The Saturday Night Special: “The Fearsome Touch of Death” by Robert E. Howard (1930)

As long as midnight cloaks the earth
With shadows grim and stark,
God save us from the Judas kiss
Of a dead man in the dark.

Old Adam Farrel lay dead in the house wherein he had lived alone
for the last twenty years. A silent, churlish recluse, in his life he
had known no friends, and only two men had watched his passing.

Dr. Stein rose and glanced out the window into the gathering dusk.

“You think you can spend the night here, then?” he asked his
companion.

This man, Falred by name, assented.

“Yes, certainly. I guess it’s up to me.”

“Rather a useless and primitive custom, sitting up with the dead,”

Robert E. Howard

Robert E. Howard

commented the doctor, preparing to depart, “but I suppose in common
decency we will have to bow to precedence. Maybe I can find someone
who’ll come over here and help you with your vigil.”

Falred shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt it. Farrel wasn’t liked–
wasn’t known by many people. I scarcely knew him myself, but I don’t
mind sitting up with the corpse.”

Dr. Stein was removing his rubber gloves and Falred watched the
process with an interest that almost amounted to fascination. A
slight, involuntary shudder shook him at the memory of touching these
gloves–slick, cold, clammy things, like the touch of death.

“You may get lonely tonight, if I don’t find anyone,” the doctor
remarked as he opened the door. “Not superstitious, are you?”

Falred laughed. “Scarcely. To tell the truth, from what I hear of
Farrel’s disposition, I’d rather be watching his corpse than have been
his guest in life.”

The door closed and Falred took up his vigil. He seated himself in
the only chair the room boasted, glanced casually at the formless,
sheeted bulk on the bed opposite him, and began to read by the light
of the dim lamp which stood on the rough table.

Outside, the darkness gathered swiftly, and finally Falred laid
down his magazine to rest his eyes. He looked again at the shape which
had, in life, been the form of Adam Farrel, wondering what quirk in
the human nature made the sight of a corpse not so unpleasant, but
such an object of fear to man. Unthinking ignorance, seeing in dead
things a reminder of death to come, he decided lazily, and began idly
contemplating as to what life had held for this grim and crabbed old
man, who had neither relatives nor friends, and who had seldom left
the house wherein he had died. The usual tales of miser-hoarded wealth
had accumulated, but Falred felt so little interest in the whole
matter that it was not even necessary for him to overcome any
temptation to prey about the house for possible hidden treasure.

He returned to his reading with a shrug. The task was more
boresome than he had thought for. After a while he was aware that
every time he looked up from his magazine and his eyes fell upon the
bed with its grim occupant, he started involuntarily as if he had, for
an instant, forgotten the presence of the dead man and was
unpleasantly reminded of the fact. The start was slight and
instinctive, but he felt almost angered at himself. He realized, for
the first time, the utter and deadening silence which enwrapped the
house–a silence apparently shared by the night, for no sound came
through the window. Adam Farrel lived as far apart from his neighbors
as possible, and there was no other house within hearing distance.

Falred shook himself as if to rid his mind of unsavory
speculations, and went back to his reading. A sudden vagrant gust of
wind whipped through the window, in which the light in the lamp
flickered and went out suddenly. Falred, cursing softly, groped in the
darkness for matches, burning his fingers on the lamp chimney. He
struck a match, relighted the lamp, and glancing over at the bed, got
a horrible mental jolt. Adam Farrel’s face stared blindly at him, the
dead eyes wide and blank, framed in the gnarled gray features. Even as
Falred instinctively shuddered, his reason explained the apparent
phenomenon: the sheet that covered the corpse had been carelessly
thrown across the face and the sudden puff of wind had disarranged and
flung it aside.

Yet there was something grisly about the thing, something
fearsomely suggestive–as if, in the cloaking dark, a dead hand had
flung aside the sheet, just as if the corpse were about to rise….

Falred, an imaginative man, shrugged his shoulders at these
ghastly thoughts and crossed the room to replace the sheet. The dead
eyes seemed to stare malevolently, with an evilness that transcended
the dead man’s churlishness in life. The workings of a vivid
imagination, Falred knew, and he re-covered the gray face, shrinking
as his hand chanced to touch the cold flesh–slick and clammy, the
touch of death. He shuddered with the natural revulsion of the living
for the dead, and went back to his chair and magazine.

At last, growing sleepy, he lay down upon a couch which, by some
strange whim of the original owner, formed part of the room’s scant
furnishings, and composed himself for slumber. He decided to leave the
light burning, telling himself that it was in accordance with the
usual custom of leaving lights burning for the dead; for he was not
willing to admit to himself that already he was conscious of a dislike
for lying in the darkness with the corpse. He dozed, awoke with a
start and looked at the sheeted form of the bed. Silence reigned over
the house, and outside it was very dark.

The hour was approaching midnight, with its accompanying eerie
domination over the human mind. Falred glanced again at the bed where
the body lay and found the sight of the sheeted object most repellent.
A fantastic idea had birth in his mind, and grew, that beneath the
sheet, the mere lifeless body had become a strange, monstrous thing, a
hideous, conscious being, that watched him with eyes which burned
through the fabric of the cloth. This thought–a mere fantasy, of
course–he explained to himself by the legends of vampires, undead
ghosts and such like–the fearsome attributes with which the living
have cloaked the dead for countless ages, since primitive man first
recognized in death something horrid and apart from life. Man feared
death, thought Falred, and some of this fear of death took hold on the
dead so that they, too, were feared. And the sight of the dead
engendered grisly thoughts, gave rise to dim fears of hereditary
memory, lurking back in the dark corners of the brain.

At any rate, that silent, hidden thing was getting on his nerves.
He thought of uncovering the face, on the principle that familiarity
breeds contempt. The sight of the features, calm and still in death,
would banish, he thought, all such wild conjectures as were haunting
him in spite of himself. But the thought of those dead eyes staring in
the lamplight was intolerable; so at last he blew out the light and
lay down. This fear had been stealing upon him so insidiously and
gradually that he had not been aware of its growth.

With the extinguishing of the light, however, and the blotting out
of the sight of the corpse, things assumed their true character and
proportions, and Falred fell asleep almost instantly, on his lips a
faint smile for his previous folly.

He awakened suddenly. How long he had been asleep he did not know.
He sat up, his pulse pounding frantically, the cold sweat beading his
forehead. He knew instantly where he was, remembered the other
occupant of the room. But what had awakened him? A dream–yes, now he
remembered–a hideous dream in which the dead man had risen from the
bed and stalked stiffly across the room with eyes of fire and a horrid
leer frozen on his gray lips. Falred had seemed to lie motionless,
helpless; then as the corpses reached a gnarled and horrible hand, he
had awakened.

He strove to pierce the gloom, but the room was all blackness and
all without was so dark that no gleam of light came through the
window. He reached a shaking hand toward the lamp, then recoiled as if
from a hidden serpent. Sitting here in the dark with a fiendish corpse
was bad enough, but he dared not light the lamp, for fear that his
reason would be snuffed out like a candle at what he might see.
Horror, stark and unreasoning, had full possession of his soul; he no
longer questioned the instinctive fears that rose in him. All those
legends he had heard came back to him and brought a belief in them.
Death was a hideous thing, a brain-shattering horror, imbuing lifeless
men with a horrid malevolence. Adam Farrel in his life had been simply
a churlish but harmless man; now he was a terror, a monster, a fiend
lurking in the shadows of fear, ready to leap on mankind with talons
dipped deep in death and insanity.

Falred sat there, his blood freezing, and fought out his silent
battle. Faint glimmerings of reason had begun to touch his fright when
a soft, stealthy sound again froze him. He did not recognize it as the
whisper of the night wind across the windowsill. His frenzied fancy
knew it only as the tread of death and horror. He sprang from the
couch, then stood undecided. Escape was in his mind but he was too
dazed to even try to formulate a plan of escape. Even his sense of
direction was gone. Fear had so stultified his mind that he was not
able to think consciously. The blackness spread in long waves about
him and its darkness and void entered into his brain. His motions,
such as they were, were instinctive. He seemed shackled with mighty
chains and his limbs responded sluggishly, like an imbecile’s.

A terrible horror grew up in him and reared its grisly shape, that
the dead man was behind him, was stealing upon him from the rear. He
no longer thought of lighting the lamp; he no longer thought of
anything. Fear filled his whole being; there was room for nothing
else.

He backed slowly away in the darkness, hands behind him,
instinctively feeling the way. With a terrific effort he partly shook
the clinging mists of horror from him, and, the cold sweat clammy upon
his body, strove to orient himself. He could see nothing, but the bed
was across the room, in front of him. He was backing away from it.
There was where the dead man was lying, according to all rules of
nature; if the thing were, as he felt, behind him, then the old tales
were true: death did implant in lifeless bodies an unearthly
animation, and dead men did roam the shadows to work their ghastly and
evil will upon the sons of men. Then–great God!–what was man but a
wailing infant, lost in the night and beset by frightful things from
the black abysses and the terrible unknown voids of space and time?
These conclusions he did not reach by any reasoning process; they
leaped full-grown into his terror-dazed brain. He worked his way
slowly backward, groping, clinging to the thought that the dead man
must be in front of him.

Then his back-flung hands encountered something–something slick,
cold and clammy–like the touch of death. A scream shook the echoes,
followed by the crash of a falling body.

The next morning they who came to the house of death found two
corpses in the room. Adam Farrel’s sheeted body lay motionless upon
the bed, and across the room lay the body of Falred, beneath the shelf
where Dr. Stein had absent-mindedly left his gloves–rubber gloves,
slick and clammy to the touch of a hand groping in the dark–a hand of
one fleeing his own fear–rubber gloves, slick and clammy and cold,
like the touch of death.

###

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Now Taking Submissions and Announcements for the Arkansas Country Writers Circle Website

Phil Slattery portrait

Phil Slattery
March, 2015

I will consider articles, short stories, and poems for publication on the Arkansas County Writers Circle website. Please feel free to submit at any time. I will try to post your work as soon as I can. Of course, preference will be given to writers from Arkansas and particularly from Arkansas County. There is no pay other than having the distinction of being published and having another bullet for your writer’s resume.

I am looking for short, flash, or micro fiction that demonstrates the art of writing, whether it be prose, poetry, one-act plays, or any other form of literature of any genre.  I want to showcase literature in all its subtlety, beauty, intelligence, art, horror, terror, suspense, and gruesome detail.  I also want to push its limits with the challenge of staying under 2,500 words while making an intellectual and emotional connection with the reader. Do your best, most imaginative, most professional work.

I am also looking for non-fiction articles on the art of writing.   Please keep these to under 2,500 words as well. All rights will remain with the author. If you would like to submit an article or book/movie review on the art of writing horror fiction or just on the art of writing, please send it to philslattery87410@gmail.com.  Everything must be submitted by e-mail either in the body of the e-mail or a Word document (.doc or .docx).  There is no pay for any submission at this time (maybe after I win the Pulitzer or Nobel, but probably not before then).

In addition, I am taking announcements about works of literature of any genre.  If you are an author with a book-signing coming up or you will be giving a public talk somewhere or you have a book (or film) with a definite release date, announce it here.  If you have anything related to a creative work of literature that you would like to publicize, draft an announcement and send it in.  I reserve all editorial rights however to make any needed changes for clarity, etc, and to ask questions if the announcement isn’t clear on some point.  There will be no charge for this, at least initially, but I do reserve the right to charge fees later, if a lot of announcements start to flood my inbox.

Mark Twain

However, note that I will not do advertising for any product.  I want to publicize creative works and to help authors, poets, film makers, and others jump start their careers.  I am not a merchant.  As to where the line is between advertising a product and publicizing a work, that will be my subjective decision.  So if you want to sell pens, notebooks, software, or any other concrete product, try Amazon.com.

Fiction will probably be published on Fridays and articles on other nights as I feel appropriate.

You may submit stories and articles in languages besides English, but it must be in one of the languages in which I have at least some minimal ability. These are primarily German and Spanish, though I can read French to a degree. I need practice in all three.  Shorter articles will fare well here as I do not want to spend all day with a dictionary and grammar ensuring that the writing is up to par. Odds of these being accepted are sort of low, but if I can read them easily enough, I will consider them.

I reserve the right to change my mind as I develop this site.

Specifically, in terms of creative works, I am seeking:

  1. Articles under 2,500 words on the art of writing (fiction of any length, poetry, screenplays, etc.) or on writing in general  Articles on foreign literature are encouraged.
  2. Book and movie reviews, the more recently published or distributed the better.
  3. I will consider reviews of articles on literature in other countries.  These must also be under 2,500 words.
  4. Translations of articles, stories, or poems from French, German, or Spanish are considered, but the original article/story/poem and its translation must not exceed 2,500 words.
  5. Poetry (under 32 lines) or articles on poetry.
  6. Flash fiction (i.e. under 1,000 words).

Guidelines

  1. Be professional.
  2. Use standard manuscript format.  The easier it is for me to simply copy and paste into WordPress, the more likely you are to be published.
  3. Tennessee Williams, 1965
    Tennessee Williams, 1965

    With submissions include your website, twitter handle, or any other social media identification you like.  A short bio of 100 words or less (including a list of previous publications) is nice, but not required.   Knowing your publication history won’t influence whether or not you are accepted, but it might be nice for the readership to know.  If you don’t want to include any social media contact info, don’t include it.  Pseudonyms are fine, but please state them as the byline and include your actual name and contact info in the top left of the first page of the submission per standard manuscript format.

  4. In the subject line of your e-mail state whether this is an article or review or poetry of fiction submission, your name, and the work’s title.  For example:  Article by Phil Slattery  “Poe’s Raven: an Analysis”
  5. No hardcopy submissions.  Everything must be submitted by e-mail either in the body of the e-mail or attached as a Word document (.doc or .docx).
  6. I would like to reach as large an audience as possible, so please keep profanity to an absolute minimum.
  7. I will try to respond to submissions as quickly as possible, but please allow at least a couple of weeks before querying about your article/story.
  8. There is no pay other than the honor of being published on this website.
  9. I am not taking multiple submissions or simultaneous submissions.  Once you have submitted one article/story, please wait about a week before submitting another.
  10. You may submit on piece of artwork or a photo to accompany your article/story.  I will edit it (mainly re-sizing) as needed to fit the space available.  I will not publish any form of what I deem pornography or in bad taste.  If you do not submit artwork or a photo, I may select something appropriate.  JPEGs, TIFs and other formats accepted by WordPress are okay, but keep the number of bytes to a minimum.  I have only a limited amount of space available.
  11. Artwork and photos may be submitted on their own and you must own the copyright to them or they may be from the public domain (please state so if they are).  There is no pay for these either.  If I do not use these right away, I may keep them until a use arises, but please let me know if this is okay.  If you no longer wish me to use them, please let me know as soon as possible.
  12. Kate Chopin, 1894
    Kate Chopin, 1894

    Do not send advertising (no matter how cleverly veiled it is).  It won’t be published.

  13. Gratuitous sex, extreme violence, violence to children or animals, rape, excessive profanity, and anything else that offends my personal sensibilities will not be published.  Anything that seems to reflect an actual crime (past, present, or future) will be immediately turned over to the proper authorities.
  14. If I like your submission, I will publish it as soon as possible.  This will depend on the backlog of submissions and other factors.   Don’t ask for a time-frame.
  15. Reprints are okay, but you must tell me when and where the article/story/poem was first published.
  16. I do not want fan fiction.
  17. Always re-check the guidelines before submitting.  I may change them at any moment without prior notice.

I will update these guidelines as time allows and events warrant.  This page was last updated on June 4, 2019. Please contact me via philslattery87410@gmail.com with any questions. Thoughts?  Comments?

Update: July 10, 2019. Word Count Blues

I now have around 64,000 words of my first draft of my sci-fi novel, Between 80,000-100,000 is my goal. I worked on it some yesterday and very early this morning when I could not sleep. I am working on it now, though I have had very little sleep over the past 2-3 days. Various things have been keeping me awake at night (too much tea before bedtime, basic insomnia, etc.). Unfortunately, once awake, it is hard for me to fall asleep during the daytime and I have to press on to nightfall in order to sleep. I am writing now until I can no longer stay awake and will essentially pass out in my bed.

Anyway, I have been thinking about word count.  Having set the desired word count for my novel, I find that at times I wonder: how in the world am I going to come up with ideas to reach my goal? At other times, I have so many ideas that I fear 100,000 won’t be enough words to express all my thoughts and I worry about how I am going to condense everything to fit within my limits.

One nugget of writing advice that I picked up long ago from the movie “Wonder Boys” (based on the novel by Pulitzer winner Michael Chabon) is that a writer must make decisions about what to include or not include in his/her novel. I am finding that to be very true. I have so many ideas at times that I know I can’t fit them all into 100,000 words, but if I try to go over the set limit, I will end up in the same situation as Professor Tripp in “Wonder Boys” and have a never-ending novel thousands of pages in length that I can never finish.

At times, when the goal seems nearly unreachable, I have to remind myself that I have written short stories nearly 20,000 words in length, and therefore writing another 20,000 for this novel is quite doable.

By the way, everyone interested in writing should watch Wonder Boys. Very entertaining with humor only a writer can truly appreciate..

The Farmington Writers Circle Meets Again on March 9.

zola_leandreThe Farmington Writers Circle meets again on Thursday, March 9, in the Entertainmart (formerly Hardback) Café at 7:00 pm.  The topic of the night will  be how to grow a twitter presence using hashtags and by following other twitter users.

Everyone is invited.  There is no charge and no membership requirements.

Preceding the meeting, starting at 6:30 pm, one of our members will be reading from his/her works.  The reader and his/her works will be announced once finalized.

The Farmington Writers Circle is a group of local writers who are interested in exploring and developing new means of marketing and publicizing their works.

For more information, contact Phil Slattery at phil@philslattery.com or via @philslattery201 or via this website.