“By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.”–Edgar Allan Poe (Dream-Land)
#bestwerewolfstories #robertehoward #werewolf #hwa #horrorwriting #writingcommunity #authortube #booktube #instahorror #horrorgram #horror #wolfman #demontour “FEAR? Your pardon, Messieurs, but the meaning of fear you do not know. No, I hold to my statement. You are soldiers, adventurers. You have known the charges of regiments of dragoons, the frenzy of wind-lashed seas. But fear, real hair-raising, horror-crawling […]
“White-hot agony lanced through his breast, throbbed in his eyeballs. His head seemed to be swelling, growing larger and larger; and suddenly he heard the exultant squealing of the rats. He began to scream insanely but could not drown them out. For a moment he thrashed about hysterically within his narrow prison, and then he was quiet, gasping for air. His eyelids closed, his blackened tongue protruded, and he sank down into the blackness of death with the mad squealing of the rats dinning in his ears.”–Henry Kuttner (The Graveyard Rats)
“And now, the golden one was gone and in its place was the bloated, swollen obscenity of a thing long-drowned and dead, risen from the slime and to that slime returning.” Edgar Allan Poe & Robert Bloch (The Lighthouse)
“If a WEREWOLF is slain as a MAN, then his half soul will haunt his slayer forever!–Robert E. Howard (In the Forest of Villefere)
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;”–Walter de la Mare (The Listeners)
“For, staring down at himself, Roger Talquist had seen the face and the figure of the wood god Pan!”–Robert Bloch (The Seal of the Satyr)
“WRAPT in the veil of time’s unbroken gloom,
Obscure as death and silent as the tomb,
Where cold oblivion holds her dusky reign,
Frowns the dark pile on Sarum’s lonely plain.”–T. S. Salmon (Stonehenge)
“How savage, fierce and grim!
His bones are bleached and white.
But what is death to him?
He grins as if to bite.
He mocks the fate
That bade, ”Begone.”
There’s fierceness stamped
In ev’ry bone.
Let silence settle from the midnight sky—
Such silence as you’ve broken with your cry;
The bleak wind howl, unto the ut’most verge
Of this mighty waste, thy fitting dirge.”–Alexander Lawrence Posey (On Viewing the Skull and Bones of a Wolf)
“Suppose Jack the Ripper didn’t grow old? Suppose he is still a young man today?
“It’s a crazy theory, I grant you,” he said. “All the theories about the Ripper are crazy. The idea that he was a doctor. Or a maniac. Or a woman. The reasons advanced for such beliefs are flimsy enough. There’s nothing to go by. So why should my notion be any worse?”
“Because people grow older,” I reasoned with him. “Doctors, maniacs, and women alike.”
–Robert Bloch (Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper)
“Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.”–Edgar Allan Poe (Spirits of the Dead)
“The cold, heavy cloth hung draped about Henderson’s shoulders. The faint odor rose mustily in his nostrils as he stepped back and surveyed himself in the mirror. The lamp was poor, but Henderson saw that the cloak effected a striking transformation in his appearance. His long face seemed thinner, his eyes were accentuated in the facial pallor heightened by the somber cloak he wore.–Robert Bloch (The Cloak)
His lips were writhed in a horrid grin like a fiend’s on Satan’s coals,
And the men that looked on his face that day, his stare still haunts their souls.
Such was the fate of Adam Brand, a strange, unearthly fate;
For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man’s hate.–Robert E. Howard (Dead Man’s Hate)
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Haunted Houses)
“Among the brackens, on the brae,
Between her and the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up and gae a croon:
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool!
Near lav’rock-height she jumpit;
but mist a fit, and in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that night.”–Robert Burns (Halloween)
Jeffrey LeBlanc 