Good and Evil and Other Stories by Samanta Schweblin

 

Good and Evil and Other Stories

by Samanta Schweblin

Translated by Megan McDowell

I Hear You by Paul McVeigh

I Hear You

by Paul McVeigh

Night Side of the River by Jeanette Winterson

 

Night Side of the River

by Jeanette Winterson

Verklärte Nacht - a short story in Maltese

Verklärte Nacht

I occasionally feature on this blog some of my writings in Maltese... such as this short story. Verklärte Nacht was first published on the Facebook page of the literary organisation Għaqda tal-Malti - Universita' after a Valentine's Day call for writings on the theme of love.  It is a ghost story of sorts, whose protagonist is haunted by the spirit of his ex-lover who, in a departure from the tropes of the genre, is still very much alive…  The illustration is by Pascal Campion whose  contemporary pop-inspired works I really love.

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The Ghost Sequences by A.C. Wise

The Ghost Sequences

by A.C. Wise 

To Drown in Dark Water by Steve Toase

 
To Drown in Dark Water

A book review of Steve Toase's debut horror story collection

The Shortest Day By Colm Tóibín

 

The Shortest Day

By Colm Tóibín

"I Would Haunt You if I Could" by Seán Padraic Birnie

I Would Haunt You if I Could

by Seán Padraic Birnie

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5 good reasons to read "The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories, Vol. 1"

 

The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories, Volume 1

Edited by James D. Jenkins and Ryan Cagle

A Maigret Christmas by Georges Simenon

 

A Maigret Christmas and Other Stories

by Georges Simenon 

(Translated by David Coward)

A book review

The Gothic Short Stories of Mary Shelley

The Gothic Short Stories of Mary Shelley

A review of two volumes published by Hesperus Press

"Reality and Other Stories" by John Lanchester

Reality and Other Stories

by John Lanchester

A book review 

"Somewhere This Way" - the latest "The Fiction Desk" anthology

The Fiction Desk Anthology Series - Volume 13

Somewhere This Way

A review

Dark Albion : A review of "This Dreaming Isle" (edited by Dan Coxon)

This Dreaming Isle (Edited by Dan Coxon) 

A book review 

What is “folk horror”?  Perhaps, like proverbial True Love, you’ll only recognize it when you meet it. Both as a term and as a literary and artistic genre, it defies a facile definition and is possibly easier to explain with reference to its typical – yet by no means exclusive – elements.  The term itself is often attributed to British film director Piers Haggard, who coined it in a 2003 interview to describe his own film The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971).  It was subsequently taken up by Mark Gatiss in his 2010 BBC4 series “A History of Horror” and applied not just to Haggard’s movie, but also to other films of the era with which it shares certain traits, such as Witchfinder General (1968) and the iconic The Wickerman (1973). One of the chief texts to explore the genre, Adam Scovell’s Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange, cites a lovely quote from Andy Paciorek:

“One may as well attempt to build a box the exact shape of mist; for like the mist, folk horror is atmospheric and sinuous. It can creep from and into different territories yet leave no universal defining mark of its exact form.”

And yet, some basic elements can be identified in both literary and filmic manifestations of the genre.  Landscapes, especially their ancient contours, are generally an important aspect of the story, often going beyond mere scene-setting. Plots often include references to folklore, myths and legends. More often than not, pagan or occult cults or beliefs make an appearance, in contrast with either a Christian or, quite ironically, material/secular worldviews. Another regular trope is an urban dweller moving to a rural context, and being overcome by ancient, pagan or natural forces – possibly a symbol of the inherent struggle between man and beast. 

The term “folk horror” might be fairly recent. Its concerns are not. Indeed, stories by the likes of Arthur Machen and Algernon Blackwood are often cited as forerunners of the genre.  I would go back even more and venture that its roots are to be found in the dark Romanticism of the late 18th and 19th centuries, with its fixation with the Sublime – the terror and magnificence of the untamed forces of nature – its revival of interest in ancient folklore and legends, its themes of the alienated individual, and its fascination with the supernatural. To give just one example, beneath its farcical exterior, Goethe’s Die Erste Walpurgisnacht (famously set to music by Felix Mendelssohn), explores themes not far removed from those of folk horror.    

“This Dreaming Isle”, issued by speculative fiction publishers Unsung Stories, was funded through a Kickstarter campaign by like-minded fans of weird fiction (including yours truly).   When “This Dreaming Isle” project was launched on Kickstarter, the target of the campaign was to fund a “horror and dark fantasy anthology inspired by the British landscape, featuring leading horror and fantasy authors”.  Editor Dan Coxon explains in his introduction to the collection:

It was always our intention to allow the contributing authors a free rein...we asked only that they should tie them to a specific place in the British Isles, and should in some way explore the myths and traditions, the folklore and history that make this land unique.

The result, which Coxon describes as “startling”, is that most of the stories could be considered to fall in the “folk horror” category, exploiting as they do certain tropes which have come to be associated with the genre.  At the same time, the sheer variety present within the general, unifying theme of the anthology shows how rich this seam of dark inspiration can be.

As if to emphasize the central role landscape plays in this anthology, its seventeen stories are divided into three “geographical” sections, respectively titled “Country”, “City” and “Coast”. The structure forms a satisfying arch, with the shortest section placed in the middle.

“Country” starts with a particularly strong entry, The Pier at Ardentinny by Catriona Ward.  The story, featuring a young woman’s visit to her older fiance’s family in Scotland, initally comes across as a rather twee excuse for a lesson in Scottish folkore, until the final page turns it into an Angela-Carteresque tale. Jenn Ashworth’s Old Trash, set in a camping site near Pendle, references both the notorious witch trials and legends about spectral dogs.  

The unexpected success of Andrew Michael Hurley’s novel “The Loney” did much to push folk-horror into the mainstream – to this anthology, Hurley contributes In My Father’s House, a strange piece about a man, his elderly father and weird goings-on around Christmas.  Land of Many Seasons is an understated piece by Tim Lebbon about a solitary landscape artist hounded by a ghostly figure.  One of the best things about Aliya Whiteley’s Dark Shells is its captivating narrative voice, that of an old woman haunted by memories – and, perhaps, something more.  The section ends with 'Domestic Magic (Or, things my wife and I found hidden in our house)' by Kirsty Logan.  An interesting structure and an original take on Scottish water folklore makes for a different and striking read. 

Folk horror often relies on a rural setting.  But urban life also has its angst, one which can be effectively expressed through the medium of horror.  The City section gives us some good examples – think urban Gothic, brought up to date.  And one can hardly be more up to date than James Miller and his Not All Right, about an alt-right internet troll who comes to a chilling end.  The Cocktail Party in Kensington Gets Out of Hand promises a rather extravagant tale, and Robert Shearman delivers.  It’s one of the more surreal pieces, more Buzzati than Machen perhaps, about a male escort hired to be a rug at an exclusive do.   It gets stranger with We Regret to Inform You by Jeanette Ng.  An epistolary tale through emails, set in what seems to be a contemporary but different England, it veers uneasily between alternative history and post-apocalyptic fiction.  Lodestones by Richard V. Hirst reminded me somewhat of a particular Mieville story about a street which kept disappearing – here, a shortcut to work leads us on a drive to a weird variant of Manchester.   

It’s back to nature in the last section of the anthology, which takes us on a fictional journey around the British coast.  Time is fluid in Gareth E. Rees’s The Knucker, in which a time-warp serves to combine three storylines.  This idea that landscape itself can harbour ‘memories’ is also central to Hovering (Or, a recollection of 25 February 2015) by Gary Budden.  Budden’s stories could be described as the fictional equivalent of “psychogeography” a-la Iain Sinclair.  In this worldview, history, whether natural or human, shapes the rural and urban landscape and leaves residues which can be picked up by the more sensitive sort.  Whereas authors like Sinclair use their imagination to read the past into contemporary landscapes, Budden exploits this concept in his works, which present us with individuals burdened by the weight of Deep Time.    Is this story entirely fictional? It Seems purposely written to feel autobiographical.  Perhaps it is.  It makes matters uncannier still.   

Although well-known as a writer of neo-Victorian supernatural fiction, Alison Littlewood uses a contemporary setting for The Headland of Black Rock in which an actor on holiday is seduced by a mysterious woman he meets on the wild Cornish coast.  Alison Moore’s The Stone Dead taps into the ghost story tradition, although it also explores more prosaic horrors such as stifling family members.  It’s a good yarn, albeit not really related to the “coastal theme”.  The same could be said about The Devil in the Details, a rather Jamesean story about a haunted mural at St Brendan on Sea.    

The anthology comes to an end with Swimming With Horses by Angela Readman.  And here, as in Littlewood’s piece, the sea and its myths and legends once again take centre stage.  A run-down coastal resort seems hardly the setting for an uplifting story but, unexpectedly, this tale turns out to be the perfect contrast to Catriona Ward’s opening gambit.  The final, luminous paragraphs take us from the realm of folk horror to somewhere else – brighter, more hopeful, but just as tinged with the mystery of the landscape.

Paperback, 328 pages

Published November 19th 2018 by Unsung Stories

URL: http://www.unsungstories.co.uk/this-dreaming-isle/

The Old Palazzo

The Old Palazzo

 A ghost story

Buying a palazzo in Valletta had been her husband’s idea.  Susan had never fully fathomed why a Yorkshireman born and bred should want to spend his retirement years and their hard-earned pension on a tiny Mediterranean island.  Perhaps Jim yearned for a whiff of the exotic after a generally dull and uneventful life.  Perhaps he wanted to recapture the magic of those months he had spent in Malta during his brief, youthful stint in the navy...or the memory of a first love, she thought, not without a dull throb of jealousy.

Call her old-fashioned, but Susan had never been one to contradict her husband, even when, as in this case, she had her own misgivings. She convinced herself that, as long as he took care of all the practicalities, his choice would be fine by her. Anyway, she knew only too well that, if she voiced any doubts, Jim’s reaction would be a curt “Don’t worry yourself silly, Sue!” underlined with a chiding, conclusive grin, as if he were addressing a wayward child. Better let him be. She was happy enough seeing him browse real estate websites, comparing the merits of this and that building with a new-found enthusiasm which took her somewhat by surprise. And when Jim bought their flight tickets to “embark on a property expedition”, as he put it, Susan did not disappoint him, feigning a keenness which, frankly, she did not share.

The palazzo they had travelled so far to view teetered over a cobbled alley in a quiet part of the city.  A young and pimply estate agent led them into the roofless central courtyard and enthusiastically pointed out the building’s traditional features – the winding stairs with poky rooms sprouting off unexpected landings (“plenty of character, eh!”), the high ceilings of the second floor (“how spacious! how imposing!”), the underground cellar with its well hewn by hand centuries before (“back-breaking job, wouldn’t volunteer for it myself!”).  In the few years he had spent living there, the previous occupier had spent a small fortune renovating the place, with mixed results.    In the lower levels the plaster was flaking off in patches, fighting a losing battle against the rising damp.  In the cellar, the walls were covered with unwanted junk accumulated over the decades.   But the rooms at the top floor were comfortable enough and tastefully decked out with some judiciously chosen antique furniture.  It was quickly decided. This would be their retirement nest and Sue should not “worry herself silly”.

Well, she consoled herself, it was not as if they would be leaving any close relatives behind them. In the early years of their marriage, her husband had been adamant that they should not have any children as “they were enough company for each other”. That was exactly how it had been so far, and that was how it would be in this final chapter of their life.

Tragedy struck just a few months after they moved to Malta.   One dark winter morning, Jim got out of bed uncharacteristically early. It was Susan who found him a couple of hours later, sprawled lifeless in the courtyard. “Massive heart attack,” the doctor decreed. 

Massive heart attack – a death sentence in which Susan stood as co-accused, condemned to become the lonely mistress of her husband’s final folly.  

Truth be told, there were times when she believed she would be able to adapt to the life thrust upon her. In summer, for instance, she spent whole days in the upper balconies, from where she could get a glimpse of white sails lazily crossing the harbour, whilst a salty breeze caressed her face.   Summer brought with it the festa season, when the streets of Valletta would be thronged with revellers and marching bands celebrating the feast of the city’s patron saints, and even this sleepy side of town erupted into hundreds of coloured fairy lights. 

***

Tonight, summer seems so distant. It is a dark and wintry evening, and Susan longs to be back in England.  She listens to the gusts of wind, whining as they wind their way around the jagged rooftops, the rain pattering dully against her bedroom window.  No doubt about it.  Better the harsh yet familiar winters of home than this clammy sort of cold which seeps through the thick walls and seems to drain your soul.  Rest does not come easy to her lately and Susan feels that this evening will be no exception.  She tosses and turns in a four-poster bed which has become too big for her until, finally, her body succumbs to yet another fitful night. 

A cry nudges her out of her sleep. 

At first, drifting in the no-man’s land between dreams and wakefulness, Susan isn’t even sure she has heard anything at all.  But here it is again, that plaintive sound, somewhere between a wail and a whimper.  She shudders and buries her head under the blankets.  Funny how a couple of layers of bedding manage to instil in her a childish sense of security. 

That cry again. 

Susan switches on the lamp and the shadows leap back to the farthest corners of the room.  The sight of familiar objects comforts her: the hands of the clock pointing to just after two, the solid bulk of the wardrobe, a glass of water standing on the bedside table beside a half-unread novel.  She crawls out of bed, pulls a dressing gown around her shoulders and goes to the window.  The storm has abated.  The alley is deserted.

There is no mistaking it this time.  Susan can distinctly hear a moan, and much as she hates to admit it, whoever … whatever… is making this anguished sound is inside the house.  She shudders, a sense of unease creeping upon her.  She considers calling for help, phoning the police. But what will she say?  That she is spooked by odd noises in an old house?  No.  She has to brave the night alone.   Despite her mounting fear, she also knows that she has to face this intruder.  That cry, terrible as it was, feels like a siren song, taking hold of her will, drawing her towards its source. 

Slowly she makes her way out of the bedroom and stumbles down the stairs, steeling her body at every turn, scarcely able to breathe.  The beckoning voice iss growing louder, seemingly more desperate.  With each step, her feelings of dread grow, as does her conviction that what is calling her is no living thing.   She hears confused whispers tumbling around her, their meaning ungraspable.   She closes her eyes and steadies herself against the wall.  Come on Sue, what on earth is happening to you? Scaring yourself silly, aren’t you?

When she reaches the internal courtyard, a rush of cold air brings her to her senses. Shivering in her nightgown, she struggles to make sense of what has come over her.  She is still in time to leave the building, to run out and bang on a neighbour’s door and ask for help. In the light of day, they will probably have a good laugh together over her nocturnal escapade. 

But then another sound catches her ears.   In the cellar, a child is sobbing.  Her head spins.  How can a child have ended up in her house? Some inquisitive boy perhaps? Or a prank in bad taste?  She leans against the massive cellar door, putting all her weight behind her.  If this is a sick joke, well, she’ll show them.  Oh, yes she will... A dank, musty smell overpowers Susan as she sets foot inside the entrance.  She gropes around for the light switch, only to realise that the basement is already bathed in a bluish light, as if a full moon has made its way into the bowels of the building.  Falteringly, she descends the uneven steps. 

An unearthly sight stops her in her tracks.  Before her, as on a badly-lit stage, a scene is being played out.  A figure in a long black dress is hitting a toddler cowered beneath it.  The boy, not more than a couple of years old, is hunched on the ground, uselessly covering his face with his arms, unable to ward off the violent beating.  

Anger and pity well up inside her.   The boy looks like the son she never had.  She longs to reach for him, hold him in her arms, nurse him to health.  Her body has grown leaden and, in her heart, she feels… she knows… that tragedy is inevitable.  Saving him is beyond her, or any mortal’s, powers.  The blows persist mercilessly until the boy falls, immobile and lifeless, on the cold flagstones. 

Only then does she regain her strength and rush towards the murderer.  The figure turns. What horror is this?  The apparition standing before her has no human countenance.  Facing her is an eyeless skull, clad in pale skin drawn like taut parchment, from which dangle a few locks of straggling, sooty hair.  Dried, black lips pull back to reveal yellowish teeth, locked in an eternal evil grin. In a flash she realises that what she had mistaken for a dress is a coarse, earth-stained shroud, rotting with age, hanging from skeletal shoulders.

The cry echoes around the house.  It is a scream at once of terror, of guilt, of utter despair.  And, this time, the cry is hers.

***

Susan’s body was found a few days later, after an inquisitive neighbour noticed her absence and reported the matter to the Police.  Mrs Benson, miskina, had suffered a heart attack, just like her poor husband.    Who said one couldn’t die of a broken heart?

At least, that is the official version doing the rounds of the city.  The locals, however, know a couple of tales which they dare not repeat.  They have all heard the half-forgotten tale of the tragedy which had cursed the old building.  A young woman had been seduced by a respectable and well-connected family man. When she gave birth to his child, the mother, barely grown up herself, had killed her son in a fit of insanity and had then taken her own life by hanging herself in that very cellar.   Her lover, in a late show of contrition, or more likely, to protect his reputation, had contrived to hush the scandal. 

Maybe the story is true.  And then again, maybe not.  But if you look carefully among the cast-off junk in the cellar of the old palazzo, you might well find an old, decaying cot and, behind it, a coiled length of rope.