10th Fontana Book of Great Horror Stories

MUMMY TO THE RESCUE

By Angus Wilson

Mr. and Mrs. Hartley have employed a nurse to help them care for their orphaned granddaughter, Celia.  But Celia, who has learning difficulties, is becoming more and more aggressive and unmanageable as she gets older.

The elderly couple begin to consider moving Celia into residential care.

I didn't really care for this one much, as the narrative swung from character to character, each more unsympathetic than the last.

The streams of consciousness ramblings of Celia were a touch difficult to follow - not least because the author chose to write the internal thoughts of the woman (Celia is an adult, we learn) as a single paragraph block of text.

And whether she lived, died, was shipped off to a home, or flapped her arms and flew to the moon, I found I cared not a jot.

THE SMILING PEOPLE

By Ray Bradbury

Mr. Greppin lives with his joyless Aunt Rose and Uncle Dimity, and their equally dour teenage children.  If only he could make their "solemn, critical faces" smile, he feels life may be more tolerable.  

Perhaps this large carving-knife would help.

This one didn't really do it for me either, for like a number of his tales I have read over the years, I felt Bradbury favoured flowery language over narrative and characterisation.

There were a few memorable moments, such as the obsessive lengths Greppin has gone to, to ensure silence in the house, and the incident with the fly on her face appearing to make Aunt Rose wink.  But mostly the reader finds themselves wading through the flannel, in order to ascertain what is going on.

There was one singularly odd passage though, where Bradbury talked about his Aunt's eye "in its shellacked socket", before, in the next line, referring to "the shell of her wet eye".

Quite why the proximity of these two uses of the word shell - each time used in a manner, I have never come across before -  pleased me, I have no idea.

NOW SHOWING AT THE ROXY

By Harry E. Turner

It is 2028 (the year, not the time), and two cinemas - The Roxy and The Luxor -  at opposite ends of Paradise Street - are dueling to capture those few remaining palate-jaded cinema-goers.

Each attempts to outdo the other with fanciful gimmicks (Bubonic plague in the choc ices!), and outlandish sounding features: THE NYMPHOMANIC MUMMY FROM TWENTY THOUSAND FATHOMS BENEATH THE EARTH'S CRUST MEETS THE BONELESS SNAKE MAN, is one such.

But, Lou, the proprietor of The Luxor finally plays the Ace of Trumps with Mary Poppins on acid. 

All very silly and good fun, but no more a horror story than Mary Poppins itself was.

Harry E. Turner, occasionally dropping the E. was a stalwart of the Pan series, contributing (any pseudonyms aside) thirteen tales to the series.  The vast majority of which were, like this one, enjoyable and eminently readable tongue-in-cheek yarns.

THE TRAPDOOR

By C. D. Herriot

Advised by his doctor to "build up his system, with quiet and fresh air at the weekends", John Staines, has found a weekend retreat at the Fernham Arms.

In the ceiling just outside his bedroom door, there is a trapdoor to the loft, which he notes has had the bolt handle sawn off.  His landlady is decidedly evasive when asked about it, so John's curiosity is naturally piqued.

Particularly so when, one evening, he hears knocking coming from the loft.

Given the author of this one C.D. Heriot's day job was as a particularly prudish theatre censor, there was never likely to be much in the way of chills or titillation to be found here.

And so it proves - for all we get are a few vague hints at some sort of family scandal, and a ghost whose main source of menace (when not knocking away like a nuisance), is to wrap feathery hands around Staines' face, causing him to tumble off a ladder.

Pleasant enough, I suppose, but barely a whiff of horror contained therein.

A LOW PROFILE

By Charles Lloyd

A military coup has taken place on Zarana, "a happy island...half an hour's flight from the African coast", leaving a number of elderly retired Brits stranded.  The rather dapper "Boy" Brackett is one such, and he has taken it upon himself to look out for a pair of elderly biddies who live nearby.

Arriving one afternoon he finds the ladies to have been brutally murdered, and their home looted for valuables. 

What to do next, given the last person to attempt to report an atrocity, ended up getting shot en route?

Written in 1977,  (specifically for this volume?), A Low Profile must have been one of the last pieces of work published by Lloyd (Charles Birkin) before his death in 1986.

And, although there are a couple of horrific scenes - where Boy discovers the murdered ladies, and the cats fighting over the severed hand - I kept waiting for the last paragraph shocker, which characterised most of the Birkin/Lloyd I had previously encountered.  But, here, proceedings just dribble to a close, with Boy reaching for his fags and his E.F. Benson.

Still, we were left with that surreal image of Boy finishing the ladies' scrabble match, to see who would have won had they been allowed to complete it.

I learned later, for this story Birkin drew upon his own experience of being caught up in the invasion of northern Cyprus by Turkish forces in 1974.  Although I have no reason to believe the author encountered a brace of slaughtered fellow residents during his ordeal.

DE MORTUIS

By John Collier

Dr. Rankin has just finished re-surfacing his cellar floor, when his two buddies Buck and Bud arrive to invite him to spend the day fishing.

Hearing their friend's slightly hazy responses to casual questions about his wife Irene's whereabouts, and seeing the still-wet concrete, the fast-talking pair assume Rankin has just buried his spouse under the cellar floor.  They then proceed to not only inform Rankin he had every right to do so, as Irene was the town slut, but to subsequently offer to provide their friend with a cast-iron alibi.

Not long after the pair leave, Rankin, his head still spinning trying to take everything in, hears the front door open and close.  

Irene is back, having missed her train. 

As with Collier's previous contribution to the Fontana series, Back For Christmas, here we have another hubby busy with a pick and shovel about the house.

Except with this one, things sorta work out back to front.  Which lends the narrative a rather neat twist, I feel.

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE

By Roger Malisson

Jim Giblin has arrived in England from the US for a lengthy stay with his Aunt Sarah and her family, whilst he completes some postgraduate research at the local college.

Uncle Ronald is a quiet, reserved chap who spends most of his time working in his dental practice.  His elder cousin, Judith, comes across as a very self-confident young woman.

His other cousin, 11-year old Martha can, by contrast, apparently will people to death.

Not really much to recommend with this one I am afraid, for the characters are, the troubled Martha apart, a dull lot indeed.  Add in chunks of unrealistic dialogue, and you have all the ingredients for a bit of a duffer.

Giblin, for all the fact he is a biochemist to trade, certainly considers himself a bit of an amateur psychologist.  For he is soon diagnosing Martha with "an incipient schizoid condition" after just a few of meetings.

I did wonder though, if his arrival in the house had in some  way been a catalyst for the emergence of Martha's homicidal talent.  For there was no mention of she having made anyone else "be gone", before Giblin turned up.

THE BRAZILIAN CAT

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Marshall King is heir to the valuable Southerton Estates, but currently finds himself temporarily financially embarrassed (as they say).  So much so, that "a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court" looks more than likely.

So he is understandably quick to take up an invitation to stay with his rather more fiscally comfortable cousin Everard King, from whom Marshall hopes an advance may be procured.

Everard has recently returned from a lengthy period in Brazil, and has brought back with him a number of examples of the local fauna.  To whit: an armadillo, a peccary, some exotic birds.....and an eleven-foot long black jaguar.

More Jonathan Creek than Sherlock Holmes this one, as Conan Doyle contrives to drop his hero into a pickle from which there appears little chance of escape: locked in a room for the night with a big cat "not in the best of tempers". 

But *Spoiler Alert* escape he does.  

Although, there was never any real doubt that he would, given the narrative is told from the protagonist's first person perspective.

Nevertheless Conan Doyle succeeds in creating some passages of real tension and, perhaps more importantly, manages to manufacture a Get-Out clause for Marshall, which (if not quite completely believable) does not feel overly contrived .    

A SIN OF OMISSION

By R. Chetwynd-Hayes

Middle-aged Mr. Faversham is trotting home one evening when he is accosted in the street by a weasely-little chap, asking to "borrow" a fiver.  When Faversham's repeated refusals fail to deter the man, he decides to run.

His tormentor initially follows, but swiftly keels over holding his chest.  "Pills...in pock-et...", he beseeches.  But Faversham simply toddles on home.

A few days, later the local newspaper prints a report of a body being found in the street, including the odd detail that a large tattoo of a snake on the corpse unaccountably disappeared post mortem.

Occasionally, when reading a short story, one comes across a scene after which one thinks: I could probably write the rest of the tale from this point.

Such was the case here, once Faversham's wife read aloud the  local rag's account of the snake tattoo business.  I did not predict all the subsequent details correctly, but sufficient to make reading the rest of the yarn a bit of a chore.  Particularly so, having read the author's not dissimilar contribution to Font4: Looking For Something to Suck 

I did wonder if, as with the output of Gerald Kersh, Herbert Van Thal had already hoovered up the very best of R. Chetwynd-Hayes' back catalogue, leaving the fortunate Mary Danby with sloppy seconds.

THE THING IN THE HALL

By E. F. Benson

A pair of friends dabble in seances, and get killed by a giant slug.

Blah, blah, blah, knock, blah, blah-de-blah, knock, blah, blah, blah.....idiots die.

ACID TEST

By Margot Arnold

Mrs. Waddell is a lady with a problem, and not much time left to solve it.

For the corpse of her "late unlamented" husband, whom she dispatched with a golf club, is not decomposing quite fast enough for him to be all gone, by the time he will be missed.

It is the bones, you see.

Fortunately, Mrs. Waddell reads of a doctor at the local museum who specialises in just such a field.  So she inveigles her way into a role as his assistant, and is soon sneaking bits of hubby into work each day, to dissolve them.

But, once Mr. W's disappearance becomes apparent, a nosy police inspector becomes very suspicious.

Will the widow get away with it, or will justice prevail?

When a short story begins with the line "It was exactly three months after she had murdered her husband that Mrs Waddell decided she really ought to do something about the body", you just know an enjoyable read is in the post.

A horror story?  No - but a fun ride nevertheless.  And one can only stand back and admire the resourcefulness of the good Mrs. Waddell.

I am sure the heroine's surname here was pure coincidence, but this yarn did put me in mind of a number of those contributions Martin Waddell made to the Pan Horror series.  Even if Martin would, I feel, have given us rather more detail of the death and dismantling of his namesake's dearly departed.

TELLING THE BEES

By Elizabeth Walter

Old Parry, who tends the hives on Major Lockett's estate, always ensures the bees are told of any deaths locally, lest they fly off and desert the hives.  As folklore asserts they may.

When the Major is killed in action, Parry does his duty by the bees.  But fails to do so when the Major's son dies a few hours after being born - so off they fly.

Fast forward thirty years, and the Major's twice-widowed daughter Diana is pregnant, and preparing to marry husband number three.  On a trip back to her childhood home, she visits the hives where she overhears Old Parry's son Harry, telling the bees: "Miss Diana's dead".

An intriguing and absorbing yarn which effortlessly retains the reader's interest and attention right up to the final line.  For the narrative is populated by ambiguous characters, whose motivations and intentions are all left deliberately vague.

None more so than the character about whom we learn, almost casually, that their mother "did not know her child was a murderer".

And, for no other reason than I enjoyed reading it, I am going to quote a chunk of text from early on in the narrative.

"September was an infinity away.  And when it came, it was warm and golden, with spider webs in the morning hung with dew, and dust at midday in the tracks by the cornfield". 

AT THE CORNER OF THE EYE

By David Langford

A woman is murdered and tossed down into the cellar.  The murderer awaits the inevitable discovery of their crime.

Written in a slightly challenging streams of consciousness format, I had to plough on through this one unsure exactly what was happening, fervently hoping all (or mostly all) would be resolved by the end.

Which it may or may not have been.

So (I think), what we are being told here, is that Charles was both a schizophrenic and a closet transvestite.  And, when the opportunity arose, he would dress up in his female garb and masturbate.

He is enjoying one such session on the living room rug, when his wife Carol comes home unannounced.  The verbal lashing she gives her hubby sends him over the edge, and he bashes her head in with a poker.

Charles then transports the body down into the cellar, and wanders about the house as his female alter ego, only reverting to his male one, once the authorities have forced the door and gained entry.

THE DEVIL'S APE

By Barnard Stacey

Three toffs (Mason, Nickey and Charley) decide it would be a wizzard jape to call up the devil, and have him remove the soul of their huffy chum Hugh, who lives in the flat upstairs, then transplant it into a dummy they have lying around.

Things do not end well.

Written in 1933 by a little-remembered British author, and it rather feels of its time.  But I rather enjoyed it for all that, even if the denouement came as a bit of an anti-climax.

The title is an odd one, which is never really addressed in the text.  There is certainly no ape (as in the primate) in the story, unless I missed it.  

Although I am aware the term may be ascribed to a stupid or clumsy person.  If so, which of the characters does the title refer to?  The likeliest suspect I would suggest is Mason who was the clot who initiated the seance.  Alternatively, it could be the animated dummy into which the soul of the unfortunate Hugh has been forced.

Of course the term "ape" may also be be used to describe someone who mimics or copies someone or something else.  No less a figure than Chaucer called the devil "God's ape"

Which points the finger back at Mason, I suppose. 

KEEPING IN TOUCH

By Mary Danby

Driving home from visiting friends, having had a few too many, Alistair hits a pedestrian.  He goes back to see if the lad is OK, but the victim dies moments after reaching out to grasp the driver's hand.  With no-one else around, Alistair scoots off. 

A few nights later, at another party, Alistair is landed with the task of cobbling together some sort of Frankenstein's monster as part of a dreadful parlour game.  And his creation ends up looking not unlike the victim of his hit and run.

Given this is another of those monologue confessions, we have to, as ever, beware the unreliable narrator.  So the decision the reader is left to make is: was the supernatural really at play here; was Alistair having another breakdown; or was the whole yarn a "good story" being spun to the Samaritans' worker on the phone for fun?

I re-read the tale a second time, but I didn't really find any clues to point me in any particular direction.  

Keeping in Touch, although by no means poor writing, represented a rather low key conclusion to what I feel has been perhaps the weakest collection in the Fontana series thus far.