THE FANTASY FAN

                        THE FANS' OWN MAGAZINE

                               Published
                                Monthly

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

                            10 cents a copy
                            $1.00 per year

                        137 West Grand Street,
                         Elizabeth, New Jersey

                               Volume 1
                              July, 1934
                               Number 11

      [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
  evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]




                              AN APOLOGY

On page 143 of our May issue, we published an article entitled "About
H. G. Wells." According to the byline, it was written by Daniel
McPhail. The author was R. H. Barlow. We wish to apologize to R. H.
Barlow, Daniel McPhail, and our readers, for this mistake, and suggest
that contributors always sign their articles in the future to avoid
these mixups.

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                            OUR READERS SAY

"Some will perhaps wonder what I precisely meant, in my dialog in the
May issue, when my character, Sidney, exclaimed, "And if scribes could
only emulate Smith or Lovecraft or Howard!" I meant, of course, that
writers should strive to these three in _greatness_--but a greatness
of a different sort. For there can only be _one_ Clark Ashton Smith,
_one_ H. P. Lovecraft, _one_ Robert E. Howard. But the aspiring writer
can always form himself on a good model; and in time, he will find
his _own_ individuality. I wish to see another tale by Eando Binder,
as well as a story by J. Harvey Haggard, and more poetry by William
Lumley."--Robert Nelson

"I find the June FANTASY FAN interesting. This story is really
good, the one by H. P. Lovecraft. Science in a weird atmosphere,
'From Beyond;' interesting, and the story worked out completely
satisfactorily. This will probably horrify a number of readers, but as
far as I know, this is the first story I have ever liked by Lovecraft;
but I like it very well. The word wanderings of 'Prose Pastels' number
three are a bit entrancing. F. Lee Baldwin seems worth his increased
column."--Forrest J. Ackerman

"The June FANTASY FAN contained everything that goes to make a magazine
successful--I need not list the splendid array of stories and articles
that you have somehow condensed into one issue."--Duane W. Rimel

"The June number was very well done. In addition to my old stand-bys
Lovecraft and Smith, I was pleased with Haggard's little note on
'Books of the Weird.' I'd like to see more of such articles. 'Weird
Whisperings' is one of my favorite columns."--H. Koenig

"Enjoyed the latest FANTASY FAN--an excellent issue. The cover of
different colour adds to the effect."--H. P. Lovecraft

"Please print only short stories, the shorter the better, and no
serials. Also give us a greater variety of authors. Let's have poetry
in every issue, but not too much of Smith's heavy ones. All eight
pieces printed so far have been fine! Very glad to see the way you're
encouraging amateurs."--William H. Dellenback

"I wish to commend Mr. Lumley's remarkable poem, 'Shadows,' in the May
TFF. This poem seems to have in it all the mystic immemorial anguish
and melancholy of China. The quatrain, 'Dragons,' is a vivid picture
too. I enjoyed 'Phantom Lights,' 'The Flower God,' and the various
departments--in fact, the entire contents of the magazine."--Clark
Ashton Smith

"The June issue of THE FANTASY FAN was great! I enjoyed immensely
the fine tale by H. P. Lovecraft, 'From Beyond.' It was extremely
well-written and lacked nothing in my estimation. I hope that I shall
enjoy many more of Mr. Lovecraft's splendid stories."--Fred John Walsen

"I note in 'Weird Whisperings' that Seabury Quinn gets most of his
plots while shaving. According to the looks of things in 'Weird
Tales,' Mr. Quinn is sporting a long, long beard. Also in 'Weird
Whisperings' the nassysnoopers are revealing the real names of authors.
Now--febbensake--why do writers use _nom-de-plumes_ if they let the
readers know their real names? What can be the use of pen-names in
such a case? As for 'Prose Pastels,' I must say I'm going to offer
my first criticism to Clark Ashton Smith. After reading 'The Muse of
Hyperborea,' I sez to myself, 'I'll bite! What is it?' You tell me--I
can't figure it out. Another thing I must slam Mr. Smith for is his use
of obsolete and rare words. Not that I don't enjoy them--they make the
stories so much more--so-so--but I dunno what they mean--my dictionary
is pretty big--but doesn't contain all those words."--Gertrude Hemken

"The June 1934 FANTASY FAN is pleasing to the eyes with its bright
yellow cover. Please make Lovecraft's 'Supernatural Horror in
Literature' at least four pages long. 'Side Glances' and 'Weird
Whisperings' are interesting. You ought to discontinue 'Your Views,'
since it offers nothing of value."--Charles H. Bert

"I was sure pleased with this month's TFF, and I especially liked
'Prose Pastels' by Clark Ashton Smith; also 'From Beyond' by H. P.
Lovecraft. Glad to see you are going to print such fine material as
is unjustifiably rejected by other magazines. Some of the real gems
of literature are sometimes never printed professionally, but thanks
to semi-amateur magazines like TFF, the efforts of an author is not
entirely lost. Let's have more by Mr. Lovecraft. Schwartz and Weisinger
have certainly been around quite a bit lately. Their stuff is brand new
and very interesting as well as amazing."--F. Lee Baldwin

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                           Subscribe to TFF

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                           WEIRD WHISPERINGS

                       by Schwartz and Weisinger

Seabury Quinn returns to _Weird Tales_ in the September issue with the
latest Jules de Grandin thriller, "The Jest of Warburg Tantavul".... In
prospect for publication in _Weird_ in the near future, but not as yet
scheduled, are two stories of brain transplantation by Bassett Morgan,
entitled "The Vengeance of Fi Fong" and "Black Bagheela," with great
apes and sinister Chinamen springing out of every corner to horrify and
amaze the reader.... All of H. P. Lovecraft's tales are sold to WT with
the understanding that nothing whatever is to be changed in them....
"The Waning of a World" by W. Elwyn Backus, an old _Weird Tales_
serial, was reprinted in _Aviation & Mechanics_ under the title "A Leap
to Mars."

The "Weird Tales" radio program announced some time ago in the Eyrie,
has not been given up, but the Hollywood Radio Attractions, Inc.,
which is handling the broadcasts and the making of the electrical
transcriptions, ran into difficulties in trying to get sponsors for
the program. However, they are pressing forward in a drive to obtain
sponsors in all the various districts.... Paul Ernst, who is about 33
years old, has sold over 300 stories to more than 50 magazines since
1926.... A serial novel set in the Sahara Desert, entitled "Rulers of
the Future," written by Ernst, is slated for publication in _Weird_
next winter.... The tale of a mild-appearing, bespectacled American
physicist who in a few days forced the world to destroy its armaments
and agree to perpetual peace is narrated in S. Gordon Gurwitt's next
_Weird Tales'_ story "The Golden Glow."

Mysterious letters postmarked from Washington, D. C., consisting of
two mimeographed pages bearing the title "The Battle that Ended the
Century" have been received by several well-known fantasy authors,
editors and fans. It is a satire, and the character's names are those
of popular people in the fantasy field, being thinly veiled. Seabury
Quinn wrote Farnsworth Wright that if he didn't know that he lived in
Chicago he'd swear that Wright had written them. Frank Belknap Long,
Jr. feels confident that they were authored by H. P. Lovecraft who
is now touring in the South. "I'm too well acquainted with Howard's
(Howard Lovecraft) style," he declared, "to mistake it. It's just a
gag...."

"The Distortion out of Space" by Francis Flagg, an ingenious tale of
the fourth dimension to appear in the August WT, has a very strange
illustration by Harold R. Hammond.... The same number will contain
a weird-scientific story by Frank Belknap Long Jr., entitled "The
Beast-Helper," a story based on the craze for dictatorships that is
epidemic in Europe just now.... Long, Jr., has crashed _Astounding
Stories_ with "The Last Men," to appear in the August number.... On
hand for a coming issue of _Weird_ is "Yellow Doom" by Robert H.
Leitfred, a smashing, quick-moving tale on the old theme of an oriental
despot who by his mastery of science tries to make himself ruler of the
world.

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                          THE END OF "SCOOPS"

Hugo Gernsback recently received the following letter from L. B.
Silvester, the founder of "Scoops," the first English all-stf magazine
that we've been hearing so much about.

"In October of last year, I got at the board of Messrs. C. Arthur
Pearson, Ltd., of London, one of our big publishing houses. With
your magazine as an example, I strove to convince the powers that
be. They finally made a compromise--they would turn out an ambiguous
sort of cheap weekly which could assume definite adult or juvenile
characteristics upon receipt of those indications which a few months of
circulation would give.

"A putrid sort of thing suffering under the name of SCOOPS was what
resulted. Together, Mr. F. Hadyn Dimock and myself tried to do what
was right and what the board wanted at the same time. I wrote a story
and some short articles every week; he did the editing. Finally we got
the board's consent for this form, but it was too late. The frivolous
name condemned it and the fact that in fifteen weeks it had picked up
a reputation for blood-and-thunder which it could never have lived
down. We asked for more money to re-launch it in the form we had first
visualized, but we were refused! The paper had failed. Britain's first
and only scientifiction paper had failed within four months of its
inception, and this in face of the fact that nowadays science has an
interest, to some extent, for everyone, and is to be found on the
screen and stage, and in the daily press."

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                           WITHIN THE CIRCLE

                           by F. Lee Baldwin

R. H. Barlow is a very talented youth. He is a pianist, painter,
sculptor in clay, landscape gardener and book collector. He has
completed a clay bas-relief of Cthulhu and a statuette of Ganesa, the
Hindoo Elephant God. One of his favorite bindings for his books is
snake skin. He shoots many snakes around his home in Florida and tans
the skin.

"The Last Hieroglyph" by Clark Ashton Smith, which is scheduled in WT
is the last of a series of stories of the fabulous land of Zothique.
The first of the series was "The Empire of Necromancers." WT has
on hand another story of Zothique--"The Dark Eidolon".... William
Crawford, Editor of Marvel Tales, holds for publication "The Coming of
the White Worm." It may be issued in a separate booklet. This is the
first chapter of The Book of Eibon.

Do you remember Loretta Burrough who wrote "Creeping Fingers"? She has
a yarn titled "What Waits in Darkness" slated for a future WT.

H. P. Lovecraft is touring the South. He is making Savannah, St.
Augustine, Charleston, and other places that were founded in the
_early_ days of this country, and also visiting R. H. Barlow of De
Land, Fla.

Clark Ashton Smith wrote and published at 17 a book of poems called
"The Star Trader."

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                         The Epiphany of Death

                         by Clark Ashton Smith

                    (Dedicated to H. P. Lovecraft)

I find it peculiarly difficult to express the exact nature of the
sentiment which Tomeron had always evoked in me. However, I am sure
that the feeling never partook, at any time, of what is ordinarily
known as friendship. It was a compound of unusual esthetic and
intellectual elements, and was somehow closely allied in my thoughts
with the same fascination that has drawn me ever since early childhood
toward all things that are remote in space and time, or which have
about them the irresolvable twilight of antiquity. Somehow, Tomeron
seemed never to belong to the present; but one could readily have
imagined him as living in some bygone age. About him, there was nothing
whatever of the lineaments of our own period; and he even went so far
as to affect in his costume an approximation to the garments that were
worn several centuries ago. His complexion was extremely pale and
cadaverous, and he stooped heavily from poring over ancient tomes and
no less ancient maps. He moved always with the slow, meditative pace
of one who dwells among far-off reveries and memories; and he spoke
often of people and events and ideas that have long been forgotten.
For the most part, he was apparently unheedful of present things; and
I felt that for him the huge city of Ptolemides, in which we both
dwelt, with all its manifold clamor and tumult, was little more
than a labyrinth of painted vapors. Oddly enough, there was a like
vagueness in the attitude of others toward Tomeron; and though he had
always been accepted without question as a representative of the noble
and otherwise extinct family from which he claimed descent, nothing
appeared to be known about his actual birth and antecedents. With two
servants, who were both deaf-mutes, who were very old and who likewise
wore the raiment of a former age, he lived in the semi-ruinous mansion
of his ancestors, where, it was said, none of the family had dwelt for
many generations. There he pursued the occult and recondite studies
that were so congenial to his mind; and there, at certain intervals, I
was wont to visit him.

I cannot recall the precise date and circumstances of the beginning
of my acquaintance with Tomeron. Though I come of a hardy line that
is noted for the sanity of its constitution, my faculties have been
woefully shaken by the horror of the happening with which that
acquaintance ended. My memory is not what it was, and there are
certain lacunae, for which my readers must contrive to forgive me. The
only wonder is, that my powers of recollection have survived at all,
beneath the hideous burden they have had to bear; for, in a more than
metaphoric sense, I have been as one condemned to carry with him at all
times and in all places the loathsome incubus of things long dead and
corrupt.

I can readily recall, however, the studies to which Tomeron had
devoted himself, the lost demonian volumes from Hyperborea and Mu and
Atlantis with which his library shelves were heaped to the ceiling,
and the queer charts, not of any land that lies above the surface of
the earth, on which he pored by perpetual candle-light. I shall not
speak of these studies, for they would seem too fantastic and too
macabre for credibility; and that which I have to relate is incredible
enough in itself. I shall speak, however, of certain strange ideas
with which Tomeron was much pre-occupied, and concerning which he so
often discoursed to me in that deep, guttural and monotonous voice
of his, that had the reverberation of unsounded caverns in its tones
and cadences. He maintained that life and death were not the fixed
conditions that people commonly believed them to be; that the two
realms were often intermingled in ways not readily discerned, and had
penumbral borderlands; that the dead were not always dead, nor the
living, as such terms are habitually understood. But the manner in
which he spoke of those ideas was extremely vague and general; and
I could never induce him to specify his meaning or to proffer some
concrete illustration that would render it intelligible to a mentality
such as mine, that was unused to dealing in the cobwebs of abstraction.
Behind his words, there hovered, or seemed to hover, a legion of dark,
amorphous images that I could never formulate or depict to myself in
any way, till the fatal denouement of our descent into the catacombs
of Ptolemides.

I have already said that my feeling for Tomeron was never anything
that could be classified as friendship. But even from the first, I
was well aware that Tomeron had a curious fondness for me--a fondness
whose nature I could not comprehend, and with which I could hardly even
sympathize. Though he fascinated me at all times, there were occasions
when my interest was not un-alloyed with a sense of actual repulsion.
At whiles, his pallor was _too_ cadaverous, too suggestive of fungi
that have grown in the dark, or of leprous bones by moonlight; and
the stoop of his shoulders conveyed to my brain the idea that they
bore a burden of centuries through which no man could conceivably have
lived. He aroused always a certain awe in me; and the awe was sometimes
mingled with an indeterminate fear.

I do not remember how long our acquaintance had continued; but I do
remember that he spoke with increasing frequency, toward the end, of
those bizarre ideas at which I have hinted. Also, I felt that he was
troubled about something, for he often looked at me with a mournful
gleam in his hollow eyes; and sometimes he would speak, with peculiar
stress, of the great regard that he had for me. And one night he said:

"Theolus, the time is coming when you must know the truth--must know
me as I am, and not as I have been permitted to seem. There is a term
to all things, and all things are obedient to inexorable laws. I would
that it were otherwise, but neither I nor any man, among the living
or among the dead, can lengthen at will the term of any state or
condition of being, or alter the laws that decree such conditions."

Perhaps it was well that I did not understand him, and that I was
unable to attach much importance to his words or to the singular
intentness of his bearing as he uttered them. For a few more days, I
was spared the knowledge which I now carry. Then, one evening, Tomeron
spoke thus:

"I am now compelled to ask an odd favor of you, which I hope you will
grant me, in consideration of our long friendship. The favor is, that
you accompany me this very night to those vaults of my family which lie
in the catacombs of Ptolemides."

Though much surprised by the request, and not altogether pleased, I was
nevertheless unable to deny him. I could not imagine the purpose of
such a visit as the one proposed; but, as was my wont, I forebore to
interrogate Tomeron, and merely told him that I would accompany him to
the vaults if such were his desire.

"I thank you, Theolus, for this proof of friendship," he replied
earnestly. "Believe me, I am loath to ask it; but there has been a
certain deception, an odd misunderstanding which cannot go on any
longer. Tonight, you will know the truth."

Carrying torches, we left the mansion of Tomeron and sought the ancient
catacombs of Ptolemides, which lie beyond the walls and have long been
disused, for there is now a fine necropolis in the very heart of the
city. The moon had gone down beyond the desert that encroaches toward
the catacombs; and we were forced to light our torches long before we
came to the subterranean adits; for the rays of Mars and Jupiter in a
sodden and funereal sky were not enough to illumine the perilous path
we followed among mounds and fallen obelisks and broken graves. At
length we discovered the dark and weed-choked entrance of the charnels;
and here Tomeron led the way with a swiftness and surety of footing
that bespoke long familiarity with the place.

Entering, we found ourselves in a crumbling passage where the bones of
dilapidated skeletons were scattered amid the rubble that had fallen
from the sides and roof. A choking stench of stagnant air and of
age-old corruption made me pause for a moment; but Tomeron scarcely
appeared to perceive it, for he strode onward, lifting his torch and
beckoning me to follow. We traversed many vaults in which mouldy bones
and verdigris-eaten sarcophagi were piled about the walls or strewn
where desecrating thieves had left them in bygone years. The air was
increasingly dank, chill and miasmal; and mephitic shadows crouched or
swayed before our torches in every niche and corner. Also, as we went
onward, the walls became more ruinous and the bones we saw on every
hand were greener with the mould of time.

At last we rounded a sudden angle of the low cavern we were following.
Here we came to vaults that evidently belonged to some noble family,
for they were quite spacious and there was but one sarcophagus in each
vault.

"My ancestors and my family lie here," said Tomeron.

We reached the end of the cavern and were confronted by a blank wall.
At one side, was the final vault, in which an empty sarcophagus stood
open. The sarcophagus was wrought of the finest bronze and was richly
carven.

Tomeron paused before the vault and turned to me. By the flickering
uncertain light, I thought that I saw a look of strange and
unaccountable distress on his features.

"I must beg you to withdraw for a moment," he said, in a low and
sorrowful voice. "Afterwards, you can return."

Surprised and puzzled, I obeyed his request and went slowly back along
the cavern for some distance. Then I returned to the place where I
had left him. My surprize was heightened when I found that he had
extinguished his torch and had dropped it on the threshold of the final
vault. Also, Tomeron himself was not visible anywhere.

Entering the vault, since there was no other place where he could
have hidden himself, I looked about for him, but the room was empty.
At least, I deemed it empty till I looked again at the richly carven
sarcophagus and saw that it was now tenanted, for a cadaver lay within,
shrouded in a winding sheet of a sort that has not been used for
centuries in Ptolemides.

I drew nigh to the sarcophagus, and peering into the face of the
cadaver, I saw that it bore a fearful and strange resemblance to the
face of Tomeron, though it was bloated and puffed with the adipocere of
death and was purple with the shadows of decay, as after long ages in a
charnel air. And looking again, I saw that it was indeed Tomeron.

I would have screamed aloud with the horror that came upon me; but my
lips were benumbed and frozen, and I could only whisper Tomeron's name.
But as I whispered it, the lips of the cadaver seemed to part, and the
tip of its tongue protruded between them. And I thought that the tip
trembled, as if Tomeron were about to speak and answer me. But gazing
more closely I saw that the trembling was merely the movement of worms
as they twisted up and down and to and fro, and sought to crowd each
other from Tomeron's tongue.

       *       *       *       *       *


                          SMOKE WITHOUT FIRE

                          (A True Experience)

                        by Kenneth B. Pritchard

I chanced to be alone at the time. I was just about to enter the
kitchen of the house. I opened the door and went in.

I glanced over toward the gas stove near a window. Close to it a cloud
of smoke streamed upward. It had the appearance of an easy rolling mass
just expelled from the lungs of a smoker. I also compared it to a match
that had just been extinguished. In fact, I thought that a mouse had
lit one.

I went to the stove, which had not been used for some hours, and looked
for a match recently ignited, or even for some oily substance which the
sun might have caused to smoke.

Everything was cold. The sun had not warmed anything. No match had been
lit. But, I had seen smoke rising!

A friend of mine saw smoke rise in front of her, also. She too, could
ascertain no reason or source.

What then really happened? Is it some indigenous quality of the air
that was the cause?

       *       *       *       *       *


                   SUPERNATURAL HORROR IN LITERATURE

                          by H. P. Lovecraft

                               Part Ten

                   (Copyright 1927 by W. Paul Cook)

"Melmoth" contains scenes which even now have not lost their power
to evoke dread. It begins with a death-bed--the old miser is dying
of sheer fright because of something he has seen, coupled with a
manuscript he has read and a family portrait which hangs in an obscure
closet of his centuried home in County Wicklow. He sends to Trinity
College, Dublin, for his nephew John; and the latter upon arriving
notes many uncanny things. The eyes of the portrait in the closet glow
horribly, and twice a figure strangely resembling the portrait appears
momentarily at the door. Dread hangs over the house of the Melmoths,
one of whose ancestors, "J. Melmoth, 1646," the portrait represents.
The dying miser declares that this man--at a date slightly before
1800--is still alive. Finally the miser dies, and the nephew is told
in the will to destroy both the portrait and a manuscript to be found
in a certain drawer. Reading the manuscript, which was written late
in the seventeenth century by an Englishman named Stanton, young John
learns of a terrible incident in Spain in 1677, when the writer met a
horrible fellow-countryman and was told of how he had stared to death
a priest who tried to denounce him as one filled with fearsome evil.
Later, after meeting the man again in London, Stanton is cast into a
madhouse and visited by the stranger, whose approach is heralded by
spectral music and whose eyes have more than mortal glare. Melmoth the
Wanderer--for such is the malign visitor--offers the captive freedom
if he will take over his bargain with the Devil; but like all others
whom Melmoth has approached, Stanton is proof against temptation.
Melmoth's description of the horrors of a life in a madhouse, used to
tempt Stanton, is one of the most potent passages of the book. Stanton
is at length liberated, and spends the rest of his life tracking down
Melmoth, whose family and ancestral abode he discovers. With the family
he leaves the manuscript, which by young John's time is sadly ruinous
and fragmentary. John destroys both portrait and manuscript, but in
sleep is visited by his horrible ancestor, who leaves a black and blue
mark on his wrist.

Young John soon afterward receives as a visitor a shipwrecked Spaniard,
Alonzo de Moncada, who has escaped from compulsory monasticism and
from the perils of the Inquisition. He has suffered horribly--and the
descriptions of his experiences under torment and in the vaults through
which he once essays escape are classic--but had the strength to resist
Melmoth the Wanderer when approached at this darkest hour in prison.
At the house of a Jew who sheltered him after his escape, he discovers
a wealth of manuscript relating other exploits of Melmoth, including
his wooing of an Indian island maiden, Immalee, who later comes to
her birthright in Spain and is known as the Donna Isidora; and of his
horrible marriage to her by the corpse of a dead anchorite at midnight
in the ruined chapel of a shunned and abhorred monastery. Moncada's
narrative to young John takes up the bulk of Maturin's four-volume
book; this disproportion being considered one of the chief technical
faults of the composition.

At last the colloquies of John and Moncada are interrupted by the
entrance of Melmoth the Wanderer himself, his piercing eyes now fading,
and decrepitude swiftly overtaking him. The term of his bargain has
approached its end, and he has come home after a century and a half to
meet his fate. Warning all others from the room, no matter what sounds
they may hear in the night, he awaits the end alone. Young John and
Moncada hear frightful ululations, but do not intrude till silence
comes toward morning. They then find the room empty. Clayey footprints
lead out a rear door to a cliff overlooking the sea, and near the
edge of the precipice is a track indicating the forcible dragging of
some heavy body. The Wanderer's scarf is found on a crag some distance
below the brink, but nothing further is ever seen or heard of him. Such
is the story, and none can fail to notice the difference between this
modulated, suggestive, and artistically moulded horror and--to use the
words of Professor George Saintsbury--"the artful but rather jejune
rationalism of Mrs. Radcliffe, and the too often puerile extravagance,
the bad taste, and the sometimes slipshod style of Lewis." Maturin's
style in itself deserves particular praise, for its forcible directness
and vitality lift it altogether above the pompous artificialities of
which his predecessors are guilty. Professor Edith Birkhead, in her
history of the Gothic novel, justly observes that "with all his faults,
Maturin was the greatest as well as the last of the Goths." "Melmoth"
was widely read and eventually dramatised, but its late date in the
evolution of the Gothic tale deprived it of the tumultuous popularity
of "Udolpho" and "The Monk."

(_Next month Mr. Lovecraft takes up "The Aftermath of Gothic
Fiction."_)

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                            DREAMS of YITH

                            DUANE W. RIMEL

                                   I

    In distant Yith past crested, ragged peaks;
      On far-flung islands lost to worldly years,
    A shadow from the ancient star-void seeks
      Some being which in caverns shrilly cries
    A challenge; and the hairy dweller speaks
      From that deep hole where slimy Sotho lies.
    But when those night-winds crept about the place,
    They fled--for Sotho had no human face!


                                  II

    Beyond the valleys of the sun which lie
      In misty chaos past the reach of time;
    And brood beneath the ice as aeons fly,
      Long waiting for some brighter, warmer clime;
    There is a vision, as I vainly try
      To glimpse the madness that must some day climb
    From age-old tombs in dim dimensions hid,
    And push all angles back--unseal the lid!


                                  III

    Beside the city that once lived there wound
      A stream of putrefaction writhing black;
    Reflecting crumbling spires stuck in the ground
      That glow through hov'ring mist whence no stray track
    Can lead to those dead gates, where once was found
      The secret that would bring the dwellers back.
    And still that pitch-black current eddies by
    Those silver gates of Yith to sea-beds dry.


                                  IV

    On rounded turrets rising through the visne
      Of cloud-veiled aeons that the Old Ones knew:
    On tablets deeply worn and fingered clean
      By tentacles that dreamers seldom view;
    In space-hung Yith, on clammy walls obscene
      That writhe and crumble and are built anew;
    There is a figure carved; but God! those eyes,
    That sway on fungoid stems at leaden skies!

                                   V

    Around the place of ancient, waiting blight;
      On walls of sheerest opal rearing high,
    That move as planets beckon in the night
      To faded realms where nothing sane can lie;
    A deathless guard tramps by in feeble light,
      Emitting to the stars a sobbing cry.
    But on that path where footsteps should have led
    There rolled an eyeless, huge and bloated head.

       *       *       *       *       *


                 SCIENCE FICTION IN ENGLISH MAGAZINES

                             by Bob Tucker

                            (Series Seven)

A late May issue of TRIUMPH carried "Invisible Charlie" by Tom
Stirling. (No reflections on you, Editor). However, the story was of
juvenile character, and the most terrible thing Invisible Charlie did
was to make a ball do funny tricks on its way from the pitcher to the
batter, Invisible Charlie himself carrying it, of course.

Vol. 1, numbers 15 and 16 of SCOOPS presented: Two chapters of Doyle's
"Poison Belt," two of "Devilman of the Deep," and two of "Black
Vultures," leaving very little short story space.

Number 15 had "Fighting Gas" which is self explanatory, and "The March
of the Beserks," mentioned previously. Number 16, besides the serials
already mentioned, had "The Accelerator Ray" which speeds up life, and
"Temple of Doom" which is a sort of "suspended animation" tale, with
its usual Man from the past waking in the future twist.

The cover of 16 is "Mails by Rocket" and portrays two rockets flying
over London with the mail.

Incidentally, although not a part of this dept., I would like to
mention that there are 'Rocket Mail' stamps on sale over there! Regular
rocket mail service is carried on in parts of Europe, and special
stamps have been issued for it. The two I have seen portray huge
rockets taking off, with long streamers of fire behind. Price is 1 mark
and 10 Groschen.

       *       *       *       *       *


                        FAMOUS FANTASY FICTION

                            by Emil Petaja

The Supernatural Omnibus, edited by Montague Summers; Doubleday Doran
Co. This remarkable collection contains thirty-six stories of the best
fantasy fiction. It is of particular interest to American readers as
most of its stories are taken from English magazines and out-of-print
books which most of us would find difficult to obtain. The introduction
is especially interesting.

A. Conan Doyle has written several books of a scientific and weird
nature. Perhaps the best of these is "The Maracot Deep." In this story
the scientific theme predominates, until the very last chapter, in
which we find a typical _Jules de Grandin_ finis. Among the other
stories in this book, "When the Earth Screamed" is easily the best.
This book can now be had in the 75 cent reprint list.

"Famous Mystery Stories" and "Famous Ghost Stories" both edited by J.
W. McSpadden contain many old favorites, such as O'Brien's "The Diamond
Lens," Crawford's "The Upper Berth," and de Maupassant's "Horla." You
can get these books at any public library.

Ghosts, Grim and Gentle, edited by L. C. French; Dodd, Mead & Co.
Although many of the stories in this volume have been reprinted very
often, it is well worth reading. One of its best is "The Tractate
Middoth," by Dr. M. R. James; mentioned by Clark Ashton Smith in his
article in the February _Fantasy Fan_.

       *       *       *       *       *


                            Rider By Night

                          by David H. Keller

I asked one of the small boys playing around the schoolhouse.

"Does Miss Belle Flowers teach here?"

She did, and two minutes later I was in her class room, our
conversation being listened to with much interest by the twenty-odd
little boys and girls in the room. It seemed that she was expecting me,
and that I could make the examination in twenty minutes after school
was closed. So I decided to wait outside.

It was a modern eight room consolidated country school, which seemed
to be built miles from everywhere. On one side, an old Ford car, three
buggies, and at least fifteen saddle-horses were parked. A few shabby
shrubs shivered silently in the sallow sunshine of spring. Here and
there remnants of building material told the story of the building's
recent construction.

Walking along, I turned the corner of the building and looked toward
the west. What I saw made me walk away from the schoolhouse to a
white-haired darkey sitting on the ground propped against a wire fence.
He seemed asleep, but when I came near him, he turned to me a weasened
face with two eyes circled with the arcus senilis of the aged.

I asked him to have a cigarette, and lit it for him; then sat down by
his side.

"Queer place for a schoolhouse, Uncle," I said.

"Worsen queer. Poor and hard on us."

"How come?"

"Quality folks put it heayr, whar land was cheap. Peers like they
didn't know about Massa."

"Your Master?"

"None but."

I looked over at the tombstone. Just one stone, and at the back of it a
cypress tree. Four fence posts around the tree and the stone, and then
were connected by a wire fence. The posts were newly placed, the wire
made up of odds and ends tied together and nailed in place with every
kind of nail imaginable.

I handed the old man another cigarette and a silver dollar.

"Tell me about it," I asked.

It was a short story. The Colonel had gone to war in '61 and his
servant had gone with him. In '62 the negro had brought his Master
back blind. Years later he had died, and was buried on the knoll, and
a cypress was planted at the head of the grave. Now he was forgotten
by all except the whitened slave. The land had been sold and a school
house built on it. Today was the first day of school. The old man,
afraid that the grave would be desecrated by the cheap white trash, had
dug four holes, put in four posts, wired them and was now sitting guard
till school was out and the children gone.

"The Colonel shure wouldn't like it. Gwine to bother him riding."

"Does he ride?" I asked.

"Bound to. That air man was almost borned in saddle. He rid to the war
and he rid back, blind tho he war, and he rides ever since. He done
told me, 'Sam, I am bound to ride till Miss Belle Flowers marries me.'
Corse, he done gone to Heaven years ago, but every night he rides on
his white mare, and I done kiver me head with the blanket when Ise hear
her hoofs go pounding up and down the road."

"He was going to marry Miss Belle Flowers?" I asked.

It appeared so. They were engaged when he rode away and when he came
back blind, she was married to another. Every night he had the white
mare saddled and would gallop up and down the road in front of her
house. He and the mare died the same day, and according to his will,
the Colonel and the Colonel's horse were buried in the same grave.

School was dismissed. The children piled into the old Ford, into the
old buggies, on top of the saddle-horses, one, two and even three to
the horse. The school teachers, young and old, seven of them, left the
building. It was time for my examination of Miss Belle Flowers.

I threw the rest of my cigarettes to the old negro.

"You have fixed the Colonel," I laughed. "With that fence around the
grave, he cannot get the mare out for his ride tonight."

He looked at me with puzzled eyes.

"Massa's gwine ter ride. Just bound to ride till he marries Miss Belle.
Come sundown, Ise gwine to open the fence to let him and the mare out.
Warm tonight, and I'll sleep heyr. Massa may need me."

After talking to Miss Flowers, I told her that I was rather doubtful of
her obtaining the life insurance; after I listened to her lungs, I was
sure that she was a bad risk. A history of two yeaas in bed fighting
tuberculosis made me hesitate. She looked strong and as pretty as a
rose, but today, at the end of school, she had fever.

We talked it over outside the schoolhouse. We said goodbye twice.
Somehow it was difficult to say goodbye and leave her. To gain time, I
asked her about Sam. It seemed that Sam went insane when the Colonel
died. There was a long story about it. Eventually I said goodbye again
at her front gate and promised to call that night and hear the story.

There was a full moon that night.

She was waiting for me on the gallery, dressed in a riding habit of the
sixties, when ladies rode a side saddle.

"My Grandmother's," she explained laughingly. "Yes, you have guessed
it, especially if Sam talked to you. In 1860 Belle Flowers, pride of
western Kentucky was engaged to the Colonel. They rode together, each
on a white horse. She wore the dress I have on. I thought it would make
the story more real to you if I wore her dress tonight. The Colonel
went to war and Sam went with him. My Grandmother was fickle and
married her cousin, another Flowers, and when the Colonel came back
stone blind, it was too late. He swore that he would night-ride past
her house till she married him. Grandmother used to tell me what a
sight it was to see him go galloping by on his white mare, and no one
able to tell by the way he rode that he couldn't see. She died years
before he did, but he kept riding on, just as though he didn't know she
was dead. Then one night he and the white mare died, and that was the
end of the Colonel. Of course, Sam says he still rides."

"He does indeed, but of course that is just his insanity."

"Yes, just his insanity," Miss Flowers agreed. "I talked to him today
about the patchwork fence he built around the grave, but he explained
that he would take a piece down to let his Master out on the horse. In
summer, he sleeps up there; says he never can tell when the Colenel
will want him. It all seems so real to him."

She laughed, as though tense with suppressed excitement.

"It is good to have you call on me tonight," she whispered. "I hardly
ever see anyone except Father, and he is moody. Don't want me to leave
the house at night. Made me promise not to leave the gallery unless you
went too."

"He knows about me?"

"Oh, yes, everyone knows about the new doctor. Let's walk down to
the gate. In full moonlight, you can see the white of the Colonel's
tombstone."

Picking up the trail of her riding habit, she went before me, down
to the gate and opened it. She showed me a spot of white through the
trees. I took her hand. It was cold.

"Night-riders," she said suddenly. "Two of them! Hear them come
galloping down the road."

I heard nothing but a hoot owl in the bottoms.

Then something lashed me across the face, striking me to the ground.
When I stood up, I was alone. Running into the house, I found Mr.
Flowers.

"You are hurt!" he cried. "Slashed across the face with a riding whip.
But you should have stayed on the gallery. Belle ought to have known
better than to wear that dress. I told her not to, but you know how
headstrong those girls are."

"That is not getting her back. Get a lantern. We have got to find her."

"We will go through the fields. There is a short cut. You light the
lantern while I get a shawl for her. God, but it's cold and there's a
black cloud over the moon."

I carried the shawl and almost had to run behind him as he carried the
lantern over the hill. We came to the corner of the schoolhouse at
last. Halfway to the tombstone, we stumbled over a body. It was Sam,
still alive but gasping for breath.

"They done come back. Colonel and his lady. I'se gwine home now, case
the Colonel won't call fer me no more."

Hand on wrist, I look at the white face of the man holding the lantern.

"He is dead!" I whispered.

"We have to find Belle," he cried, and went toward the grave.

There we found her sleeping, one hand on the stone, at rest.

Sitting on the ground he held her in his arms, crying.

I took the lantern and examined the clay earth outside the fence.
Hoofprints of two shod horses, side by side.

"She ran up here to tease you, Doctor. It was too much for her heart.
She slashed you across the face in play, and then ran here, thinking
you would follow her. That explains everything, doesn't it, Doctor?"

"It should," I said gently, trying to unlock his arms from the lovely
thing he held. "It should, but the Colonel will ride no more."

       *       *       *       *       *


                         CELEBRITIES I'VE MET

                         by Mortimer Weisinger

Donald Wandrei, who frankly considers his stories "just so much junk"
from an artistic viewpoint.

Nathan Schachner, who admits that he is a slow writer at best, one
thousand words each night being his maximum output.

David Lasser, who profoundly apologized to the old Scienceers one night
for concealing the fact that Gawain Edwards was only a pen name.

A perfunctory search through that register of eminent Americans, "Who's
Who," reveals the following science fiction celebrities as listed:
Edgar Rice Burroughs, J. U. Guiesy, Stanton A. Coblentz, George Allan
England, Dr. T. O'Conor Sloane, Hugo Gernsback, Edwin Balmer, William
MacHarg, T. S. Stribling, J. S. Haldane, A. Hyatt Verrill, Fred
MacIsaac, Ellis Parker Butler, Eric Temple Bell.

What other fiction field can boast as many distinguished contributors?

       *       *       *       *       *


                            ADVERTISEMENTS
                       Rates: one cent per word
                       Minimum Charge, 25 cents

Back Numbers of _The Fantasy Fan_: September, 20 cents (only a few
left), October, November, December, January, February, March, April,
May, June, 10 cents each.

       *       *       *       *       *

CLARK ASHTON SMITH presents THE DOUBLE SHADOW AND OTHER FANTASIES--a
booklet containing a half-dozen imaginative and atmospheric
tales--stories of exotic beauty, horror, terror, strangeness, irony and
satire. Price: 25 cents each (coin or stamps). Also a small remainder
of EBONY AND CRYSTAL--a book of prose-poems published at $2.00, reduced
to $1.00 per copy. Everything sent postpaid. Clark Ashton Smith,
Auburn, California.

       *       *       *       *       *

IMPORTANT! Many subscriptions to THE FANTASY FAN expire this fall.
Yours is probably one of them. DON'T forget to send in your new
subscription if you want THE FANTASY FAN to continue publication. EVERY
DOLLAR COUNTS!

       *       *       *       *       *

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