Packed with stories selected and introduced by one of todays leading esoteric scholars, this book will do more than make your toes curl and your skin crawl. These tales reveal hidden truths and forbidden pursuits, and divulge the secrets of magical initiation. Covering topics from rituals to hauntings to the Devil himself, this one-of-a-kind volume includes selections from:
Aleister Crowley * Ambrose Bierce * Arthur Machen *Edgar Allan Poe * Robert W. Chambers * Ralph Adams Cram * H.P. Lovecraft * Dion Fortune * Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton *Bram Stoker
As Lon Milo DuQuette writes in his introduction, horror takes its time. It creeps in, seeps in, and lingers. These stories will stay with you, biting at your heels from the shadows. Don’t say we didn’t warn you…
Packed with stories selected and introduced by one of todays leading esoteric scholars, this book will do more than make your toes curl and your skin crawl. These tales reveal hidden truths and forbidden pursuits, and divulge the secrets of magical initiation. Covering topics from rituals to hauntings to the Devil himself, this one-of-a-kind volume includes selections from:
Aleister Crowley * Ambrose Bierce * Arthur Machen *Edgar Allan Poe * Robert W. Chambers * Ralph Adams Cram * H.P. Lovecraft * Dion Fortune * Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton *Bram Stoker
As Lon Milo DuQuette writes in his introduction, horror takes its time. It creeps in, seeps in, and lingers. These stories will stay with you, biting at your heels from the shadows. Don’t say we didn’t warn you…
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The Weiser Book of Horror and the Occult: Hidden Magic, Occult Truths, and the Stories That Started It All
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The Weiser Book of Horror and the Occult: Hidden Magic, Occult Truths, and the Stories That Started It All
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Overview
Packed with stories selected and introduced by one of todays leading esoteric scholars, this book will do more than make your toes curl and your skin crawl. These tales reveal hidden truths and forbidden pursuits, and divulge the secrets of magical initiation. Covering topics from rituals to hauntings to the Devil himself, this one-of-a-kind volume includes selections from:
Aleister Crowley * Ambrose Bierce * Arthur Machen *Edgar Allan Poe * Robert W. Chambers * Ralph Adams Cram * H.P. Lovecraft * Dion Fortune * Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton *Bram Stoker
As Lon Milo DuQuette writes in his introduction, horror takes its time. It creeps in, seeps in, and lingers. These stories will stay with you, biting at your heels from the shadows. Don’t say we didn’t warn you…
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781609259709 |
---|---|
Publisher: | Red Wheel/Weiser |
Publication date: | 04/17/2020 |
Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
Format: | eBook |
Pages: | 354 |
File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Ambrose Bierce was an American short story writer, journalist, poet, and Civil War veteran. A prolific and versatile writer, Bierce was regarded as one of the most influential journalists in the United States, and as a pioneering writer of realist fiction. His story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” has been described as “one of the most famous and frequently anthologized stories in American literature.”
Robert W. Chambers (1865–1933) was an American author and painter best known for his short story collection The King in Yellow (1895). Born in Brooklyn, Chambers studied art in Paris and was a professional illustrator before he turned to writing. In addition to The King in Yellow, his supernatural tales include The Maker of Moons (1896) and The Mystery of Choice (1897). Later in his career, Chambers wrote bestselling romances and historical novels.
Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930) practiced medicine in the resort town of Southsea, England, and wrote stories while waiting for his patients to arrive. In 1886, he created two of the greatest fictional characters of all time: the detective Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Dr. Watson. Over the course of four novels and fifty-six short stories, Conan Doyle set a standard for crime fiction that has yet to be surpassed.
A native Chicagoan, Jody Lynn Nye is a New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty books and 165 short stories. As a part of Bill Fawcett & Associates (she is the ‘ & Associates’ ), she has helped to edit more than two hundred books, including forty anthologies, with a few under her own name. She and Bill are the authors of Conventional Wisdom, another in the Million Dollar Writing series for Wordfire Press. Her solo work tends toward the humorous side of SF and fantasy. Along with her individual writing, Jody has collaborated with several notable professionals in the field, including Anne McCaffrey, Robert Asprin, John Ringo, and Piers Anthony. She collaborated with Robert Asprin on a number of his famous Myth-Adventures series, and has continued both that and his Dragons Wild series since his death in 2008. Jody runs the two-day intensive writers’ workshop at DragonCon, every Labor Day weekend in Atlanta, GA. She is also a judge for the Writers of the Future contest, the largest speculative fiction contest in the world. Jody lives in the northwest suburbs of Chicago, with her husband Bill Fawcett, a writer, game designer, military historian and book packager, and three feline overlords, Athena, Minx, and Marmalade. Check out her websites at www.jodylynnnye.com and mythadventures.net. She is on Facebook as Jody Lynn Nye and Twitter @JodyLynnNye.
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) was an American author and poet who profoundly influenced the mystery, horror, and science fiction genres. A master of the short story, Poe wrote many classic tales, including “The Tell-Tale Heart,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and “The Masque of the Red Death.” His other enduring works include the poem “The Raven” and his only completed novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.
H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937) was born in New England, a landscape that he turned into a stage of fiction. His stories inherited the tradition of gothic horror tales from authors such as Edgar Allan Poe, but Lovecraft set his own standards. His first stories appeared in Weird Tales, a pulp magazine. “The Call of Cthulhu” (1926), a short story about a monstrous deity that inhabits the Earth, is the base of the myths related to the Cthulhu Mythos, a genre of horror fiction launched by Lovecraft. In its world, populated by beings of other dimensions, the laws of humanity are worthless. But man is incapable of understanding its insignificance in the face of the magnitude of the cosmos.
J. Sheridan Le Fanu (1814–1873) was an Irish writer who helped develop the ghost story genre in the nineteenth century. Born to a family of writers, Le Fanu released his first works in 1838 in Dublin University Magazine, which he would go on to edit and publish in 1861. Some of Le Fanu’s most famous Victorian Gothic works include Carmilla, Uncle Silas, and In a Glass Darkly. His writing has inspired other great authors of horror and thriller literature such as Bram Stoker and M. R. James.
Arthur Machen (1863–1947) was a Welsh author and actor best known for his fantasy and horror fiction. He grew up with intentions of becoming a doctor, but followed a boyhood passion of the supernatural and occult and started to write. In 1890, Machen began publishing short stories in literary magazines. Four years later, he released his breakthrough work, The Great God Pan. Decried upon initial publication for its depictions of sex and violence, the tale has since become a horror classic and has been hailed as “maybe the best [horror story] in the English language” by Stephen King. Machen continued to publish supernatural novels but spent time as actor in a traveling player company after his wife’s death. His literary career revived once more with the publication of his works The House of Souls and The Hill of Dreams. During World War I, Machen became a full-time journalist. Though he rallied for republications of his works, Machen’s literary career ultimately diminished, and he lived much of his life in poor finances.
Read an Excerpt
The Weiser Book of Horror and the Occult
Hidden Magic, Occult Truths, and the Stories that Started it all ...
By Lon Milo DuQuette
Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC
Copyright © 2014 Weiser BooksAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60925-970-9
CHAPTER 1
THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN
by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton
Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873) was an English author of poetry, plays, and novels. He served under Queen Victoria as Secretary of State for the Colonies from 1858-1859. Ironically, he is probably most famous for having penned the words, "It was a dark and stormy night," which have become in the rarefied school of mystery writers a cliché example of a mediocre and unimaginative way to begin a novel. Lord Lytton, however, was anything but mediocre and unimaginative. Among his many works of fiction were The Coming Race, which brought to the birth of the genre of science fiction literature A Strange Story, and Zanoni, whose spooky plots revealed his serious interest in (and mastery of) the occult. His story "The Haunters and the Haunted, or, The House and the Brain" was immensely popular in 1859, but was largely forgotten until the 1920 s when H.P. Lovecraft made mention of it.
The Haunted and the Haunters, Or, the House and the Brain
A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest—"Fancy! since we last met, I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London."
"Really haunted?—and by what?—ghosts?"
"Well, I can't answer these questions—all I know is this—six weeks ago I and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, 'Apartments Furnished.' The situation suited us: we entered the house—liked the rooms—engaged them by the week—and left them the third day. No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer, and I don't wonder at it."
"What did you see?"
"Excuse me—I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer—nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of your own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard anything. And the strangest marvel of all was, that for once in my life I agreed with my wife—silly woman though she be—and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a fourth in that house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning, I summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said, dryly: 'I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger; few ever stayed a second night; none before you, a third. But I take it they have been very kind to you.'
"'They—who?' I asked, affecting a smile.
"'Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don't mind them; I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don't care—I'm old, and must die soon, anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.' The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness, that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her farther. I paid for my week, and too happy were I and my wife to get off so cheaply."
"You excite my curiosity," said I; "nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously."
My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight towards the house thus indicated.
It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up—no bill at the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighbouring areas, said to me, "Do you want anyone in that house, sir?"
"Yes, I heard it was to let."
"Let!—why, the woman who kept it is dead—has been dead these three weeks, and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr J—offered ever so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, £1 a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not."
"Would not!—and why?"
"The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her."
"Pooh!—you speak of Mr J—. Is he the owner of the house?"
"Yes."
"Where does he live?"
"In G—Street, No.—."
"What is he?—in any business?"
"No, sir—nothing particular; a single gentleman."
I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and proceeded to Mr J—, in G—Street, which was close by the street that boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr J—at home—an elderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.
I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted—that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation—that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. "Sir," said Mr J—, with great courtesy, "the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question—the obligation will be on my side should you be able to discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door. Unluckily the house is haunted, if I may use that expression, not only by night, but by day; though at night the disturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character.
"The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner's inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighbourhood, I have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of it, much more a tenant, that I would willingly let it rent free for a year to anyone who would pay its rates and taxes."
"How long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?"
"That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman I spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. The fact is that my life has been spent in the East Indies and in the civil service of the Company. I returned to England last year on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, amongst whose possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, that no one would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in repainting and roofing it—added to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles—advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel retired on half-pay. He came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants: they all left the house the next day, and although they deponed that they had all seen something different, that something was equally terrible to all. I really could not in conscience sue, or even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement.
"Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories—to no two lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you should judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please."
"Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?"
"Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add that I advise you not to pass a night in that house."
"My interest is exceedingly keen," said I, "and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to rely on them—even in a haunted house."
Mr J—said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his bureau, gave them to me,—and thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.
Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home I summoned my confidential servant,—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudice as anyone I could think of.
"F—," said I, "you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard—something, perhaps, excessively horrible. Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen?"
"Oh, sir! pray trust me," answered F—, grinning with delight.
"Very well—then here are the keys of the house—this is the address. Go now—select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire—air the bed well—see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger—so much for my weapons—arm yourself equally well; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen."
I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my honour. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, as is my habit. The volume I selected was one of Macaulay's Essays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious fancy.
Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and strolled leisurely towards the haunted house. I took with me a favourite dog—an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier—a dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats—a dog of dogs for a ghost.
It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast. Still, there was a moon—faint and sickly, but still a moon—and if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.
I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile.
"All right, sir, and very comfortable."
"Oh!" said I, rather disappointed; "have you not seen nor heard anything remarkable?"
"Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer."
"What?—what?"
"The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear—nothing more."
"You are not at all frightened?"
"I! Not a bit of it, sir"; and the man's bold look reassured me on one point—viz. that, happen what might, he would not desert me.
We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first ran in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After patting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation and followed me and F—through the house, but keeping close at my heels instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places. We first visited the subterranean apartments, the kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers.
For the rest we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little backyard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp—and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. And now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me, a small footprint—the foot of a child: the impression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it was the print of a naked foot. This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself on returning.
We remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground floor, a dining parlour, a small back-parlour, and a still smaller third room that had been probably appropriated to a footman—all still as death. We then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated myself in an armchair. F—placed on the table the candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door. As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own chair, immediately fronting it.
"Why, this is better than the turning-tables," said I, with a half-laugh—and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.
F—, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale blue misty outline of a human figure, but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own vision. The dog now was quiet. "Put back that chair opposite to me," said I to F—; "put it back to the wall."
F—obeyed. "Was that you, sir?" said he, turning abruptly.
"I—what!"
"Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder—just here."
"No," said I. "But we have jugglers present, and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch them before they frighten us."
We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms—in fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire upstairs. We locked the doors of the drawing-rooms—a precaution which, I should observe, we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the best on the floor—a large one, with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window, communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself.
This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication with the landing-place—no other door but that which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard, without locks, flushed with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards—only hooks to suspend female dresses—nothing else; we sounded the walls—evidently solid—the outer walls of the building. Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompanied by F—, went forth to complete my reconnoitre. In the landing-place there was another door; it was closed firmly. "Sir," said my servant in surprise, "I unlocked this door with all the others when I first came; it cannot have got locked from the inside, for it is a—"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Weiser Book of Horror and the Occult by Lon Milo DuQuette. Copyright © 2014 Weiser Books. Excerpted by permission of Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Horror Takes Its Time, an Introduction by Lon Milo DuQuette,1. The House and the Brain by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton,
2. Casting the Runes by Montague Rhodes James,
3. Luella Miller by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman,
4. An Inhabitant of Carcosa by Ambrose Bierce,
5. No. 252 Rue M. le Prince by Ralph Adams Cram,
6. The Testament of Magdalen Blair by Aleister Crowley,
7. The Messenger by Robert W. Chambers,
8. The Ring of Thoth by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
9. A Dream of Red Hands by Bram Stoker,
10. Ligeia by Edgar Allan Poe,
11. At the Home of Poe by Frank Belknap Long, Jr.,
12. The Alchemist by H.P. Lovecraft,
13. Dickon the Devil by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu,
14. The White People by Arthur Machen,
15. The Sea Lure by Dion Fortune,