest spots from editors, publishers and publicists. To be eligible, sample chapters and story outlines are required to be submitted by Friday 6 March (max 1000 words).
Genre and Genre Hybrids Seminar: Jonathan Rawlinson & Simon van der Borgh
Prsented by Film Victoria, this seminar will examine how to work with genre and genre hybrids, and how to incorporate genre elements into your work. Simon van der Borgh and Jonathan Rawlinson will lead a practical, interactive workshop exploring film genre for writers, directors, producers and developers. Why Genre and Genre Hybrids? Bad genre may be easy, but great genre is incredibly tough; and Genre Hybrids (such as SHAUN OF THE DEAD) and dramas that incorporate genre elements (such as LANTANA) are a great way for independent films to appeal to a wider audience.
The Bullsheet #84
The Australian Science Fiction Bullsheet #84, March 2009 edition is now available. This issue details various publishing news, and an overview of upcoming writing, speculative fiction and fan events.
Chauvel 'Summertime Bloodbath' program
Chauvel Cinema presents 'a season of horror and spaghetti western films. Blood, revenge, murder and mayhem. Perfect films for the long hot nights this summer!' The program includes Il Mercenario (Sergio Corbucci,1968), Motel Hell (Kevin Conno, 1980), Nigh Of The Comet (Thomas Eberhardt, 1984), The Good The Bad And The Ugly (Sergio Leone, 1969), and Robocop (Paul Verhoeven, 1987).
Screen Sect program for March 2009
This month Screen Sect present a variety of cult and classic cinema including The Big Heat (Fritz Lang, 1953), Dead Man (Jim Jarmusch, 1995), Daughters Of Darkness (Harry Kumel, 1970), Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (David Lynch, 1992), and the Sweet Smell Of Success (Alexander MacKendrick, 1958). Screen Sect is a film-night in Melbourne - devoted to rarely seen, obsessively loved and criminally neglected cult classics of cinema. Revisit old favourites, uncover hidden celluloid gems, indulge guilty pleasures, or just get yourself an education.
The Dark Fiction Guild
The Dark Fiction Guild is a new association for authors, editors and publishers of high quality dark fiction, poetry and drama, including such sub-genres as horror, suspense, occult, supernatural, gothic and neo-gothic literature. Membership applications are screened by the Guild - levels based on professional experience. The Guild's mission is 'to create an inexpensive and inclusive writers' association that encourages and supports high artistic standards'.
Dymocks Southland bestselling horror titles for February ‘09
Dymocks Southland is a general bookshop in Cheltenham, Victoria, boasting an extensive range of genre stock. Click through to view the top 10 bestselling horror titles for February 2009. Dymocks Southland also publishes a monthly SF, fantasy and horror newsletter, Dymensions.
Brett McBean author signing at Dymocks Southland
This month Dymocks Southland will be hosting an exciting author event with Brett McBean - rising star of Australian horror! On Saturday 7th March, 12-1pm, Brett will be signing copies of his Aurealis Award-nominated novel, The Mother. There will also be extremely limited quantities of some of Brett's overseas publications, including the recently-released New Dark Voices II - so get in early if you want to grab a copy! Dymocks Southland is located on the third floor of Westfield Shopping Centre in Cheltenham, Victoria. Tel: 03-95841245. The event is free, and registration is not required.
Trudi Canavan's The Magician’s Apprentice
Orbit are proud to announce the brand new novel of high fantasy adventure from Trudi Canavan. A standalone prequel to the best-selling Black Magician Trilogy set hundreds of years before the events of The Magicians’ Guild, The Magician’s Apprentice is the perfect introduction to the world of Trudi Canavan’s internationally bestselling Black Magician Trilogy.
Short Sited is set to scream in 2009 - new special horror category!
Festival Director, Tom Subjak can confirm that the 2009 installment of the Short Sited Film Festival, the illawarra’s largest and longest running film festival since 1996, is gearing up with full cooperation and funding support from the NSW Film and Television Office. Start howling at the moon, Short Sited the 13th is creeping out from the shadows. The festival will scream Friday March 13, 2009 at University Hall UOW.
AHWA Critiquing Groups
The Australian Horror Writers' Association is accepting expressions of interest from AHWA members wishing to take part in facilitating critiquing groups. Enquiries should be directed toward the AHWA Critique Group Coordinator, Mark Farrugia, from the 25th of February. (See full story for contact details.) For information on how to join the Australian Horror Writers' Association, and on the many benefits of membership, visit www.australianhorror.com.
Submitting News
If you have news about Australian and New Zealand Horror publishing and film, or news of professional development opportunities in the field, feel free to submit news to Talie Helene, AHWA News Editor. Just visit HorrorScope, and click on the convenient email link. (International news is not unwelcome, although relevance to Antipodean literary arts practitioners is strongly preferred.)
For information on the Australian Horror Writers' Association, visit australianhorror.com.
This AHWA NEWS DIGEST has been compiled, written, and republished in select Australian horror haunts by Talie Helene. Currently archived at the AHWA MySpace page, Southern Horror, and Darklands, and hosted by AHWA members Felicity Dowker, Jeff Ritchie, Brenton Tomlinson, and Scott Wilson.
If you would like to support the AHWA News effort by hosting a copy of the AHWA News Digest on your blog or website, contact Talie to receive a fully formatted HTML edition of the digest by email.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Lunch at Heritage National Park
Lunch at Heritage National Park
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 545
“Our tent was under a huge oak, in a quiet part of the forest. We didn’t expect the storm, but when it came up we huddled together in one of the sleeping bags and were cozy and worried the wind would blow our small tent away,” Lance said to the police officer.
“You know that it is illegal to camp in a national park without a permit, right?” Officer Treadstone said.
“I do know now,” Lance said. “But we didn’t at the time. And we didn’t know that it would be dangerous.”
“Look, I’ll call this in, then you can take me back to the camp site.”
“I can’t go back there.”
“If you want me to lodge this officially, then I’ll need the exact location.”
Lance felt a cold shiver run up his spine. “I’ll try to find it again.”
Treadstone walked back to the squad car, “Officer Treadstone reporting in.”
“Go ahead, Officer.”
“I’ve picked up a distressed camper on the side of the road near Bunya Point. Will be checking out a possible murder scene in the Heritage National Park. I’ll report back in twenty minutes, over.”
“Copy that, Officer. Do you need backup?”
“Send Pete around, I passed him at the gas station ten miles back.”
“Roger that, Officer.”
Treadstone locked the vehicle, walked back to the path into the forest and said, “Let’s see if you can’t find your way back there, son.”
Lance was in his early twenties, half the officer’s age, but looked out of breath from the frantic dash through the forest. It was early morning, so the temperature was still pleasant and the dew still hung from the foliage. Treadstone was no tracker, but he thought that would make finding their way back easier.
“I think it’s this way,” Lance said looking at the broken branches to the left of the path.”
He’s a bright spark, Treadstone thought to himself, but said nothing. They walked for ten minutes, then came to a small clearing with the torn and bloodied remains of the four-man tent.
Lance vomited.
“You stay here, son,” Treadstone said. “I’ll have a look around.”
The officer looked at the tent closely. It showed a violent attack from a clawed creature from the outside. Lumps within the tent indicated part of the two other campers were within.
“Somebody’s out there!” Lance yelled.
Treadstone pulled his pistol out, turned around quickly, just in time to see a green-grey humanoid lunge at Lance from the bushes. Before he could reach the camper, the creature tore his throat out.
“Uuurrrggh,” it moaned, munching on the flesh of Lance’s face.
Treadstone walked forward slowly, putting his service revolver back in the holster.
“Oh, It’s you Jenny?”
The zombie looked up from her meal with distant recognition in her eyes, and then returned to her meal.
“I thought we agreed,” said Treadstone. “That if you stopped eating tourists, we’d stop the rednecks hunting you. It’s going to take me a lot of explaining to convince the council it was razorbacks again.”
The zombie looked up again, “Uuuurgha?”
“Okay, you finish your meal while I go radio this in.”
Jenny did not try to attack as the officer brushed against her arm on the way back to his squad car.
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 545
“Our tent was under a huge oak, in a quiet part of the forest. We didn’t expect the storm, but when it came up we huddled together in one of the sleeping bags and were cozy and worried the wind would blow our small tent away,” Lance said to the police officer.
“You know that it is illegal to camp in a national park without a permit, right?” Officer Treadstone said.
“I do know now,” Lance said. “But we didn’t at the time. And we didn’t know that it would be dangerous.”
“Look, I’ll call this in, then you can take me back to the camp site.”
“I can’t go back there.”
“If you want me to lodge this officially, then I’ll need the exact location.”
Lance felt a cold shiver run up his spine. “I’ll try to find it again.”
Treadstone walked back to the squad car, “Officer Treadstone reporting in.”
“Go ahead, Officer.”
“I’ve picked up a distressed camper on the side of the road near Bunya Point. Will be checking out a possible murder scene in the Heritage National Park. I’ll report back in twenty minutes, over.”
“Copy that, Officer. Do you need backup?”
“Send Pete around, I passed him at the gas station ten miles back.”
“Roger that, Officer.”
Treadstone locked the vehicle, walked back to the path into the forest and said, “Let’s see if you can’t find your way back there, son.”
Lance was in his early twenties, half the officer’s age, but looked out of breath from the frantic dash through the forest. It was early morning, so the temperature was still pleasant and the dew still hung from the foliage. Treadstone was no tracker, but he thought that would make finding their way back easier.
“I think it’s this way,” Lance said looking at the broken branches to the left of the path.”
He’s a bright spark, Treadstone thought to himself, but said nothing. They walked for ten minutes, then came to a small clearing with the torn and bloodied remains of the four-man tent.
Lance vomited.
“You stay here, son,” Treadstone said. “I’ll have a look around.”
The officer looked at the tent closely. It showed a violent attack from a clawed creature from the outside. Lumps within the tent indicated part of the two other campers were within.
“Somebody’s out there!” Lance yelled.
Treadstone pulled his pistol out, turned around quickly, just in time to see a green-grey humanoid lunge at Lance from the bushes. Before he could reach the camper, the creature tore his throat out.
“Uuurrrggh,” it moaned, munching on the flesh of Lance’s face.
Treadstone walked forward slowly, putting his service revolver back in the holster.
“Oh, It’s you Jenny?”
The zombie looked up from her meal with distant recognition in her eyes, and then returned to her meal.
“I thought we agreed,” said Treadstone. “That if you stopped eating tourists, we’d stop the rednecks hunting you. It’s going to take me a lot of explaining to convince the council it was razorbacks again.”
The zombie looked up again, “Uuuurgha?”
“Okay, you finish your meal while I go radio this in.”
Jenny did not try to attack as the officer brushed against her arm on the way back to his squad car.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Z
Z
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 165
Fortunately, I was sleeping fitfully when the tinkling of glass breaking and the growl of the dog awakened me fully. I rolled over to the far side of the bed, slipped the night table door open and took out my already loaded pistol. I cocked it, slipped off the safety, and when they came through the door, I was ready for them.
After two weeks of putting up with these little bastards, they were not going to get away with it again. I saw the shadows moving under my door, aimed the pistol a foot above ground level, and fired four rounds.
A heavy thud told me that I hit home this time. I kicked the door open and fired another three rounds before I turned the light on. It was not a surprise when the convulsing Persian cat on the floor stared up at me with its milky white, pupil-less eyes. Its fur was matted, splotchy and stank of death.
Bloody zombie cats.
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 165
Fortunately, I was sleeping fitfully when the tinkling of glass breaking and the growl of the dog awakened me fully. I rolled over to the far side of the bed, slipped the night table door open and took out my already loaded pistol. I cocked it, slipped off the safety, and when they came through the door, I was ready for them.
After two weeks of putting up with these little bastards, they were not going to get away with it again. I saw the shadows moving under my door, aimed the pistol a foot above ground level, and fired four rounds.
A heavy thud told me that I hit home this time. I kicked the door open and fired another three rounds before I turned the light on. It was not a surprise when the convulsing Persian cat on the floor stared up at me with its milky white, pupil-less eyes. Its fur was matted, splotchy and stank of death.
Bloody zombie cats.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Fairweathered Friend
Fairweathered Friend
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 195
With senseless reasoning, Freddie believed every lie created in his cranial abattoir. Thoughts, he butchered into lies that his shutter-speed thinking process accepted without any logical consideration.
“So you really like me?” he said to the teenage boy tied to his gym set.
No reply came; the boy died two days before.
“I love your tender breasts and long black hair, my precious.”
Freddie saw only the reality burnt onto his cerebellum the moment he cracked.
“It’s alright, the bad times. Now they must end,” Freddie said. “Whatever you want it to be, for you that's what it will be. We can spend eternity here together, everything will be like it should be again.”
To the left of gym set, the corpses of a dozen other victims lay rotting. Freddie no longer saw or even smelt them. All logic and reasoning left his life with the death of his wife.
“You know, I think you are wrong,” he said, pulling a short switchblade from his pocket. “We shouldn’t separate.”
Freddie showered the blood from his body, tossed his clothes in a pile near the corpses and headed to the mall to find his wife, again.
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 195
With senseless reasoning, Freddie believed every lie created in his cranial abattoir. Thoughts, he butchered into lies that his shutter-speed thinking process accepted without any logical consideration.
“So you really like me?” he said to the teenage boy tied to his gym set.
No reply came; the boy died two days before.
“I love your tender breasts and long black hair, my precious.”
Freddie saw only the reality burnt onto his cerebellum the moment he cracked.
“It’s alright, the bad times. Now they must end,” Freddie said. “Whatever you want it to be, for you that's what it will be. We can spend eternity here together, everything will be like it should be again.”
To the left of gym set, the corpses of a dozen other victims lay rotting. Freddie no longer saw or even smelt them. All logic and reasoning left his life with the death of his wife.
“You know, I think you are wrong,” he said, pulling a short switchblade from his pocket. “We shouldn’t separate.”
Freddie showered the blood from his body, tossed his clothes in a pile near the corpses and headed to the mall to find his wife, again.
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