The Fantasy Fan February 1934 - The Fans' Own Magazine

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Title: The Fantasy Fan February 1934 - The Fans' Own Magazine
Author: Various
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Fantasy Fan February 1934 - The Fans' Own Magazine" ***

THE FANTASY FAN

THE FANS' OWN MAGAZINE

Editor: Charles D. Hornig
(Managing Editor: Wonder Stories)

Published 10 cents a copy
Monthly $1.00 per year

137 West Grand Street, Elizabeth, New Jersey

Volume 1 February, 1934 Number 6

OUR READERS SAY

"I missed Bob Tucker's column in the December issue. Better luck next
month. By the way, who wrote the last piece of poetry in that
issue?"--Kenneth B. Pritchard

The editor wishes to confess that he is guilty for everything that
appears in TFF unsigned. We are forced to tell you this, so that you
won't blame it on someone else.

"After reading the fourth issue of TFF, I feel compelled to take time
out to let you know my reactions. It seems to me that in this little
magazine, you have succeeded, by your choice and arrangement of
material, in creating the illusion of an intensely human, keenly
interested gathering of real people. I actually got something of this
impression from perusing its pages--the imaginary sensation of sitting
in on such a group--and it is this which prompts me to a note of
appreciation. You have been able to offer a welcome medium of
expression and interchange of ideas to us devotees of the fantastic in
fiction and the success of TFF should be assured if you can maintain
this standard of Interest."--Richard F. Searight

This letter is satisfactory proof to us that our efforts are not being
entirely wasted. It is our purpose to live up to slogan, "the fans'
own magazine" and make it as personal and interesting as possible.

"Lovecraft's tales certainly hit the spot. R. H. Barlow's 'Annals of
the Jinns' are great and show a seriousness and depth of that which is
not expressed easily in writing. When his series is completed, try to
get more of his tales. I am glad to see Derleth in our pages, and this
Wooley person certainly did a very nice job with her story.

"I don't believe the January issue of the magazine was up to standard.
Too much space was devoted to the Boiling Point and the readers'
columns. I still insist that the installments of Lovecraft's article
are too short."--H. Koenig

We are cutting out the Boiling Point entirely and intend to cut down
on the readers' column.

"Smith's 'The Ghoul' is better than 'The Kingdom of the Worm' and
should devour the latter in replete satisfaction. I hope to see
another fantasy by Lovecraft soon."--Robert Nelson

You will notice one of Lovecraft's stories in this issue. We have
several more of his on hand for future publication.

"The various articles in the January issue were very interesting with
the exception of 'The Boiling Point' which is becoming monotonous. On
the whole, however, you are doing a fine job, and I hope it will not
be necessary for you to cut down the size of the magazine or publish
less often."--Philip Bridges

"I liked Derleth's little tale in the December number, and I second H.
Koenig's criticism that the installments of 'Supernatural Horror in
Literature' are too short."--Clark Ashton Smith

Forrest J. Ackerman reminds us of two typographical errors in TFF that
changed the entire meaning of a couple of statements. In the December
"Boiling Point" it was stated that he solicits people to like him,
when it should have stated that he does _not_ solicit people to like
him. In his collection article, it was claimed that he had the
original manuscript of Flagg's "Lancer in the Crystal" instead of
"Dancer," which made quite a pun out of it.

"'Birkett's Twelfth Corpse' was indeed a gem in spite of its
shortness. Perhaps August W. Derleth would write some poetry for you.
I saw one of his in the 'Driftwood.' R. H. Barlow seems to get better
all the time. Let's have more of the 'Annals of the Jinns'."--Duane W.
Rimel

"I think the FF is fine. It only needs time to grow larger, which it
will do as soon as more people find out about it. Don't have a
contents page--save that extra room for the fans. Thank you for the
privilege of being one of your contributors."--Natalie H. Wooley

Thank _you_ for contributing to THE FANTASY FAN.

"The January issue of TFF was very good indeed! I believe that the
issues have improved greatly since the first one was published, quite
some time ago, too. Mr. Smith is one of your finest, if not your
finest, author. Mr. Ackerman's articles I find very interesting.
'Supernatural Horror in Literature' by H. P. Lovecraft is an excellent
article. Mr. Lovecraft has succeeded in condensing the ancient horror
and weirdness into a great article. I admire very much the fine
writing of Mr. Lovecraft."--Fred John Walsen

Write your opinions and suggestions into "Our Readers Say," fans--we
want to run the magazine the way you like it best. As a special
feature in next month's issue, we are presenting a full-page original
illustration by Morey.

MY FAVORITE FANTASY STORY

by Julius Schwartz

It's really impossible to name one's favorite fantasy story without
taking into account not only the merit of the story but also the mood
of the reader at the time he read it. I, therefore, have no _one_
favorite story, but rather a list of stories that I liked immensely at
the time I read them; they gripped, fascinated, and held me. They are
those stories that can be read and reread dozens of times without
finding a lack of interest in them. Four of these stories are, "The
Blind Spot," by Hall and Flint; "The Man Who Evolved," by Hamilton;
"The Second Deluge" by Serviss; and "Short Wave Castle" by Calvin
Peregov. These four tales may not be the best I've read, but they're
certainly way up near the top the list. [Let us know what you consider
your favorite fantasy story.]

Polaris

by H. P. Lovecraft

Into the north window of my chamber glows the Pole Star with uncanny
light. All through the long hellish hours of blackness it shines
there. And in the autumn of the year, when the winds from the north
curse and whine, and the red-leaved trees of the swamp mutter things
to one another in the small hours of the morning under the horned
waning moon, I sit by the casement and watch that star. Down from the
heights reels the glittering Cassiopeia as the hours wear on, while
Charles' Wain lumbers up from behind the vapour-soaked swamp trees
that sway in the night wind. Just before dawn Arcturus winks ruddily
from above the cemetery on the low hillock, and Coma Berenices
shimmers weirdly afar off in the mysterious east; but still the Pole
Star leers down from the same place in the black vault, winking
hideously like an insane watching eye which strives to convey some
strange message, yet recalls nothing save that it once had a message
to convey. Sometimes, when it is cloudy, I can sleep.

Well do I remember the night of the great Aurora, when over the swamp
played the shocking coruscation's of the daemon light. After the beam
came clouds, and then I slept.

And it was under a horned waning moon that I saw the city for the
first time. Still and somnolent did it lie, on a strange plateau in a
hollow betwixt strange peaks. Of ghastly marble were its walls and its
towers, its columns, domes, and pavements. In the marble street, were
marble pillars, the upper parts of which were carven into the images
of grave bearded men. The air was warm and stirred not. And overhead,
scarce ten degrees from the zenith, glowed that watching Pole Star.
Long did I gaze on the city, but the day came not. When the red
Aldebaran, which blinked low in the sky but never set, had crawled a
quarter of the way around the horizon, I saw light and motion in the
houses and the streets. Forms strangely robed, but at once noble and
familiar, walked abroad and under the horned waning moon men talked
wisdom in a tongue which I understood, though it was unlike any
language I had ever known. And when the red Aldebaran had crawled more
than halfway around the horizon, there were again darkness and
silence.

When I awaked, I was not as I had been. Upon my memory was graven the
vision of the city, and within my soul had arisen another and vaguer
recollection, of whose nature I was not then certain. Thereafter, on
the cloudy nights when I could sleep, I saw the city often; sometimes
under that horned waning moon, and sometimes under the hot yellow rays
of a sun which did not set, but which wheeled low around the horizon.
And on the clear nights the Pole Star leered as never before.

Gradually I came to wonder what might be my place in that city on the
strange plateau betwixt strange peaks. At first content to view the
scene as an all-observant uncorporeal presence, I now desired to
define my relation to it, and to speak my mind amongst the grave men
who conversed each day in the public squares. I said to myself, "This
is no dream, for by what means can I prove the greater reality of that
other life in the house of stone and brick south of the sinister swamp
and the cemetery on the low hillock, where the Pole Star peeps into my
north window each night?"

One night as I listened to the discourse in the large square
containing many statues I felt a change; and perceived that I had at
last a bodily form. Nor was a stranger in the streets of Olathoe,
which lies on the plateau of Sarkis, betwixt the peaks Noton and
Kadiphonek. It was my friend Alos who spoke, and his speech was one
that pleased my soul, for it was the speech of a true man and patriot.
That night had the news come of Daikos' fall, and of the advance of
the Inutos; squat, hellish yellow fiends who five years ago had
appeared out of the unknown west to ravage the confines of our kingdom
and finally to besiege our towns. Having taken the fortified places at
the foot of the mountains, their way now lay open to the plateau,
unless every citizen could resist with the strength of ten men. For
the squat creatures were mighty in the arts of war, and knew not the
scruples of honour which hold back our tall, grey-eyed men of Lomar
from ruthless conquest.

Alos, my friend, was commander of all the forces on the plateau, and
in him lay the last hope of our country. On this occasion he spoke of
the perils to be faced and exhorted the men of Olathoe, bravest of the
Lomarians, to sustain the traditions of their ancestors, who when
forced to move southward from Zobna before the advance of the great
ice sheet, (even as our descendants must some day flee from the land
of Lomar) valiantly and victoriously swept aside the hairy,
long-armed, cannibal Gnophkehs that stood in their way. To me Alos
denied a warrior's part, for I was feeble and given to strange
faintings when subjected to stress and hardships. But my eyes were the
keenest in the city, despite the long hours I gave each day to the
study of the Pnakotic manuscripts and the wisdom of the Zobnarian
Fathers; so my friend, desiring not to doom me to inaction, rewarded
me with that duty which was second to nothing in importance. To the
watchtower of Thapnen he sent me, there to serve as the eyes of our
army. Should the Inutos attempt to gain the citadel by the narrow pass
behind the peak Noton and thereby surprise the garrison, I was to give
the signal of fire which would warn the waiting soldiers, and, save
the town from immediate disaster.

Alone I mounted the tower, for every man of stout body was needed in
the passes below. My brain was sore dazed with excitement and fatigue,
for I had not slept in many days; yet was my purpose firm, for I loved
my native land of Lomar, and the marble city Olathoe that lies betwixt
the peaks of Noton and Kadiphonek.

But as I stood in the tower's topmost chamber, I beheld the horned
waning moon, red and sinister, quivering through the vapours that
hovered over the distant valley of Banof. And through an opening in
the roof glittered the pale Pole Star, fluttering as if alive, and
leering like a fiend and tempter. Methought its spirit whispered evil
counsel, soothing me to traitorous somnolence with a damnable
rhythmical promise which it repeated over and over:

"Slumber, watcher, till the spheres,
Six and twenty thousand years
Have revolv'd, and I return
To the spot where now I burn.
Other stars anon shall rise
To the axis of the skies;
Stars that soothe and stars that bless
With a sweet forgetfulness:
Only when my round is o'er
Shall the past disturb thy door."

Vainly did I struggle with my drowsiness, seeking to connect these
strange words with some lore of the skies which I had learnt from the
Pnakotic manuscripts. My head, heavy and reeling, drooped to my
breast, and when next I looked up it was in a dream; with the Pole
Star grinning at me through a window from over the horrible swaying
trees of a dream-swamp. And I am still dreaming.

In my shame and despair I sometimes scream frantically, begging the
dream-creatures around me to waken me ere the Inutos steal up the pass
behind the peak Noton and take the citadel by surprise; but these
creatures are daemons, for they laugh at me and tell me I am not
dreaming. They mock me whilst I sleep, and whilst the squat yellow foe
may be creeping silently upon us. I have failed in my duty and
betrayed the marble city of Olathoe; I have proven false to Alos, my
friend and commander. But still these shadows of my dreams deride me.
They say there is no land of Lomar, save in my nocturnal imaginings;
that in those realms where the Pole Star shines high, and red
Aldebaran crawls low around the horizon, there has been naught save
ice and snow for thousands of years, and never a man save squat,
yellow creatures, blighted by the cold, whom they call "Esquimaux."

And as I writhe in my guilty agony, frantic to save the city whose
peril every moment grows, and vainly striving to shake off this
unnatural dream of a house of stone and brick south of a sinister
swamp and a cemetery on a low hillock; the Pole Star, evil and
monstrous, leers down from the black vault, winking hideously like an
insane watching eye which strives to convey some message, yet recalls
nothing save that it once had a message to convey.

* * * * *

Watch for another story by H. P. Lovecraft in an early issue.

FACTS AND PROPHECY

W. A. Conrad, assistant professor in mathematics at the United States
Naval Academy, says that a trip to the moon in a rocket is possible.
According to him, it would cost as much as two battleships--$100,000,000,
but it would be worth it. The biggest obstacle to overcome would be
the fuel problem, he declares. It would take a huge amount of oxygen
to make the trip. Other problems would be dodging meteors and
overcoming the falling-in-an-elevator feeling. He likens the benefits
derived from such a voyage, to those derived from Columbus' trip
across the Atlantic.

During the National Inventor's Congress in Cleveland, September 5 to
9, Arthur Shenderlein, of Oakland, California, exhibited a motor which
he claims will carry passengers to Mars, or any other planet in record
time. He declared his motor will go 100,000 miles without gasoline.

HOWLS FROM THE ETHER

by The Spacehound

Some copies of the August, 1929, _Amazing Stories_ contained "Out of
the Void" printed twice and "The Grim Inheritance" omitted. This
happens every so often in the binding of magazines, when one of the
several sections is left out and two of another inserted. In the above
case, this means that several issues of the magazine contained no "Out
of the Void," and two copies of "The Grim Inheritance".... Voltaire's
"Micromégas" is an excellent interplanetary story concerning a
Sirian's visit to Saturn and Earth.... In the days of "Science
Fiction" (the pamphlet mimeographed in Cleveland), Hugh Langley was
the pseudonym for the joint efforts of Jerome Siegel and Bernard
Kenton.... P. S. Miller mentions working on his "Arrhenius Horror" in
an early 1930 mag.... "Desolation's War", an excellent science fiction
tale was in _Top-Notch_ a short while ago. They present stories of
this type at odd intervals.... Roy Rockwood's "Great Miracle" series
have been reissued.... An English newspaper runs science fiction
regularly. Roy's "Prince of Atlantis," while a stf classic is also a
subtle treatise on sociology.... _Radio Guild_ carried an illustrated
feature on Buck Rogers.... The December 1932 Happy Hours Magazine
carried an editorial on "Science Fiction in the Dime Novels," by Ralph
P. Smith.... O. O. Mclntyre and Philip Wylie are good friends.... In
regards to the question in the August 1932 Time Traveller, "The Nth
Man," by Homer Eon Flint, was written especially for the Amazing
Quarterly.... The Doc Savage magazine is running a number of good
adventure fantasies. Recent issues have had "The Land of Terror," and
a tale of adventure at the North Pole among several others, including
one about super-gangs attempting to conquer a nation.... And keep an
eye on _Thrilling Adventure_ and the new companion mag to Nickel
Detective.... Austin Hall had a humorous western in a recent
_Argosy_.... You cover fans keep an eye on the fine work Paul is doing
for Science and Mechanics, the sister magazine of _Wonder Stories_....
One of H. G. Wells' latest contributions is "Love on Mars" in a
romance magazine.... "Conflict," a new magazine issued by the Central
Pub. Co. at the old Miracle Stories address, will use "weird adventure
stories".... R. F. Starzl had a review of the science fiction market
in the Author and Journalist over two years ago.... The staff of the
Dallas Journal serialized the first chapter of Burroughs' "A Fighting
Man of Mars" over WFAA last June.... Edison's last work is said to
have been on a machine to communicate with the dead.... Your scribe is
No. 1 in the Jules Verne Prize Club.... Two recent radio fantasies are
"The Man with the Golden Head" and Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde".... An excellent satire on interplanetary stories ran through
the comic sheets of the AP newspapers, which showed Sappo and
Professor Whattasnozzle going through adventures on Man and Venus....
A vote taken in the early days of _Amazing Stories_ showed 32,644 in
favor of a bi-weekly publication, and 498 who thought otherwise....
Edgar Wallace's "The Fourth Plague" is a good scientific mystery novel.

···o. x. o··· ···o. x. o···

Come over to "Our Readers Say"

A VISIT TO JULES DE GRANDIN

by Marianne Ferguson

I got off the train at the Harrisonville Railroad Station, filled with
mixed feelings, for I was to visit the world renowned detective, Jules
de Grandin, and Dr. Trowbridge. As I walked uncertainly up the street,
I inquired of a policeman, who directed me to Jules de Grandin's
house.

I am afraid that I knocked at the door somewhat timidly, and I soon
heard footsteps coming down the hall. The door opened, and there stood
a tall, dark man.

"Is this where Mr. de Grandin lives?" I asked rather shakily, for I
had been anticipating this eventful visit for several months, during
which time I had reacted this scene many times.

"Yes," the man replied. "I am Dr. Trowbridge. Will you please come
in?"

I entered, just as a voice from within called out, "Who was it, Friend
Trowbridge?"

We entered a large, cheery room, and seated in a deep study chair, I
saw Jules de Grandin, his blond hair sleek and shining. He looked up
from the magazine had been reading, and seeing me, arose, and stroking
his blond mustache, said, "What can we do for you, my dear young
lady?"

Suddenly, my knees seemed to turn to water. "Mr. de Grandin," I
managed to whisper, "I have always wanted to see you in person; I hope
you will forgive my intrusion."

Jules de Grandin waved me to a seat with his long, artistic hand, and
seeing a silver topped walking stick in the corner, I asked, "Is that
the famous walking stick which vanquished the werewolf in 'The Thing
in the Fog'?"

"Eh, bien, of a truth, my young friend," he admitted, "if it were not
for the concealed sword in the center, I would have been in too many
tight places for comfort."

"Mr. de Grandin, will you please tell how many years you have been
interested in this line of investigation?" I asked.

"O, tiens, my young lady, I have been actively engaged for the past
eight years in this thrilling occupation."

"I am sorry that I weren't acquainted with your adventures right from
the start," I confessed. "Weren't you afraid in some of the gruesome
cases such as 'The Bleeding Mummy' and the 'Band of Glory'?"

"Eh, bien," he answered, "my friend, if one allows himself to let fear
enter his heart, he is already defeated, and I know that I have the
Good One in my favor."

"Well, Mr. de Grandin and Dr. Trowbridge, thank you for this
delightful talk," I began, when a blood-curdling moan echoed through
the house. De Grandin, Dr. Trowbridge, and I ran to where the moan
seemed to come from, but nothing was there. I imagine that I must have
turned pale, for Dr. Trowbridge caught hold of my arm and gave me a
glass of water containing some sort of restorative. As I began to feel
better, my color came back and de Grandin said, "My friend, your train
leaves in twenty minutes, so, Friend Trowbridge, get out your car and
take the young lady to the station."

"But how about that moan?" I asked.

"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, though less excited than would be expected
under the circumstances, "but I, Jules de Grandin, shall soon find
out!"

Gathering up my purse, I arose and gave my hand to de Grandin, then
Dr. Trowbridge took me to the station.

Safely in my compartment, I suddenly realized how tired I was. So,
leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes, I drifted into the land
of dreams--into the realm of deathless visions, where hazy phantasms
of the imagination take one through glorious adventures in which
earthly realities become as nothing.

WINDS

by Richard F. Searight

The North Wind blares, a gelid, lee-born roar,
Down from the arctic wastes where sit the ghosts
Of one-eyed Odin, bloody-handed Thor,
In frost-bound silence with their warrior hosts.

The East Wind murmurs softly through the night
Of dank and noisome things, and evil lore
Old in the days when Atlar rose to might.
And Chaldic magic ruled a world of gore.

The South Wind breathes a pestilential dirge.
It whispers of corruption and the tomb;
Of life in death, and mankind's biting urge
To gain the secrets hidden in Time's womb.

The West Wind keens a warning cry of hate,
As, from the boundless voids of sea and sky,
It sweeps upon a race bowed low by fate,
Yet striving still to gain the heights or die.

THE DWELLER

by William Lumley

Dread and potent broods a Dweller
In an evil twilight space,
Formless as a daemon's shadow,
Void of members and of face.

Heeding not the shaped or human,
Past the reach of time or law--
Never may our minds conceive It
Save as clouds of fright and awe.

When It crawls malignly on us,
Lethal mists of leaden grey,
Rising vaguely in the distance,
Veil its hideous bulk away.

And Its mutterings of horror,
Foul with lore of charnel ground,
Lose themselves in troubled thunders
That from far horizons sound.

THE WEIRD WORKS OF M. R. JAMES

by Clark Ashton Smith

The four books of short stories written by Montague Rhodes James,
Provost of Eton College, have been collected in a single but not
overly bulky volume under the imprint of Longmans, Green & Co. One can
heartily recommend the acquisition of this volume to all lovers of the
weird and supernatural who are not already familiar with its contents.

James is perhaps unsurpassed in originality by any living writer; and
he has made a salient contribution to the technique of his genre as
well as to the enriching of its treasury of permanent masterpiece. His
work is marked by rare intellectual skill and ingenuity, by power
rising at times above the reaches of mere intellection, and by a sheer
finesse of writing that will bear almost endless study. It has a
peculiar savour, wholly different from the diabolic grimness of
Bierce, or the accumulative atmospheric terror and rounded classicism
of Machen. Here there is nothing of the feverish but logical
hallucinations, the macabre and exotic beauty achieved by Poe; nor is
there any kinship to the fine poetic weavings and character _nuances_
of Walter de la Mare, or the far-searching, penetrative psychism of
Blackwood, or the frightful antiquities and ultra-terrene menaces of
Lovecraft.

The style of these stories is rather casual and succinct. The rhythms
of the prose are brisk and pedestrian, and the phrasing is notable for
clearness and incisiveness rather than for those vague, reverberative
overtones which beguile one's inner ear in the prose of
fiction-writers who are also poets. Usually there is a more or less
homely setting, often with a background of folklore and long-past
happenings whose dim archaism provides a depth of shadow from which,
as from a recessed cavern, the central horror emerges into the
noontide of the present. Things and occurrences, sometimes without
obvious off-hand relationship, are grouped cunningly, forcing the
reader unaware to some frightful deduction; or there is an artful
linkage of events seemingly harmless in themselves, that leave him
confronted at a sudden turn with some ghoulish specter or night-demon.

The minutiae of modern life, humor, character-drawing, scenic and
archaeological description, are used as a foil to heighten the
abnormal, but are never allowed to usurp a disproportionate interest.
Always there is an element of supernatural menace, whose value is
never impaired by scientific or spiritualistic explanation. Sometimes
it is brought forth at the climax into full light; and sometimes, even
then, it is merely half-revealed, is left undefined but perhaps all
the more alarming. In any case, the presence of some unnatural but
objective reality is assumed and established.

The goblins and phantoms devised by James are truly creative and are
presented through images often so keen and vivid as to evoke an actual
physical shock. Sight, smell, hearing, taction, all are played upon
with well nigh surgical sureness, by impressions calculated to touch
the shuddering quick of horror.

Some of the images or similes employed are most extraordinary, and
spring surely from the demonic inspiration of the highest genius. For
instance, take the unnameable thing in _The Uncommon Prayer Book_,
which resembles "a great roll of old, shabby, white flannel," with a
kind of face in the upper end, and which falls forward on a man's
shoulder and hides this face in his neck like a ferret attacking a
rabbit. Then, in _Mr. Humphreys and his Inheritance_ (one of subtler
and more inferential tales) there is the form "with a burnt human
face" and "black arms", that emerges from an inexplicable hole in the
paper plan of a garden maze "with the odious writhings of a wasp
creeping out of a rotten apple." In _The Tractate Middoth_ one meets
an apparition with thick cobwebs over its eyes--the lich or specter
of a man who, obedient to his own rather eccentric instructions, had
been buried sitting at a table in an underground room. And who,
upon reading _The Diary of Mr. Poynter_, can fail to share Denton's
revulsion when he reaches out, thinking that a dog is beside his
chair, and touches a crawling figure covered with long, wavy,
Absolom-like tresses? Who, too, can shake off the horror of
Dennistoun, in _Canon Alberic's Scrap Book_, when a demon's hand
appears from beneath on the table, suggesting momentarily a pen wiper,
a rat, and a large spider?

Reading and re-reading these tales, one notes a predilection for
certain milieus and motifs. Backgrounds of scholastic or ecclesiastic
life are frequent and some of the best tales are laid in cathedral
towns; in many of the supernatural entities, there recurs insistently
the character of extreme and repulsive _hairiness_. Often the
apparition is connected with, or evoked by, some material object, such
as the bronze whistle from the ruins of a Templars' preceptory in _Oh,
Whistle and I'll Come to You, My Lad_; the old drawing of King Solomon
and the night demon in _Canon Alberic's Scrap Book_; the silver
Anglo-Saxon crown from an immemorial barrow in _A Warning to the
Curious_; and the strange curtain-pattern in _The Diary of Mr.
Poynter_ which had "a subtlety in its drawing."

In several stories there are hints of bygone Satanism and wizardry
whose malign wraiths or conjured spirits linger obscurely in modern
time; and in at least one tale, _Casting the Runes_, the warlock
is a living figure. In other tales, the forgetful and vanishing
phantasms of old crimes cry out their mindless pain, or peer for an
instant from familiar pools and shrubberies. The personnel of James'
_Pandemonium_ is far from monotonous: one finds a satyr dwelling
in a cathedral tomb; a carven cat-like monster that comes to life when
touched by a murderer's hand; a mouldy smelling sack-like object in an
unlit well, which suddenly puts its arms around the neck of a
treasure-seeker; a cloaked and hooded shape with a tentacle in lieu of
arms; a lean, hideously taloned terror, with a jaw "shallow as that of
a beast;" dolls that repeat crime and tragedy; creatures that are
dog-like but not dogs; a saw fly tall as a man, met in a dim room full
of rustling insects; and even a weak, ancient thing, which, being
wholly bodiless and insubstantial, makes for itself a body out of
crumpled bed-linen.

The peculiar genius of M. R. James, and his greatest power, lies in
the convincing evocation of weird, malignant and preternatural
phenomena such as I have instanced. It is safe to say that few
writers, dead or living, have equalled him in his formidable
necromancy; and perhaps no one has excelled him.

The Tomb of the God

Annals of the Jinns--5

by R. H. Barlow

For four days, the band of explorers from Phoor had been excavating
the ancient and immemorial tomb of Krang on the edge of the desert.
The sands had been blowing ceaselessly, even as they had done since
before the coming of man to that far land. The tomb was built long
before any human walked the face of the world, built by evil powers
that had reigned unchecked in that unthinkably ancient day, when all
the desert had been a verdant garden through which stalked great
yellow giants of small intelligence, but of prodigious strength, that
had built the tower and the city of the ancient and most powerful Lord
Krang. And even before that Krang had been; he had been for aeons, and
in turn had come from a strange planet, it was told in tradition and
runes inscribed in a dead language, the language of Old Gods, and in
the time when dark magical powers had battled for possession of the
universe. And Krang had won, Krang the old one, the monstrous brown
leathern thing that planned and ruled and malefically twisted the
futures of worlds. But the time came that none had foreseen and Krang
the ancient fell into a semblance of death, though his flesh rotted
not, nor did his aspect change. So the people of the earth gathered
together and conveyed him in a giant funeral procession to the
enormous tomb carven from living blue stone in the side of the
mountain, and they sealed him in and forever departed from his
company. And the years and the decades and the centuries and the aeons
unthinkable came and went, and the sands swirled over the mouth of the
tomb, and the door was obliterated, and none knew where Krang the
Elder God lay in stupendous slumber.

Then audacious mortals had unwittingly found traces of this mausoleum
that even legend had discredited, and they had resolved to open it and
seek the great body of the old thing that had laid unmoving since the
world was young and green, lain while the prolific vegetation died and
the sand crept upon the land and laid it into barrenness.

It was said that there had been sealed up in Krang's tomb treasures
that made avarice pale and gems the like of which no longer existed,
jewels from far worlds of the dawn of time, worlds that had died and
returned again--and the strange manuscripts with the Hsothian chants
upon them, and other equally desirable objects. Therefore, many had
set out to reach the far site of the old tomb, but few had reached it.
Some had perished, slain by the hateful green devil things that lay
beneath the surface of the sand in wait for unwary persons, and that
sprang up to drag their victims to a horrible death. Some reached
their goal and scratched and chipped the tight sealed entrance, but
it was as the gnawing of rats, and before they could do more, they had
mysteriously vanished from human ken, nor had they ever been heard of
afterwards. Yet this did not discourage others from emulating for the
desire for power will lead men far, and power there was in the tomb.

So again men were engaged in laboriously chipping away the obstruction
and making slight headway, when one of their members chanced upon an
orifice in the rock into which he thrust his arm curiously. Beyond he
touched something, and lo! The great door grated outwards, inexorably,
ruthlessly, and ground him horribly into the stone sill, leaving
naught save an unpleasant smear of brown and a dank smell came forth,
and the door was opened. Paralyzed, the survivors did not act until it
had swung firmly back into place and was immovable save by a
repetition of the catastrophe. So, though they could spare him ill,
the others forced one of their brown slave-men from distant Leek to do
this suicidal act; and he whimpered, and would have not, but they
discouraged this by subtle and hastily improvised tortures, and he
eventually complied.

They stepped delicately over the smear and caught the door; placing an
obstruction in the way, so that it might stay open. And then they
entered, the first living things in that place since their race had
appeared.

The air was foul with the odor of a newly dried sea bed, and the
stench was unlike that of anything within their ken. All about the
giant vault were great chunks of richly coloured gems cut in curious
facets, with cryptic inscriptions upon each. But the central object
was the tomb of Lord Krang, where his great body reposed upon a slab
of figured chalcedony. He was terrible to gaze upon, for even after
the immense period, he still held semblance of the horrifying aspect
that was traditionally assigned unto him.

And the explorers that had entered gathered around him for a moment in
awe, but they were distracted by the infinite wealth that lay
carelessly about. They became slightly affected by it, into a type of
madness, and with repulsive amour and fetishism, they stroked the
jewels and clung unto them.

But what happened then none can tell, for their two fellows standing
guard beyond the entrance heard a peculiar sound that seemed as a
slither then a scream, then the door shut again, and although the
obstructing block was not touched by them, it had moved.

* * * * *

And Krang's tomb was again covered by the drifts; nor even after that
brief glimpse of infinite wealth did any man of Phoor venture near.

For the Lord Krang had roused from his long sleep, and feasted.

STORIES TO COME

In response to requests, we are publishing this list of stories which
we have on hand:

_The Legacy_ by Kenneth B. Pritchard
_The Flower God_ by R. H. Barlow
_Gods of the North_ by Robert E. Howard
_The Ancient Voice_ by Eando Binder
_The Nameless City_ by H. P. Lovecraft
_From Beyond_ by H. P. Lovecraft
_Beyond the Wall of Sleep_ by H. P. Lovecraft
_The Epiphany of Death_ by Clark Ashton Smith
_The Embalmer of Ramsville_ by Michael Weir
_Phantom Lights_ by August W. Derleth
_Madness of Space_ by Conrad H. Ruppert
_Life and Death_ by Derwin Lesser
_The Temple of Nemwah_ by Natalie H. Wooley

THE BOILING POINT

"Donald Alexander's letter caused me to reread carefully my own answer
to Forrest Ackerman's epistolatory critique. Since my one concern was
to meet Mr. Ackerman's arguments on their own ground, I am puzzled by
the assertion of Mr. Alexander that I had made a fool of myself by
descending to personalities. Offhand, I should have said that my
letter was about as free of that sort of thing as it could conceivably
have been. Perhaps there were a few mildly ironic touches; but
certainly nothing of an insidious nature was implied or even intended.
I do not think that any good purpose is ever served by abusive
personalities. If my letter was derogatively personal, I really wonder
how Mr. Alexander's should be classified."--Clark Ashton Smith

H. Koenig suggests that we missed a golden opportunity by not
supplying the debaters with gloves and entering them in the Golden
Glove Contests in Madison Square Garden!

"When you shout, pertaining to Smith stories, 'May the ink dry up in
the pen from which they flow!' you affect the refined and sensitive
minds of the admirers of beautiful things, and cause them to exclaim,
'Here, indeed, is one who endeavors to do something in words as
terrible as in actuality: cleave the head of a genius in twain!' Hence
our fitting denunciation of you, Mr. Ackerman, for attempting to
backbite one of the greatest writers America has ever produced."--Robert
Nelson

"When some well-meaning person says that Ackerman has more sense than
Smith and Lovecraft combined, he is just being ridiculous. If Clark
Ashton Smith has a diseased mind, as Mr. Alexander states, I would for
one like to be exposed to the germ."--Duane W. Rimel

"I have been following with interest the Ackerman adventures in
your pages. I am wondering if he ever wrote any stories, besides
criticizing then?"--Natalie H. Wooley

"The Ackerman-Smith debate amuses me. Of course, I am squarely on
Smith's side, and don't understand why you publish the more puerile of
the letters on the matter, such as the one by Lloyd Fowler."--August
W. Derleth

"The whole argument was caused by Ackerman claiming that Smith's
'Dweller in Martian Depths' should not have appeared in _Wonder
Stories_. Smith should have sent the story to _Weird Tales_, thus
avoiding a clash with Ackerman, who, I take it, has no use for weird
literature. Or the editor of _Wonder Stories_ should have foreseen
some catastrophe and promptly returned it to C. A. Smith, who I esteem
very highly, by the way."--F. Lee Baldwin

We stated last month that the Smith-Ackerman debate would end in this
issue--and so it has. Many of our readers have started to get bored
with it--and more than that, some ill-feeling has been aroused. We go
further to state that there will be no more department known as "The
Boiling Point." The name implies that everything contained therein
should be boiling hot--and these boiling hot arguments, as we have
found out, create an unpleasant atmosphere for many concerned. THE
FANTASY FAN is attempting to bind the lovers of science and weird
fiction tighter together with friendship, and not to separate them
thru dislike of each others ideas. However, to take the place of "The
Boiling Point" we are starting a new department next month entitled
"Your Views." This will not contain any debates, but the opinions of
you, the readers, on various subjects which we will nominate. So,
write in us immediately answering the following questions: "What is
there in the 'horror' story as associated with weird and fantastic
fiction? Is there any virtue to them? How can they be defended when
people will read them and say that they are distasteful to the well
and normal mind? Why does a person wish to read a sinister tale of
evil or monstrosities? Is it healthy reading? Is it not morbid?"
Forrest J. Ackerman has suggested this subject. Let's see what you
think about it.

SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN LITERATURE

Part Five

by H. P. Lovecraft

Just as all fiction first found extensive embodiment in poetry, so is
it in poetry that we first encounter the permanent entry of the weird
into standard literature. Most of the ancient instances, curiously
enough, are in prose; as the werewolf incident in Petronius, the
gruesome passages in Apuleius, the brief but celebrated letter of
Pliny the younger to Sura, and the odd compilation "On Wonderful
Events" by the Emperor Hadrian's Greek freedman, Phlegon. It is in
Phlegon that we first find that hideous tale of the corpse-bride,
"Philinnion and Machates," later related by Procius and in modern
times forming the inspiration of Goethe's "Bride of Corinth" and
Washington Irving's "German Student." But by the time the old Northern
myths take literary form, and in that later time when the weird
appears as a steady element in the literature of the day, we find it
mostly in metrical dress; as indeed we find the greater part of the
strictly imaginative writing of the Middle Ages and Renaissance. The
Scandinavian Eddas and Sagas thunder with cosmic horror, and shake
with the stark fear of Ymir and his shapeless spawn; whilst our own
Anglo-Saxon "Beowulf" and the later Continental Nibelung tales are
full of eldritch weirdness. Dante is a pioneer in the classic capture
of macabre atmosphere, and in Spencer's stately stanzas will be seen
more than a few touches of fantastic terror in landscape, incident,
and character. Prose literature gives us Malory's "Morte d'Arthur," in
which are presented many ghastly situations taken from early ballad
sources--the theft of the sword and silk from the corpse in Chapel
Perilous by Sir Launcelot, the ghost of Sir Gawaine, and the
tomb-fiend seen by Sir Galahad--whilst other and cruder specimens were
doubtless set forth in the Supernatural Horror in Literature cheap and
sensational "chapbooks" vulgarly hawked about and devoured by the
ignorant. In Elizabethan drama, with its "Dr. Faustus," the witches in
"Macbeth," and the horrible gruesomeness of Webster, we may easily
discern the strong hold of the daemoniac on the public mind; a hold
intensified by the very real fear of living witchcraft, whose terrors,
first witnessed on the Continent, begin to echo loudly in English ears
as the witch hunting crusades of James the First gain headway. To the
lurking mystical prose of the ages is added a long list of treatises
on witchcraft and daemonology which aid in exciting the imagination of
the reading world.

(Continued Next Month)

MY SCIENCE FICTION COLLECTION

by Forrest J. Ackerman

Part Six--Conclusion

Lastly there is the third--and an extremely interesting part of the
scientifilm division of my collection: the sound discs from "Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." Of an evening, it is a great enjoyment to listen
to the Doctor with coughs and groans and an accompaniment of whirring
thoughts change into the savage Mr. Hyde or before that, to hear him
expound his theory of man being "not one, but truly two;" and later
to listen to the final battle in which he is killed. As the records
are recorded at two or three times normal speed, it proves most
interesting (ordinarily, they must be slowed down by a weight or the
hand). Run at recorded tempo, one hears characters speaking as they
would if they were speeded up as in such stories as "A Year in a Day,"
"The Super-Man of Dr. Jukes," "The Super-Velociter," and "A New
Accelerator." The result is startling.

In conclusion--I have complete files of The Time Traveller (with
issues of The which preceded it), _Science Fiction Digest_ and Science
Fiction. And I'm looking forward to every number of _The Fantasy Fan_.
Good luck!

FAMOUS FANTASY FICTION

by Emil Petaja

Perhaps the most interesting collection of mystery stories ever
brought together under one cover is Dorothy L. Sayers' "Omnibus of
Crime." This is of special interest to weird story fans, as of its
1177 pages, over 400 are devoted exclusively to this type. It's
authors include A. Conan Doyle, Bram Stoker, Arthur Machen, Ambrose
Bierce, and many others whom Fantasy Fans are familiar with. Don't
miss reading it.

Among other weird story collections are "Famous Modern Ghost Stories"
and "Famous Humorous Ghost Stories," both edited by Dorothy
Scarborough. These books are filled with fascinating ghost stories,
all by famous authors of all times.

Elliot O'Donnell, famous English author, has written many collections
of true ghost stories. His two latest are "Haunted Houses of London"
and "More Haunted Houses of London." You will find many of his stories
and articles reprinted in various collections. He has also written for
_Weird Tales_.

Some years ago, The Macauley Company published a collection under the
title, "Beware After Dark." It includes H. P. Lovecraft's "Call of
Cthulhu" and Machen's "Novel of the White Powder," and others of note.
A splendid addition to your book-shelf.

The Modern Library's collection "Best Ghost Stories" is no doubt
familiar to most of you, but it is certainly worth mentioning. It
contains an introduction by Arthur B. Reeve, and stories by Algernon
Blackwood, Dr. M. R. James, and Rudyard Kipling.

FANS I'VE MET

by Mortimer Weisinger

Julius Schwartz--who is probably the greatest living authority on all
existing science fiction, and who worships Dr. Keller--don't we all?

Michael Fogaris--who holds one of the most brilliant scholastic
records held by any s-f fan, and who idolizes the writings of A.
Merritt--again, don't we all?

Milton Kaletsky--who is the world's greatest torture fiend. He coerced
his sister into typing up his first s-f story, the 16,000 word "Visit
to Alpha Centauri."

Nathan Greenfeld, who, besides being a devout s-f fan, is quite adept
at painting.

* * * * *