Dreadful Thoughts Story Club 16: Pigeons from Hell
Right. It has been pointed out to me, by morbid sorts, that the last two authors this club has fixed its gorgon-like gaze on both exited our weary world by means of suicide. Charlotte Perkins Gilman deciding on an overdose of chloroform. Robert E. Howard (the author of tonight's tale) choosing the more contemporary option of shooting himself in his car.
While this might seem to indicate a certain perverse obsession with self-destruction on my part, I refer you to our the Dreadful Thoughts record book. Therein we find that out of sixteen, horror-fixated, authors we have but three suicides: the pair listed above, and poor old John Polidori (who, fed up to the gills with show-off Byron getting all the credit, tore into the prussic acid). That's only 18.75%…proving that, by and large, our chosen folk are mostly jovial types who cartwheel merrily through sylvan glades (chuckling as they go).
So…um…where was I? Oh, yes. Robert E. Howard. "Pigeons From Hell". The bed-wettingly, scarifying thing we're actually here to talk about and all that.
Well, off you go. I've uncorked the cyanide-tinged Chardonnay. Be with you in a minute.
January 28, 2011
31 responses to Dreadful Thoughts Story Club 16: Pigeons from Hell
I’ll kick off. Like the idea of Griswell and Branner being vacationers who initially find the “antebellum” idea of the house, and the South itself, to be a charming old laugh. Griswell fantasising about a South that was “a sunny, lazy land washed by soft breezes laden with spice and warm blossoms, where life ran tranquilly to the rhythm of black folk singing in sunbathed cottonfields”.
They have, needless to say, several shades of shit kicked out of this patronising, twee attitude. ‘Tis like Wolf Creek.
There’s a nice vibe of breathless, terror-inspired paralysis in the air here too. Being unable to move, to cry out, watching things unfold in frozen horror. Reminded me of nights spent standing on the landing outside my childhood room, straining every muscle to try and make out creaking house sounds. Was that a foot on the stair? Heart thumping in chest. Afraid to move or swallow.
Er…it never turned out to be anything. Nobody was axe-murdered. So I feel slightly ashamed of my unfounded high-anxiety.
Hooooooooooooooooohhhh My god that was so scary!
at first the wordy wordy descriptiveness put me off.
But then I foolishly ran upstairs in the dark to the dark upstairs and had to fumble for light switches while thinking LALALALALALALA!
GReat twist, too.
Hi Jo, RE: The wordiness – I think you’re supposed to feel the narrator is slightly ridiculous and somewhat posh. Coming from New England. Shrieking and fleeing and growing hysterical while the solid and unfussy Sheriff approaches things with a methodical calm. Either that, or the wordiness reflects the influence of Lovecraft (the dark king of wordiness) on Howard.
Like the twist. The story is racially…complex. Bit dodgy possibly. But twist saves it from being a straightforward “dark revenge of weird tribal forces” type thing. Miss Celia is obviously one twisted sister. And the yellow face? Gaaarrggh!
Things crouching, particularly on stairs, terrify me. Also, the idea that while you only dimly see its shape and form, you realise that it is seeing you clearly. Staring, with inhuman malevolence, straight at you. Squatting. Or crouching. Yuk!
Speaking of dimly-seen things, the passage were the fleeing Griswell is pursued by a thing along the road is hideous.
Simultaneously reminds me of M. R. James, and a recurring nightmare I had as a child (here we go again) of being submerged in dark, dingy water and seeing the dim shape of a giant whale slowly materialise and come toward me out of the gloom.
Totally gargh.
So many garghy bits, but being drawn upstairs to the dark, lurking thing.. all so awful. and the bare footprints…
But they do keep referring to his pioneering forefathers, that help him bravely gird his loins.
Good lord, that’s awful. No wonder you’re preoccupied with the tales of grisliness and gore.
I agree about the crouching. I think my biggest one is something that’s not quite human. The idea of the idea of the wolf shape emerging in a man’s run, for instance…
Yes, bare footprints…with splayed toes. Why did that make it much worse?
Made her seem all crablike and bestial and shuffling and twisted! Gah!
Sorry, I want to discuss in more depth but am in the middle of a conversation I can’t leave… bad timing. Will chat at more length later!
Yes, the old liminal state. Neither one thing nor the other. Part this, part that. Seems to be a universal source of terror from what I can tell.
Bit similar to the fear of mannequins or ventriloquist’s dummies. Or dolls. They have the semblance of the human, the same form, but there’s something missing. They’re almost…but not quite…right. This missing thing, this absence is deeply freakifying.
The zuvembie has this in spades…on top of all the scuttling, whistling, staring and crouching. Gulp.
No worries. Chat will be open for 7 long days. Quite night tonight. Had a point to make about this vs “The Yellow Wallpaper” but will save it for later.
I really was captivated by it. I always hate you for making me read these things when I’m alone in the house after them
You’re right about that being the biggest source of fear, I think we discussed that before, about Freud identifying it – someone told me but I’ve forgotten the right term again.
We did, back in the dimly-lit (eek!) and distant past. It’s what Freud called das unheimliche – or “The Uncanny”, as it’s been translated into English. As always, with such feelings, the German sounds better (i.e. worse).
Ah, rats, I got stuck away. And now I have more work to do.
But hopefully more will develop through the week. Great story!
+1 on the looming underwater shape nightmare — gives me the serious jibblies.
What I liked most of all about this story is how fun it is. I’ve always been a little cold on Lovecraft — the wordiness, the dearth of money shots — but here, five minutes in you’re reading about a hatchet-wielding zombie with “gouts of blood” flowing out of a massive head wound. Which, like, yes.
Also: from now on I’m going to slot “Time means nothin’ to a zuvembie” into as many conversations as I possibly can.
I’m interested in the distinction between zombies and zuvembies — a cursory googlin’ just throws up some Marvel storylines. I Would Like To Know More.
Just keep your eye on your vengeful mulatto maid, Emordino.
Am sort of undecided on Lovecraft, even after reading a fair chunk of his stuff o’er the years. Think Howard is definitely more enjoyable (and effective) a pulp story writer. You got the feeling with Lovecraft that he was slightly ashamed of his forced involvement with the pulps. That he felt the need to transcend it with the hilarious wordiness and huge scale and scope. You don’t get that vibe from Howard at all. He seems entirely comfortable/content in this milieu. Cracking out well-told tales, stuffed with fun and gore and delicious ick. Not a hack, just a very competent and talented crafter of classy pulp.
This is the only reference to “zuvembies” I can recall coming across in spooky fiction, so I’d also like to know more. Er, of course this is where the badness starts. The need to no more. Poking our noses into things that don’t concern us. When will we ever learn?
Oh, and I also enjoyed the whole Gone With the Wind meets Night of the Living Dead vibe. The atmosphere of a post-Civil War South whose “splendour” has fallen into ruin and decay.
Blassenville Manor, and its inhabitants, slipping into madness and despair, while their slave/servants wander about, clinging to the house with nowhere to go.
Have been curious about this story ever since reading Stephen King’s ‘Danse Macabre’ some twenty-five years ago, writing principally about the adaptation of the story for a sixties’ t.v. series presented by Boris Karloff called ‘Thriller’, if memory serves. A quarter of a century of anticipation creates unwarranted and artificially-inflated expectations I know but still and all it is a cumbersome piece of work.
Any idea why the image of infernal pigeons should be foregrounded by the title when they are such a discreet presence in the story? Surely Mr. Howard should have called it ‘Balustrades of Blood’, given his fascination with the banisters of the staircase, (or simply the euphonious roll of the word itself)?
In any case, allowances for the restrictions of genre have to be made where pulp is concerned I suppose and there is a convincingly suffocating Southern Gothic atmosphere of fecundity mixed with fetor. The instability of the narrative structure whether intentional or not generates a curious ambiguity too. While we are led up the broken brick garden path for much of the story by the implication that the zuvembie is Joan, the revelation that the creature is actually Miss Celia seems to shatter the story into a collection of questionable testimonies from unreliable narrators. Can the sheriff’s assumption that Joan fed the Black Brew to Miss Celia be accepted as valid at all? It could be interpreted that the climactic revelation suggests that Miss Celia may have slouched out of the plague spot of the West Indies as a willing vector of voodoo. This plants us unsteadily in the ‘Heart of Darkness’. Are the horrors of the sealed room a manifestation of some atavistic evil inherent within a certain place, (and by implication, a certain race), or a consequence of the atrocities of colonialism? Any ideas? I admit, the story doesn’t offer much of a foundation to support such pretentious speculation on my part.
Oh, before I forget, what was the point you were going to make in comparison/contrast to ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’?
Apologies for rambling on.
Really, really enjoyed this one. Everything about it from the yellow-faced crouching figure, zombie and zuvembie(!), ‘bearded’ southern trees choking the already claustrophobic atmosphere…hidden chambers, voodoo, witchcraft, flopping body in the dark…secret chambers…this story has it all and it’s told at variety of paces: a lazy confused start followed by panic, another lull and then even more frenetic panic and a real sense of terror. Just wonderful! How have I not read any of this guy’s stuff before? Thank you Fústar, thank you greatly!
Might be completely arbitrary. Might be a nice (planned) mis-lead – creating inevitable expectations (and a certain goofy visual) that the story then cheekily side-steps. Doesn’t the sheriff claim that he’s never seen them, despite passing the manor countless times day and night? So perhaps they’re a “flag” – indicating that the horrors are home that night. Or they’re tulpas – produced/called forth by the right sort of impressionable/imaginative mind? Could explain the sheriff’s failure to see them.
Was musing on this myself. If the zuvembie had turned out to be Joan it would have been easier to paint the tale as a racist, Lovecraft-ian, horrors of darkest Africa/West Indies type job. Mess with the natives and their dark terror gods and be damned for all eternity etc.
The fact that it turns out to Miss Celia complicates things enjoyably and refreshingly. Of course, you could still read it as a tedious “revenge of the native” narrative for Celia’s brutal, sadistic treatment of her servants. But, as you say, it becomes harder and harder to know who/what to believe. Deliberate intent or just the unplanned consequence of the speed/looseness of pulp story-telling? Who knows?
Glad you enjoyed it. The elements you list sort of brings me back to the point I was going to make RE: “Pigeons” vs “The Yellow Wallpaper”. While it might be unfair to force an explicitly “pulp” tale to follow a considered slice of literary/psychological/political “horror” (if it even is horror), thought the compare and contrast might be enjoyable/illuminating.
They were (obviously) written for radically different audiences. Audiences with completely different needs, wants and expectations. “Pigeons” gives you the goods, gives you the gore, and gives you the gruesomeness. No “literary” pretensions. Just some tasty, high-quality, fun-stuffed “junk” (with some juicy thematic toppings). Not McDonald’s, exactly, more…er, Eddie Rocket’s? OK – I’ll leave this deeply strained metaphor go now.
In terms of discussing these texts, which is what DT is all about, “Yellow Wallpaper” invites the kind of critical reading that allows for groovy riffings on its thematic concerns. “Pigeons” (and its pulpy ilk) presents itself for consumption, does its job, and moves on (er, that sounds a bit digestive and faecal – sorry). You experience it, enjoy it (or not), and, maybe, ponder its effectiveness, but it doesn’t linger. It’s not designed to.
Hmmm, reading back on the above paragraph, I realise that I’m sort of second-guessing an imagined attitude! I don’t actually feel that way myself, at all. I love pulp/junk/cult/schlock s(ch)tuff…and I reckon there’s always plenty to be said about it.
There’s a point in there somewhere all the same…
You may be aware of this, but the excerpt from Mr. Howard’s correspondence featured on the link below might just absolve him from my shameful suspicions about his thematic intentions. It is probably worth noting that the phrase ‘barbarically handsome’ constitutes high praise in accordance with his eccentric, (misguided?), worldview.
http://www.robert-e-howard.org/Louinet/dwelling4a.htm#bohannon
Interesting linky!
Pigeons seem so pedestrian, don’t they? Not denizens of a liminal world at all. Where’s the vultures??
You know, I seem to remember at the birth of Dreadful Thoughts, there was a suggestion of people writing their own dreadfulness… did anyone actually pen something and find themselves too shy to say?
I didn’t, I hasten to add, not sure this is my mileu – Steampunk erotic romance is where it’s at for me at the moment!
@ Nam Citsale – “fine young animals“?! Christ on a bike. In fairness, he was writing to the pathologically racist Lovecraft…who probably masturbated guiltily to outrageous shit like that.
Nobody ever did. Not even I (who suggested it). Reluctance is, of course, perfectly understandable. Steampunk erotic romance? Bring it on!
Granted, my scant knowledge of Mr. Howard has been principally derived from Wikipedia within the last few hours, however, based on my ‘research’ I can confirm with unreserved doubt that he appears to have been the sort of character who would have denounced ancient Spartan society as an effete nanny-state. That said, with regard to his relationship with Mr. Lovecraft, I was reminded by a quote, (I forget from whom), of a compatriot of Enoch Powell’s who said that while he considered himself a fellow traveller of that most illustrious of racist Tory intellectuals, he thought it generally wise to disembark from the train before it hit the buffers. Similarly with Mr. Howard, in his own quaintly warped way, (and unlike, I assume, Mr. Lovecraft), he was possibly quite taken with what he interpreted as the ‘barbarity’ of certain ethnic and cultural groups, given his disdain for the effects of civilisation and consequent deification of the ‘noble savage’. The danger, I realise, is by accepting his terminology does one then permit arguments for acceptable levels of racism?
I’m taking this way too seriously, aren’t I?
We’re getting into “good AIDS”, “bad AIDS” territory here! But seriously, Howard may well have considered 20th Century Western “civilisation” a flaccid and wimpy thing, ruled over by decadent sissy bureaucrats that could do with a blast of primeval Conan juice. The feel of cold broadsword steel (wielded by a titan of the ancient world) would “man” those bastards right up. Happily, he seems to have had a fondness for Celtic warrior types, so that’s me off the hook at least (*dashes off to polish battleaxe*).
Anyway, Howard was clearly “a bit racist” (as someone in Fr. Ted might say). The fact that he wasn’t as brain-staggeringly racist as Mad-man Lovecraft doesn’t alter that (apparent) fact.
Such a thing is not possible. Here at least. I love it!