"A Dying WIsh" · Ghost stories · Halloween

The Tale Begins

It’s finally time to begin our Halloween story. So pour yourself a Dark N Stormy, turn down the lights, and enjoy:

A thirteen-part Halloween tale

PART I

It is with no little apprehension that I now set about the task of relating the exploits of my long-past youth. To that vast majority of persons who are ignorant of my motivations and aspirations, my previous employments will in all likelihood be judged harshly. But I will relate my experiences just the same, for those readers who know my soul will read them with understanding and sympathy, while the opinions of strangers interest me not.

In the year 18– I left my ancestral home and took up studies at a distant and somewhat obscure university. What promise prevailed in those joyous years! I was by no means a wealthy man, but the freedom I enjoyed living on my own offered greater opportunities than any amount of money had I remained under my father’s thumb. It wasn’t merely the obvious indulgences like ales and females, but the simple pleasures of keeping my own hours and speaking my own mind afforded a theretofore unknown delectation. There were of course the tiresome constraints of university classes, but these I minimized by the careful selection of irrelevant courses in politics and government taught by undemanding professors.

For two years I had successfully avoided serious study, when my friend Hargrove convinced me to take a course from an eccentric professor of physiology. “Old Prof. Glauben is an odd bird, Fenwick, but he’s entertaining. He doesn’t lecture so much as he rhapsodizes. He doesn’t expect much of us students in the way of effort, unless you consider observing his dissections and galvanic demonstrations to be work. Join me in this course, Fenwick; it will provide great sport!”

So it was that I began my first study in the medical sciences. Dr. Ludwig Glauben was as queer as Hargrove had promised, and more so. His lectures explaining cells, microbes, and the like were conventional enough, but he would occasionally veer from the subject at hand and animatedly rail against the university, the political leadership, and even the Church. These diatribes could last for half of his disquisition, and often he would lapse into his native German, with which only a small minority of the class had any meaningful faculty.

It was whispered that Prof. Glauben harbored a fixation on the subject of cellular damage, with an eye toward correcting it and conquering death itself. As the elderly professor became more aged, this fixation grew into an obsession. More than once he remarked to the assembled class that all of us were, to varying degrees, proceeding through the process of dying.  And each time he made this observation he would pause and then archly add, “und that process vill reach its inevitable conclusion…unless someone does someseeng about it.”

I didn’t pay much regard to Prof. Glauben’s fixation on cheating death until one bleak afternoon in November. All the students were conducting galvanic experiments on pig foetuses, and Prof. Glauben walked among us, observing our efforts. He paused at my experimentation table, studying the apparatus I had assembled and the technique I employed. “Mr. Venwick, your apparatus is imaginative und your hand is steady. Ich bin beeindruckt. Please to come by mein office this afternoon; I have ein proposition for you.” Naturally I was flattered. And immediately after I’d cleaned my experimentation table and put away the equipment, I hastened to Prof. Glauben’s office on the third floor of an ancient Gothic building on the edge of the campus. I found him at his desk writing in a large folio book by the dim light of an oil lamp. He raised his head the moment I appeared at his open door. “Ah, Venwick! You come as I asked. I am in need of ein neuer Assistent, and I am convinced that you would serve zhat role most admirably.” He made no direct invitation or question of any kind, but he looked at me with an expectant visage that left little opportunity for discountenance. I told him I would be honored to serve in such a capacity, and he brightened. “Gut! Ve shall begin amMontag.”

PART 2 WILL APPEAR ON WEDNESDAY

Ghost stories · Halloween

A Halloween Serial

No, not that kind of serial…

After observing the success of serial podcasts (including the eponymous “Serial” podcast put out by NPR), I figured I’d try my hand at a serial for Halloween. My inspiration, though, was less the true-crime story of Adnan Syed, but rather Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” which, as you surely know, is a Sherlock Holmes tale that was serialized in The Strand magazine in 1901 and 1902.

My story is divided into 13 parts, which will appear as blog posts throughout the month of October on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. So the story itself will begin tomorrow (Monday).

But for today, here’s an excerpt from “The Hound of the Baskervilles” that should give you a flavor of the genre:

The company had come to a halt, more sober men, as you may guess, than when they started. The most of them would by no means advance, but three of them, the boldest, or it may be the most drunken, rode forward down the goyal. Now, it opened into a broad space in which stood two of those great stones, still to be seen there, which were set by certain forgotten peoples in the days of old. The moon was shining bright upon the clearing, and there in the centre lay the unhappy maid where she had fallen, dead of fear and of fatigue. But it was not the sight of her body, nor yet was it that of the body of Hugo Baskerville lying near her, which raised the hair upon the heads of these three dare-devil roysterers, but it was that, standing over Hugo, and plucking at his throat, there stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon. And even as they looked the thing tore the throat out of Hugo Baskerville, on which, as it turned its blazing eyes and dripping jaws upon them, the three shrieked with fear and rode for dear life, still screaming, across the moor. One, it is said, died that very night of what he had seen, and the other twain were but broken men for the rest of their days.

I don’t profess to be an Arthur Conan Doyle, but I do hope you enjoy my own literary effort that begins unfolding tomorrow. Tell your friends! And have them sign up for the blog at http://www.waytrips.travel.blog

Until tomorrow then.

sdb

Ghost stories · Halloween

It’s the most wonderful time of the year….

It’s only two weeks until October begins! And you know what that means….

It means that soon this blog will once again be turned over to a month-long Halloween extravaganza.

Loyal readers will recall past themes: 31 poses of Mr. Spookybones,

a sampling of 31 different Halloween treats,

a review of 31 Frankenstein movies,

and a disastrous attempt to pour 31 different Halloween cocktails.

This year I have planned something that’s quite different and, I think, highly entertaining. I can’t reveal details at this point, but let’s just say that you should cancel all your October engagements and set aside the month to dutifully follow this blog. And you should also spread the word to your family, friends, and parole officers. Just tell them to direct their browsers to http://www.waytrips.travel.blog starting on October 1. Remember, “If you dig Halloween, then this blog must be seen!”

OK, OK–I’ll give you one hint. Every year in October, General Mills re-releases their retro breakfast foods named Frankenberry and Count Chocula. Ponder that a bit.

Scary indeed!

I’ll see you all on October 1….if you dare!