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Haunted Horror: #20

I’ve read several of these collections, and I always enjoy them. Basically, they are collections of old horror tales reprinted on the same type of non-gloss pulp paper used in the original publications. All the comics in this collection (there are six yarns in this issue) were all originally published in the 1950’s. Below the title page of each story, the original publication information is displayed.

What I find so interesting about these old comics are the moral issues that they address. Each of them has some issue woven in, and it seems that these were the types of issues that society was facing at the time: infidelity, greed, envy, loneliness, prejudice, etc. And while society is still grappling with these issues today, in the 50’s, society did its best to whitewash over them. But just as the decayed wood eventually starts to show through the white painted picket fence, so these issues began to show themselves in society. So graphic horror became a vehicle for society to safely examine these issues.

Just a quick mention about the writing and the artwork. They are both very much in the 50’s style. The colors and style of many of the drawings reminded me of the old Dick Tracy comics. And the language! I found myself chuckling internally at phrases like “’Good Grief” and “Great Scott.” But that is part of the nostalgia.

Hope you are enjoying the Halloween season! Cheers.

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Hellboy and the B.P.R.D 1955: Secret Nature

I love when comics weave important social messages into the stories. This particular tale deals with racial discrimination, particularly directed toward African Americans.

Hellboy, a somewhat grotesque red monster, is on assignment with Woodrow Farrier, a young black man with a Ph.D in Biological Sciences from the University of Chicago. They meet and speak with a white rancher, who makes some disparaging comments directed towards Woodrow. Later, Hellboy inquires about whether or not this treatment bothers Woodrow:

Hellboy: Hey, about that? Does it ever get to you?

Woodrow: What? You mean the fact that people are more accepting of a big red guy with horns and a tail than they are a black man?

Hellboy: Yeah. I figure it can’t be easy.

Woodrow: Of course it’s not easy, Hellboy! Welcome to the world.

This short conversation speaks volumes about the plight of black people. It is high time we stopped judging people by their outsides.

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Thoughts on “The Masque of the Red Death” by Edgar Allan Poe

It had been many years since I read this tale, so reading it again felt fresh and exciting. I had never realized how much of a surreal vibe this story has. The strangeness of the scenes, the bizarre coloring of the various rooms, all instill a dreamlike quality to this story that really places it ahead of its time. Additionally, Poe employs brilliant symbolism and metaphors to create a rich work of art in very few pages.

The first thing that struck me while reading this again was the parallels between the Red Death and Ebola. It is almost like Poe had a prophetic vision of the Ebola outbreak.

The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal –the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men.

One of the key symbols in this story is the clock. Amid the partying and the revelry, whenever the clock chimes, the revelers pause and become somber, then resume their festivities when the chiming is done.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly;

The clock serves as a symbol for mortality. We have a limited amount of time in this life, and we will all eventually die. The clock is a reminder to the revelers that death is imminent. They can hide behind Prince Prospero’s walls and attempt to ignore the reality of death that is rampant outside, but the clock reminds them, regularly, that they too will eventually die, and each chime brings them closer to death.

As the night and the masquerade move on, the clock eventually strikes midnight, symbolizing the threshold between life and death. At this moment, a stranger appears wearing a mask that mimics the effects of the Red Death.

The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood –and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

This brings us to the other key symbol, the mask (or masque). While masque implies the masquerade party, it also refers to the masks that the participants wear. So what Poe is trying to convey here is that the revelers are entertaining themselves to hide, or mask, the fact that they are going to die. They dance and party and float through a bizarre dreamlike fantasy imagining that they are somehow safe from death, trying to mask their fear of death through distraction. Occasionally, the clock chimes and they are reminded, but then the masque resumes and they again mask their mortality, pretending all is well as death takes another step closer.

In the past few years, I have known many people who have died, and this is making me very aware of my own mortality. While I feel healthy and I hope to live a good many more years, I know that with each chime my time is lessened. But there is no need to obsess. Instead, I will put on my masque and proceed with the dance which is life.

Thanks for stopping by and sharing in my musings.

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Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: Issue #8

Since this is probably my favorite graphic tale on the shelves these days, it goes without saying that I was pretty excited to hear that it is also being developed into a television series. According to the studios:

“‘The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina’ reimagines the origin and adventures of ‘Sabrina the Teenage Witch’ as a dark coming-of-age story that traffics in horror, the occult and, of course, witchcraft. Tonally in the vein of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ and ‘The Exorcist,’ this adaptation finds Sabrina wrestling to reconcile her dual nature — half-witch, half-mortal — while standing against the evil forces that threaten her, her family and the daylight world humans inhabit.”

(Source: Indie Wire)

Anyway, this issue continues to explore the darkest corners of human nature, including incestuous thoughts that Sabrina’s resurrected father entertains. But for me what makes this issue, and the series as a whole, most interesting is the incorporation of mythology and occult philosophy.

As a back story, Sabrina performed an act of necromancy to raise her dead boyfriend, Harvey. Unbeknownst to her, she actually resurrected her dead father in the form of her boyfriend. Sabrina’s aunts summon psychopomps to ferry the resurrected soul back to the realm of the dead. “Psychopomps are creatures, spirits, angels, or deities in many religions whose responsibility is to escort newly deceased souls from Earth to the afterlife. Their role is not to judge the deceased, but simply to provide safe passage. Appearing frequently on funerary art, psychopomps have been depicted at different times and in different cultures as anthropomorphic entities, horses, deer, dogs, whip-poor-wills, ravens, crows, owls, sparrows and cuckoos.” In this story, the psychopomps are visually depicted as cerebral jellyfish, sort of brains with tentacles, which is interesting when one considers that Carl Jung asserted that “the psychopomp is a mediator between the unconscious and conscious realms.” (Source: Wikipedia)

The installment ends on a dark and foreboding note. Sabrina’s cousin, Ambrose, reminds her of a basic tenet in the mystical arts, that every act has its consequence and the cost of the act must always be paid in full.

“Everything must be paid for, cousin… including Harvey. You ultimately ripped Harvey from his grave… so now you must send someone else to their premature death. Put plainly… you’re going to have to kill someone, Sabrina.”

Everything we do has a consequence, and this should be remembered at all times when we deal with others in the world. Nothing that we do is free from impunity. This is a natural law from which there is no avoidance.

Thanks for stopping by, and keep reading challenging stuff.

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“The Music of Erich Zann” by H.P. Lovecraft

Illustration by Andrew Brosnatch

This short story is unique in its subtle creepiness and explores the way that art, especially music, can directly affect a person’s psyche. Hence, it is way more psychologically unsettling than a straight-out horror story. There is also some great symbolism used here, which we will examine.

The tale is narrated in first person by a student of metaphysics in an unnamed city, but which appears to possibly be Paris. He describes the area and the prominence of the river.

The Rue d’Auseil lay across a dark river bordered by precipitous brick blear-windowed warehouses and spanned by a ponderous bridge of dark stone. It was always shadowy along the river, as if the smoke form the neighboring factories shut out the sun perpetually. The river was also odorous with evil stenches which I have never smelled elsewhere, and which may some day help me find it, since I should recognise them at once. Beyond the bridge were narrow cobbled streets with rails; and then came the ascent, at first gradual, but incredibly steep as the Rue d’Auseil was reached.

Here Lovecraft is setting up the river as a symbol for the threshold between the two states of consciousness. The crossing over the river, moving through the shadows, represents the shift from normal consciousness to the darker subconscious regions of the psyche.

The protagonist rents a room in this shadowy liminal area and soon hears strange music coming from one of the rooms above.

Thereafter I heard Zann every night, and although he kept me awake, I was haunted by the weirdness of his music. Knowing little of the art myself, I was yet certain that none of his harmonies had any relation to music I had heard before; and concluded that he was a composer of highly original genius. The longer I listened, the more I was fascinated, until after a week I resolved to make the old man’s acquaintance.

The distant strains of the weird music cause the student to experience momentary subtle shifts in his consciousness. He is not able to identify what is happening to him, because his conscious mind is still dominant, but he is beginning to open ever so slightly to the possibility of other states of awareness.

Finally, the student is in the room with Zann, when Zann slips into a reverie and begins to play the strange music, which ultimately leads to the student’s complete shift in awareness.

It would be useless to describe the playing of Erich Zann on that dreadful night. It was more horrible than anything I had ever overheard, because I could now see the expression of his face, and could realise that this time the motive was stark fear. He was trying to make a noise; to ward something off or drown something out—what, I could not imagine, awesome though I felt it must be. The playing grew fantastic, delirious, and hysterical, yet kept to the last the qualities of supreme genius which I knew this strange old man possessed. I recognised the air—it was a wild Hungarian dance popular in the theatres, and I reflected for a moment that this was the first time I had ever heard Zann play the work of another composer.

Louder and louder, wilder and wilder, mounted the shrieking and whining of that desperate viol. The player was dripping with an uncanny perspiration and twisted like a monkey, always looking frantically at the curtained window. In his frenzied strains I could almost see shadowy satyrs and Bacchanals dancing and whirling insanely through seething abysses of clouds and smoke and lightning. And then I thought I heard a shriller, steadier note that was not from the viol; a calm, deliberate, purposeful, mocking note from far away in the west.

At the point in which the student finally experiences his shift to the subconscious, he looks out of the window, which here is another symbol for the separation between the conscious mind and the subconscious. As he peers out, he is actually peering deep into his psyche and becoming aware of the primal darkness that lurks within.

Then I remembered my old wish to gaze from this window, the only window in the Rue d’Auseil from which one might see the slope beyond the wall, and the city outspread beneath. It was very dark, but the city’s lights always burned, and I expected to see them there amidst the rain and wind. Yet when I looked from that highest of all gable windows, looked while the candles sputtered and the insane viol howled with the night-wind, I saw no city spread below, and no friendly lights gleaming from remembered streets, but only the blackness of space illimitable; unimagined space alive with motion and music, and having no semblance to anything on earth. And as I stood there looking in terror, the wind blew out both the candles in that ancient peaked garret, leaving me in savage and impenetrable darkness with chaos and pandemonium before me, and the daemon madness of that night-baying viol behind me.

As a musician, I am keenly aware of the power of music to communicate directly to the psyche. Sounds and tones evoke emotional states in a way that is difficult to explain. For that reason, as well as the superb crafting of language, this tale has earned its place among my favorite Lovecraft tales.

Thanks for stopping by, and feel free to share your comments below.

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“Outcast – Volume 1: A Darkness Surrounds Him” by Kirkman and Azaceta

I recently visited my daughter in Los Angeles. While I was there, she insisted on taking me to her favorite comic store: A Shop Called Quest. It was a very cool store and while we were there, she encouraged me to purchase the first volume of “Outcast,” certain that I would like it. She knows me well.

The tale is basically about demonic possession and exorcism. The main character, Kyle, is an outcast in society, grappling with his own personal inner demons. But outcast is a double entendre in this book. It also refers to the casting out of demons, an innate power which Kyle seems to possess. He accompanies a preacher who senses an impending rise in evil and is striving to combat it.

The artwork and writing in this book are both excellent. The artist uses shading techniques to illustrate the differences between events that are happening at the time, and events that are being relived through memory. The format works very well.

This is a nice, creepy story, perfect to start the Halloween season. I will leave you with a quote from the text that I found interesting.

Look at this world around us, filled with wickedness. I think about the things I’ve seen and I can’t help but ask, “Why God, why?” And let me tell you a secret. He does not answer back. Sometimes I get a feeling and sometimes there’s a sign… but I don’t hear his voice. Not like Moses did, or Abraham, or Jesus… why? Maybe he got too preoccupied with the war and he forgot about us. Maybe he’s losing.

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Diablo House: Issue 01

I recently visited Spain, and while I was in Barcelona I was understandably impressed by the Gaudi architecture I saw there. For this reason, as well as my interest in 70’s horror comics on which I was raised, this new graphic series caught my attention.

The style of this is very similar to the horror comics of the 1970’s, where you have a host narrator who guides your through the tale, offering comedic commentary on the story. In “Diablo House,” the host is Riley, who is a cross between a California surfer dude, the Cryptkeeper, and Cousin Creepy. He guides the reader through rooms in the house, which is an architectural blending of Gaudi and Aztec style.

Judging from the first installment, it seems that each issue has a single tale with a moral, which I like, since I often find myself losing the thread of serialized comics. The story in this issue deals with greed, vanity, and insecurity, and how people will step on others in their insatiable quest for more money, power, and prestige. And of course, it has the moral twist about the negative ramifications associated with this type of obsession.

This issue definitely piqued my interest, so I will check out some more. If you are a fan of the classic horror mags, then you might find this interesting too. Check it out and feel free to share your thoughts. Cheers!

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