style. It is called "Haunted Houses," and here it is:
Haunted houses, haunted houses! I can see them in my sleep.
Hints of dark, unhallowed orgies make my flesh begin to creep.
Sudden lights at darkened windows, knocking on the floors and walls,
Sounds of wild, unearthly moaning, phantom touches, mystic calls,
Rattling chains and groans of anguish, charnel odors, shrieks of fear,
Rustling gowns and stealthy footfalls, candles dimmed and peril near,
Clashing swords and falling corpses, steps upon the creaking stair,
Chairs upset and toppling tables, thrills of terror everywhere,
Bed by ghostly fingers shaken, bedclothes plucked by unseen hands,
Lamplight suddenly extinguished, as the unknown Will commands,
Words of ghastly import whispered, noises of no mortal source,
Frightful knowledge of the presence of a dire, resistless force,
Faces in the darkened corners, forms beyond all speech uncouth,
Eld unreverend and loathsome, hell-marked childhood, sin-stained youth,
Bullet holes in pallid foreheads, bleeding breasts and throats agape,
Eyes in dreadful frenzy rolling, lips with mow of demon-ape,
Bony hands that slowly, sternly beckon, though no word is said,
Till we needs must rise and follow, at the bidding of the Dead,
While our ghastly leader ever moves with spectral glide before,
Till we gain the place that covers foul or nameless deed of yore;
Ever striving to our vision some grim secret to disclose,
That the task may be accomplished, which shall bring at last repose.
If we win, a soul is ransomed; if we falter, all is lost;
If we fail to read the secret, we must pay the fearful cost.
For the wight who rashly enters, looms the madhouse or the tomb;
Venture not in haunted houses, lest you meet a fearful doom.
While we're at it, we shall do a thorough job by offering you another. This second poem comes from Edna Bell Seward of Highland Park, Ill. Miss Seward submits
THE MURDERER
Night is the time to drink the wine
Of sleep—it conscience frees;
But a guilty soul must quaff the bowl
That's full of bitter lees.
It's brewed in hell where devils dwell
—I drink its loathsome rue—
Then every hour my senses cower
And writhe the whole night through.
My murd'rous hands are once more spanned
Around my victim's throat;
His cries I hear of mortal fear
While round me devils gloat;
Upon my breast with leering jest
REMORSE lays heavily—
And all too late I see the gate
Of hell awaiting me.
To God I pray to bring the day—
While Furies 'round me scream—
Pray for an hour from their power
In sleep—that has no dream.
Night is the time to drink the wine
Of sleep—it conscience frees;
But a guilty soul must quaff a bowl
That’s full of bitter lees.
That will be all for the poets today. Now for the short prose pieces—to wit, those vox pop letters so dear to the heart of ye faithful ed. Walter F. McCanless of Reidsville, N. C., has a number of things to say about us, not all of them particularly flattering, and for this reason we offer his letter first, exactly as he wrote it:
"Dear Mr. Baird: I realize that this letter is going to be longer than a strictly business letter should be, for I wish to say a number of things. Before I take up the different points that I wish to make, however, I wish to say that I continue to read with great pleasure and thrills the stories that appear from time to time in Weird Tales. In fact, I usually read this magazine from cover to cover, including most of the advertisements. I have been particularly interested in the Eyrie department, in that it affords a sort of key to the likes and dislikes of the reading public. I find myself agreeing in large measure with the majority.
"Particularly do I agree with those who have denominated 'The Autobiography of a Blue Ghost' a 'miserable failure,' from the standpoint of humor, and 'silly.' If I understand literature, the imagination should not go beyond the bounds of verisimilitude, or likeness to truth. Where truth is an unknown quantity, as is the case with ghosts, the conventional notions should not be transcended. In this respect the author sinned against the conventions in his very title, for who ever heard of a blue ghost? I happen to live in the south where the conventions in this particular line have been inbred by the old-fashioned colored southern 'Mammy'. They all agree that the ghosts are white, misty, or wraithlike. And this brings me to the first point of my letter.
"If you are really in earnest about the publication of 'The Transparent Ghost', my vote is DON'T. Aside from the other qualities which the story, if it is in keeping with the letter, must have, the title is against it. If a writer must not transcend the conventions, in his imagination, he must also not be guilty of the 'self-evident'. Most ghosts, according to the standardized notion, are transparent. The title, therefore, falls flat. But this is not the only consideration.
"The other qualities, apparent in the letter, would make a farce of your magazine. Writers could never be sure whether their contributions were accepted by you for the artistic merit such contributions contained, or for the laugh or amusement that you wished to afford your readers. Those having the desire to develop into good writers of fiction are usually serious, take their work in a serious manner, and hate to be laughed at. You would find that the 'Unique Magazine' was deteriorating, for lack of material, into a travesty of the type of story it started with.
"We, of the South, believe in Edgar Allan Poe. To have it said of one that 'He writes like Poe' is, to our minds, the highest compliment that can be paid one. (By the way, 'The Crawling Death' by P. A. Connelly is, in my opinion, equal, for thrills, to anything Poe ever wrote.) We, therefore, should hate to see a publication parody his best known style of writing. Poe, however, attempted humor of a sort (example, 'Why the Frenchman Wears His Arm in a Sling'), but with no very great degree of success, since he is best known for horror and mystery stories. To see these parodied by a publication would result in making such a publication taboo in the South. We turn to joke books that do not hurt our pride. I have felt honored by your acceptance of my mite, and have felt a partnership-interest, consequently, in the success of Weird Tales. I want it to succeed, for its success in a large measure means my success. If you perpetrate what you contemplate I and others like me will wonder how much 'fun'
(Continued on page 86)
