The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Second version. Read with Brent Woodfill. Brent is an archaeologist who specializes in ancient Maya cave complexes of Guatemala and the Yucatán. Actually, I was full drunk. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Dialogue Between a Priest and a Dying Man” Marquis de Sade translated from the French PRIEST – Come to this the fatal hour when at last from the eyes of deluded man the scales must fall away, and be shown the cruel picture of his errors and his vices – say, my son, do you not repent the host of sins unto which you were led by weakness and human frailty? DYING MAN – Yes, my friend, I do repent. PRIEST – Rejoice then in these pangs of remorse, during the brief space remaining to you profit therefrom to obtain Heaven’s general absolution for your sins, and be mindful of it, only through the mediation of the Most Holy Sacrament of penance will you be granted it by the Eternal. DYING MAN – I do not understand you, any more than you have understood me. PRIEST – Eh? DYING MAN – I told you that I repented. PRIEST – I heard you say it. DYING MAN – Yes, but without understanding it. PRIEST – My interpretation – DYING MAN – Hold. I shall give you mine. By Nature created, created with very keen tastes, with very strong passions; placed on this earth for the sole purpose of yielding to them and satisfying them, and these effects of my creation being naught but necessities directly relating to Nature’s fundamental designs or, if you prefer, naught but essential derivatives proceeding from her intentions in my regard, all in accordance with her laws, I repent not having acknowledged her omnipotence as fully as I might have done, I am only sorry for the modest use I made of the faculties (criminal in your view, perfectly ordinary in mine) she gave me to serve her; I did sometimes resist her, I repent it. Misled by your absurd doctrines, with them for arms I mindlessly challenged the desires instilled in me by a much diviner inspiration, and thereof do I repent: I only plucked an occasional flower when I might have gathered an ample harvest of fruit – such are the just grounds for the regrets I have, do me the honor of considering me incapable of harboring any others. PRIEST – Lo! where your fallacies take you, to what pass are you brought by your sophistries! To created being you ascribe all the Creator’s power, and those unlucky penchants which have led you astray, ah! do you not see they are merely the products of corrupted nature, to which you attribute omnipotence? DYING MAN – Friend – it looks to me as though your dialectic were as false as your thinking. Pray straighten your arguing or else leave me to die in peace. What do you mean by Creator, and what do you mean by corrupted nature? PRIEST – The Creator is the master of the universe, ‘tis He who has wrought everything, everything created, and who maintains it all through the mere fact of His omnipotence. DYING MAN – An impressive figure indeed. Tell me now why this so very formidable fellow did nevertheless, as you would have it, create a corrupted nature? PRIEST – What glory would men ever have, had not God left them free will; and in the enjoyment thereof, what merit could come to them, were there not on earth the possibility of doing good and that of avoiding evil? DYING MAN – And so your god bungled his work deliberately, in order to tempt or test his creature – did he then not know, did he then not doubt what the result would be? PRIEST – He knew it undoubtedly but, once again, he wished to leave man the merit of choice. DYING MAN – And to what purpose, since from the outset he knew the course affairs would take and since, all-mighty as you tell me he is, he had but to make his creature choose as suited him? PRIEST – Who is there can penetrate God’s vast and infinite designs regarding man,

“An interesting, well-reasoned argument for atheism,” as Brent describes this piece. Read with Brent Woodfill. Brent is an archaeologist who specializes in ancient Maya cave complexes of Guatemala and the Yucatán. We were drinking when we read these. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Dialogue Between a Priest and a Dying Man” Marquis de Sade translated from the French PRIEST – Come to this the fatal hour when at last from the eyes of deluded man the scales must fall away, and be shown the cruel picture of his errors and his vices – say, my son, do you not repent the host of sins unto which you were led by weakness and human frailty? DYING MAN – Yes, my friend, I do repent. PRIEST – Rejoice then in these pangs of remorse, during the brief space remaining to you profit therefrom to obtain Heaven’s general absolution for your sins, and be mindful of it, only through the mediation of the Most Holy Sacrament of penance will you be granted it by the Eternal. DYING MAN – I do not understand you, any more than you have understood me. PRIEST – Eh? DYING MAN – I told you that I repented. PRIEST – I heard you say it. DYING MAN – Yes, but without understanding it. PRIEST – My interpretation – DYING MAN – Hold. I shall give you mine. By Nature created, created with very keen tastes, with very strong passions; placed on this earth for the sole purpose of yielding to them and satisfying them, and these effects of my creation being naught but necessities directly relating to Nature’s fundamental designs or, if you prefer, naught but essential derivatives proceeding from her intentions in my regard, all in accordance with her laws, I repent not having acknowledged her omnipotence as fully as I might have done, I am only sorry for the modest use I made of the faculties (criminal in your view, perfectly ordinary in mine) she gave me to serve her; I did sometimes resist her, I repent it. Misled by your absurd doctrines, with them for arms I mindlessly challenged the desires instilled in me by a much diviner inspiration, and thereof do I repent: I only plucked an occasional flower when I might have gathered an ample harvest of fruit – such are the just grounds for the regrets I have, do me the honor of considering me incapable of harboring any others. PRIEST – Lo! where your fallacies take you, to what pass are you brought by your sophistries! To created being you ascribe all the Creator’s power, and those unlucky penchants which have led you astray, ah! do you not see they are merely the products of corrupted nature, to which you attribute omnipotence? DYING MAN – Friend – it looks to me as though your dialectic were as false as your thinking. Pray straighten your arguing or else leave me to die in peace. What do you mean by Creator, and what do you mean by corrupted nature? PRIEST – The Creator is the master of the universe, ‘tis He who has wrought everything, everything created, and who maintains it all through the mere fact of His omnipotence. DYING MAN – An impressive figure indeed. Tell me now why this so very formidable fellow did nevertheless, as you would have it, create a corrupted nature? PRIEST – What glory would men ever have, had not God left them free will; and in the enjoyment thereof, what merit could come to them, were there not on earth the possibility of doing good and that of avoiding evil? DYING MAN – And so your god bungled his work deliberately, in order to tempt or test his creature – did he then not know, did he then not doubt what the result would be? PRIEST – He knew it undoubtedly but, once again, he wished to leave man the merit of choice. DYING MAN – And to what purpose, since from the outset he knew the course affairs would take and since, all-mighty as you tell me he is, he had but to make his creature choose as suited him?

This is the Poe you have been looking for. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Dream-Land” Edgar Allan Poe By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named Night, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule— From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space—out of Time. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters—lone and dead,— Their still waters—still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,— Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,— By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,— By the grey woods,—by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,— By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,— By each spot the most unholy— In each nook most melancholy,— There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past— Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by— White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven. For the heart whose woes are legion ‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region— For the spirit that walks in shadow ‘Tis—oh ’tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not—dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. 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.

Influential weird fiction. The scariest thing about ghosts is that you might become one. ⁓The Voice before the Void “An Inhabitant of Carcosa” Ambrose Bierce For there be divers sorts of death – some wherein the body remaineth; and in some it vanisheth quite away with the spirit. This commonly occurreth only in solitude (such is God’s will) and, none seeing the end, we say the man is lost, or gone on a long journey – which indeed he hath; but sometimes it hath happened in sight of many, as abundant testimony showeth. In one kind of death the spirit also dieth, and this it hath been known to do while yet the body was in vigor for many years. Sometimes, as is veritably attested, it dieth with the body, but after a season is raised up again in that place where the body did decay. Pondering these words of Hali (whom God rest) and questioning their full meaning, as one who, having an intimation, yet doubts if there be not something behind, other than that which he has discerned, I noted not whither I had strayed until a sudden chill wind striking my face revived in me a sense of my surroundings. I observed with astonishment that everything seemed unfamiliar. On every side of me stretched a bleak and desolate expanse of plain, covered with a tall overgrowth of sere grass, which rustled and whistled in the autumn wind with heaven knows what mysterious and disquieting suggestion. Protruded at long intervals above it, stood strangely shaped and somber-colored rocks, which seemed to have an understanding with one another and to exchange looks of uncomfortable significance, as if they had reared their heads to watch the issue of some foreseen event. A few blasted trees here and there appeared as leaders in this malevolent conspiracy of silent expectation. The day, I thought, must be far advanced, though the sun was invisible; and although sensible that the air was raw and chill my consciousness of that fact was rather mental than physical – I had no feeling of discomfort. Over all the dismal landscape a canopy of low, lead-colored clouds hung like a visible curse. In all this there were a menace and a portent – a hint of evil, an intimation of doom. Bird, beast, or insect there was none. The wind sighed in the bare branches of the dead trees and the gray grass bent to whisper its dread secret to the earth; but no other sound nor motion broke the awful repose of that dismal place. I observed in the herbage a number of weather-worn stones, evidently shaped with tools. They were broken, covered with moss and half sunken in the earth. Some lay prostrate, some leaned at various angles, none was vertical. They were obviously headstones of graves, though the graves themselves no longer existed as either mounds or depressions; the years had leveled all. Scattered here and there, more massive blocks showed where some pompous tomb or ambitious monument had once flung its feeble defiance at oblivion. So old seemed these relics, these vestiges of vanity and memorials of affection and piety, so battered and worn and stained – so neglected, deserted, forgotten the place, that I could not help thinking myself the discoverer of the burial-ground of a prehistoric race of men whose very name was long extinct. Filled with these reflections, I was for some time heedless of the sequence of my own experiences, but soon I thought, “How came I hither?” A moment’s reflection seemed to make this all clear and explain at the same time, though in a disquieting way, the singular character with which my fancy had invested all that I saw or heard. I was ill. I remembered now that I had been prostrated by a sudden fever, and that my family had told me that in my periods of delirium I had constantly cried out for liberty and air, and had been held in bed to prevent my escape out-of-doors. Now I had eluded the vigilance of my attendants and had wandered hither to – to...

Pop-culture cult-hero and legitimate science-hero Tesla reveals that he received electrical messages from, he believes, outer space. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Talking with the Planets” Nikola Tesla Collier’s Weekly Editor’s Note.–Mr. Nikola Tesla has accomplished some marvellous results in electrical discoveries. Now, with the dawn of the new century, he announces an achievement which will amaze the entire universe, and which eclipses the wildest dream of the most visionary scientist. He has received communication, he asserts, from out the great void of space; a call from the inhabitants of Mars, or Venus, or some other sister planet! And, furthermore, noted scientists, like Sir Norman Lockyer are disposed to agree with Mr. Tesla in his startling deductions. Mr. Tesla has not only discovered many important principles, but most of his inventions are in practical use; notably in the harnessing of the Titanic forces of Niagara Falls, and the discovery of a new light by means of a vacuum tube. He has, he declares, solved the problem of telegraphing without wires or artificial conductors of any sort, using the earth as his medium. By means of this principle he expects to be able to send messages under the ocean, and to any distance on the earth’s surface. Interplanetary communication has interested him for years, and he sees no reason why we should not soon be within talking distance of Mars or of all worlds in the solar system that may be tenanted by intelligent beings. At the request of Collier’s Weekly, Mr. Tesla presents herewith a frank statement of what he expects to accomplish and how he hopes to establish communication with the planets. The idea of communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds is an old one. But for ages it has been regarded merely as a poet’s dream, forever unrealizable. And yet, with the invention and perfection of the telescope and the ever-widening knowledge of the heavens, its hold upon our imagination has been increased, and the scientific achievements during the latter part of the nineteenth century, together with the development of the tendency toward the nature ideal of Goethe, have intensified it to such a degree that it seems as if it were destined to become the dominating idea of the century that has just begun. The desire to know something of our neighbors in the immense depths of space does not spring from idle curiosity nor from thirst for knowledge, but from a deeper cause, and it is a feeling firmly rooted in the heart of every human being capable of thinking at all. Whence, then, does it come? Who knows? Who can assign limits to the subtlety of nature’s influences? Perhaps, if we could clearly perceive all the intricate mechanism of the glorious spectacle that is continually unfolding before us, and could, also, trace this desire to its distant origin, we might find it in the sorrowful vibrations of the earth which began when it parted from its celestial parent. But in this age of reason it is not astonishing to find persons who scoff at the very thought of effecting communication with a planet. First of all, the argument is made that there is only a small probability of other planets being inhabited at all. This argument has never appealed to me. In the solar system, there seem to be only two planets — Venus and Mars — capable of sustaining life such as ours: but this does not mean that there might not be on all of them some other forms of life. Chemical processes may be maintained without the aid of oxygen, and it is still a question whether chemical processes are absolutely necessary to the sustenance of organised beings. My idea is that the development of life must lead to forms of existence that will be possible with...

Edgar Allan Poe’s Birthday Special: All great and dark. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Dark romanticism” Wikipedia Dark romanticism (often conflated with Gothicism or called American romanticism) is a literary subgenre centered on the writers Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Herman Melville. As opposed to the perfectionist beliefs of Transcendentalism, the Dark Romantics emphasized human fallibility and proneness to sin and self-destruction, as well as the difficulties inherent in attempts at social reform. 1. Characteristics G.R. Thompson stressed that in opposition to the optimism of figures like Ralph Waldo Emerson, “the Dark Romantics adapted images of anthropomorphized evil in the form of Satan, devils, ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and ghouls,” as more telling guides to man’s inherent nature. Thompson sums up the characteristics of the subgenre, writing: “Fallen man’s inability fully to comprehend haunting reminders of another, supernatural realm that yet seemed not to exist, the constant perplexity of inexplicable and vastly metaphysical phenomena, a propensity for seemingly perverse or evil moral choices that had no firm or fixed measure or rule, and a sense of nameless guilt combined with a suspicion the external world was a delusive projection of the mind–these were major elements in the vision of man the Dark Romantics opposed to the mainstream of Romantic thought.” 2. Wider movements While primarily associated with New England writers, elements of dark romanticism were a perennial possibility within the broader international movement Romanticism, in both literature and art. British authors such as Lord Byron, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Mary Shelley, and John William Polidori, who are frequently linked to Gothic fiction, are also sometimes referred to as Dark Romantics. Their tales and poems commonly feature outcasts from society, personal torment, and uncertainty as to whether the nature of man will bring him salvation or destruction. Dark romanticism was also particularly important in Germany, with writers such as E.T.A. Hoffmann, Christian Heinrich Spiess, and Ludwig Tieck – though their emphasis on existential alienation, the demonic in sex, and the uncanny was offset at the same time by the more homely cult of Biedermeier. 3. Later influence Dark romanticism of the New England school found a more naturalistic development toward the end of the century in the works of Edith Wharton and Henry James, where ghosts became emblems of psychological events. Twentieth-century existential novels have also been linked to dark romanticism, as too have the sword and sorcery novels of Robert E. Howard. 4. Criticism Northrop Frye pointed to the dangers of the demonic myth-making of the dark side of romanticism as seeming “to provide all the disadvantages of superstition with none of the advantages of religion.”

Edgar Allan Poe’s Birthday Special: The apotheosis of the human condition. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Conqueror Worm” Edgar Allan Poe Lo! ’tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid, and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Winter Special: We are deep in January. ⁓The Voice before the Void “If Only” Nina Farley Wishek If only the snow-drifts were melted away, And roses were budding and nodding and gay; If grasses were growing more vivid each day, And the time were only the season of May; I think it would help me–my grief might allay. If only the snow-drifts were melted away. If only the flowers were bright in the land, And children were playing in shimmering sand, So happy and care-free, a rollicking band– I think I might better my sorrow withstand, And walk with it bravely, hand laid within hand, If only the flowers were bright in the land.

Nobel Prize-winning weird fiction of a secret midnight rite. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Sorceror” Grazia Deledda translated from the Italian They lived at the further end of the little village, one of the strongest and most picturesque villages among the mountains of Logudoro; indeed, their dark and tiny cabin was actually the last of all, and it looked straight down the mountain-side, overgrown with thick clumps of broom and mastic. From her spinning-wheel in the doorway, Saveria could look upon the sea in the far distance, on the extreme horizon, where it blended with the sky that in summer was of platinum and in winter massed with clouds. Sewing beside the window, she could look down upon a measureless succession of valleys stretching away to the foot of the mountains; and she could scent the warm fragrance of the golden harvests, billowing in the sun, and listen to the downward leaps of the dashing stream as it raced between the crags and tangled undergrowth of the mountain-side. In that dark and tiny home, its roof covered with red and yellow moss, and overshadowed by an ancient arbor, through many a gala day of azure skies and silent limitless horizons, Saveria had led, for two years, the happiest life imaginable, beside the young husband with big, ardent eyes, whose lips were like the berries of the heather amid which he led his flocks, the only wealth he had. He too, from the hour that he had married the little lady of his shepherd dreams, had lived most happily; but now at the end of these two perfect years, a light cloud had appeared upon the serene sky of their existence. Saveria had given him no offspring, nor was there any prospect that she would do so. He had so often dreamed of a fine little rascal, as brown as himself, who, as soon as he had mastered his legs, would follow him up and down, through wood and valley, helping him in the weary work of shepherding; a fine little rascal who, later growing into a stalwart lad, the joy and hope of the old folk, would marry and in his turn transmit their name and the descendants of their flocks to another, and so on and so on, through centuries upon centuries! All of Antonio’s ancestors had been shepherds; and it was his dream to pass that honor on; but how was he to do so unless an heir should come? Every resource had been tried; vows, nine days’ prayers, pilgrimages. Antonio went on foot, hatless and unshod, all the way the celebrated sanctuary of the Madonna of Miracles, at Bitti, and paid for a procession and a solemn mass, and promised to give as many pounds of decorated candles to the Madonna as the future infant should happen to weigh. But it was all of no use. Saveria remained slender and charming as ever in her yellow corsage and embroidered skirt, and the home was not yet blessed with the shrill cry of the dreamed-for child, nor with the mother’s lullaby accompanied by the creaking of the cradle. It was a very sad situation. They had already abandoned the last hope, when one day a friend of Saveria came to see her, and after the first greetings, said to her, making a profound mystery of it: “So you really didn’t know, Comare Sabé? Peppe Longu has been telling me that the reason you and your husband have no children is because–” “Because what?” asked Saveria, eagerly, with her eyes at their widest. “Why, because–” the other continued, lowering her voice. “The Lord preserve us, but you know quite well that Peppe is a sorcerer of the first quality, at least so everyone says, — and he himself has told me that the reason you have no children is because of one of his magics!” “Libera nos, Domine!” exclaimed Saveria, laughing and making the sign of the cross. Like all the young women of the village, she was superstitious and believed in magic, and on one occasion she had even seen, with her own eyes, a white phantom wandering through the mountains: but that Peppe Lo...

Out of this world. A report by Bob Pratt that provides information about this document ⁓The Voice before the Void “Incident/Complaint Report” Commander, 44 Missile Security Squadron, Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota HELPING HAND (SECURITY VIOLATION) / COVERED WAGON (SECURITY VIOLATION) Site Lima 9 7 miles SW of Nisland, SD At 2059hrs., 16 Nov 77, A1C [Airman 1st Class] Samuel A. PHILLIPS, Lima Security Control, telephoned WSC [Wing Security Control] and reported an OZ [Outer Zone] alarm activation at L-9 and that Lima SAT [Security Alert Team] #1, A1C JENKINS & A1C Wayne E. RAEKE were dispatched. (Trip #62, ETA [Estimated Time of Arrival] 2135hrs.) At 2147hrs., A1C PHILLIPS telephoned WSC [Wing Security Control] and reported that the situation at L-9 had been upgraded to a COVERED WAGON per request of CAPT. Larry D. STOKES, FSO [Flight Security Officer]. Security Option II was initiated by WSC [Wing Security Control] and Base CSC [Central Security Control]. BAF (Backup Security Force) #1 & #2, were formed. At 2340hrs, 16 Nov 77, the following information was learned: Upon arrival (2132hrs) at site #L-9, LSAT [Lima Security Alert Team], JENKINS & RAEKE, dismounted the SAT [Security Alert Team] vehicle to make a check of the site fence line. At this time RAEKE observed a bright light shining vertically upwards from the rear of the fence line of L-9. (There is a small hill approximately 50 yards behind L-9) JENKINS stayed with the SAT [Security Alert Team] vehicle and RAEKE proceeded to the source of the light to investigate. As RAEKE approached the crest of the hill, he observed an individual dressed in a glowing green metallic uniform and wearing a helmet with visor. RAEKE immediately challenged the individual; however, the individual refused to stop and kept walking towards the rear fence line of L-9. RAEKE aimed his M-16 rifle at the intruder and ordered him to stop. The intruder turned towards RAEKE and aimed a object at RAEKE which emitted a bright flash of intense light. The flash of light struck RAEKE’S M-16 rifle, disintegrating the weapon and causing second and third degree burns to RAEKE’S hands. RAEKE immediately took cover and concealment and radioed the situation to JENKINS, who in turn radioed a 10-13 distress to Lima Control. JENKINS responded to RAEKE’S position and carried RAEKE back to the SAT [Security Alert Team] vehicle. JENKINS then returned to the rear fence line to stand guard. JENKINS observed two intruders dressed in the same uniforms, walk through the rear fence line of L-9. JENKINS challenged the two individuals but they refused to stop. JENKINS aimed and fired two rounds from his M-16 rifle. One bullet struck one intruder in the back and one bullet struck one intruder in the helmet. Both intruders fell to the ground; however, approximately 15 seconds later both returned to an upright position and fired several flashes of light at JENKINS. JENKINS took cover and the light missed JENKINS. The two intruders returned to the east side of the hill and disappeared. JENKINS followed the two and observed them go inside a saucer shaped object approximately 30′ in diameter and 20′ thick. The object emitted a glowing greenish light. Once the intruders were inside, the object climbed vertically upwards and disappeared over the Eastern horizon.

What can be quite so creepy as shadowy sheep-men… in your house? ⁓The Voice before the Void “Hexham Heads” Wikipedia The Hexham Heads were a pair of small stone heads, about 6 cm high, found in 1971 in the English town of Hexham. The heads became associated with alleged paranormal phenomena, and their exact origin is a point of controversy. The heads were originally dug up by two boys, Colin and Leslie Robson, who found them in a garden in 1971. After the discovery, the Robson family reported strange phenomena, with the heads allegedly being moved when no one was in the room and bottles being mysteriously thrown across rooms. The Dodd family next door also reported phenomena, with one boy’s hair pulled in the night and his mother Nelly seeing a half-man, half-sheep figure leaving the house shortly thereafter. The heads were subsequently given to Dr. Anne Ross, an expert in Celtic artefacts. According to Dr. Ross’s own account, she woke one morning and saw a part-animal, part-man figure walking out of the room; she followed it downstairs and saw it heading towards the direction of the kitchen, but then lost track of it. A few days later, her daughter Berenice told her that, after returning home from school, she saw a large, dark, werewolf-like figure on the stairs that jumped over the banisters and into a corridor before vanishing. Ross also reported the feeling of a cold presence, her study door bursting open with no apparent cause, and another apparent sighting of a dark figure. Knowing of Nelly Dodd’s experience, Dr. Ross equated all of these phenomena with the Hexham heads and the incidents allegedly stopped when she removed every Celtic head in her possession out of the house, along with the two Hexham heads. A man named Desmond Craigie reported that he was the creator of the heads, making them in 1956 for his daughter while he was living in the house later occupied by the Robson family, along with a third head which became damaged and had to be thrown away. Craigie, who worked for a company that dealt in concrete at the time he allegedly created the heads, made some replicas to demonstrate his claim. The original heads were analysed by Professor Dearman of the University of Newcastle, who concluded that the items had been moulded artificially rather than carved. The heads were presented to Dr. Don Robins, a chemist. He theorized that the heads contained a large amount of quartz, which worked as a basic computer and played back images of the past, allowing the heads to perform seemingly paranormal actions. The original heads were later lost; their current whereabouts are unknown.

Chillundity by the Queen of Romania. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Kiss of Death (The Inexorable)” Carmen Sylva translated from the German by Helen Zimmern The sea was running high and was black as night. Only the crests of the endless waves glistened in the lightning that flashed across the heavens. The storm was raging towards the land and threw the ships upon the rocks, so that hundreds of human lives perished in the ocean. Then of a sudden it seemed as though the storm grew entangled among the cliffs on the shore, and condensed into a form that reared up tall and pale against the mighty heavens. It was a grave youth with unflinching black eyes, who leaned upon a sickle and held an hour-glass in his hand. He gazed across the waters with an indifferent air, as though the wrecks, and corpses beneath, concerned him as little as the sand in his glass, which trickled down evenly, steadily, regardless of the blustering of the storm, or the sudden quiet. There was something iron-like in the youth’s features, in his eyes there lay a power that destroyed all things they looked upon; even the ocean seemed to be numbed by them, and to grow silent with fear. Day dawned, and flooded with roseate hues from the rising sun. Sorrow came stepping over the cliffs. She stretched out her arms to the youth. “Brother,” she cried, “brother, what have you done! You have raged terribly, and did not hear how I called you, ay, cried for you so eagerly.” “I heard nothing,” said Death. “I felt myself too quiet, so I roused myself. A few vessels were lost in the act.” “O pitiless one!” said Sorrow. “I do not comprehend your grief,” answered the somber youth; and turning from her, he walked away. He paced silently through the sunny world; it blew chill around him, and wherever he paused a silent shudder seized all things. He went by a house and looked in. There lay a man tortured with pain who beheld him and called him imploringly; but he only shook his head and went further. A lovely young woman stood in her garden surrounded by joyous children, her husband had just stepped up to her and kissed her. The pale wanderer laid his hand on her shoulder and beckoned to her; she followed him a few steps and sank lifeless to the ground. Then he came to a forest in which a pale man was pacing hither and thither, tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth, crying— “Dishonored, dishonored!” He saw the passer-by with the somber eyes, saw him lift his white hand and point to a tree. The despairing man understood the signal. He passed a group of playing children, and softly mowed the grass between their feet with his scythe. Then they bowed their heads like broken flowerets. There an old man sat in an armchair, and was enjoying the warming sunbeams. Death raised his hour-glass and held it before his eyes—the last sands were running down. He halted by a stagnant pool. No water could be seen, for it was covered with green. The rushes quivered under his cold breath, and the toad that had been croaking grew silent. Then the reeds rustled and a lovely woman drew close to the water, took something from a handkerchief and threw it down. It sank with a faint gurgle into the depths. Twice she made a movement as though she would spring in after it, but each time Death extended his scythe towards her, and she fled terrified. He lifted his hour-glass in which the sand ran down quickly, hurriedly. Then something white came up between the green water-plants, and with wide-open eyes a little corpse appeared, gazing at the running sand. Then Death went further, and across a battle-field, where he mowed down many fine men. At last he came to a lovely valley in which autumn was reigning in all its glory. The trees were bathed in gleaming gold, the sward beneath was a luscious green,

Winter Solstice Special: Merry direful winter. ⁓The Voice before the Void “Snow-Flakes” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.

An old poem about a crow. / The coolest poem ever/yet written in the English language. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Raven” Edgar Allan Poe Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; ‘Tis the wind and nothing more.” Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.” But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered

Tremendous literary history. ⁓The Voice before the Void “The Raven” Wikipedia “The Raven” is a narrative poem by American writer Edgar Allan Poe. First published in January 1845, the poem is often noted for its musicality, stylized language, and supernatural atmosphere. It tells of a talking raven’s mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man’s slow fall into madness. The lover, often identified as being a student, is lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore. Sitting on a bust of Pallas, the raven seems to further instigate his distress with its constant repetition of the word “Nevermore”. The poem makes use of a number of folk and classical references. Poe claimed to have written the poem very logically and methodically, intending to create a poem that would appeal to both critical and popular tastes, as he explained in his 1846 follow-up essay “The Philosophy of Composition”. The poem was inspired in part by a talking raven in the novel Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of ‘Eighty by Charles Dickens. Poe borrows the complex rhythm and meter of Elizabeth Barrett’s poem “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”, and makes use of internal rhyme as well as alliteration throughout. “The Raven” was first attributed to Poe in print in the New York Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845. Its publication made Poe widely popular in his lifetime, although it did not bring him much financial success. Soon reprinted, parodied, and illustrated, critical opinion is divided as to the poem’s status, but it nevertheless remains one of the most famous poems ever written. 1. Synopsis “The Raven” follows an unnamed narrator on a dreary night in December who sits reading “forgotten lore” as a way to forget the loss of his love, Lenore. A “rapping at [his] chamber door” reveals nothing, but excites his soul to “burning”. A similar rapping, slightly louder, is heard at his window. When he goes to investigate, a raven steps into his chamber. Paying no attention to the man, the raven perches on a bust of Pallas above the door. Amused by the raven’s comically serious disposition, the man asks that the bird tell him its name. The raven’s only answer is “Nevermore”. The narrator is surprised that the raven can talk, though at this point it has said nothing further. The narrator remarks to himself that his “friend” the raven will soon fly out of his life, just as “other friends have flown before” along with his previous hopes. As if answering, the raven responds again with “Nevermore”. The narrator reasons that the bird learned the word “Nevermore” from some “unhappy master” and that it is the only word it knows. Even so, the narrator pulls his chair directly in front of the raven, determined to learn more about it. He thinks for a moment in silence, and his mind wanders back to his lost Lenore. He thinks the air grows denser and feels the presence of angels, and wonders if God is sending him a sign that he is to forget Lenore. The bird again replies in the negative, suggesting that he can never be free of his memories. The narrator becomes angry, calling the raven a “thing of evil” and a “prophet”. Finally, he asks the raven whether he will be reunited with Lenore in Heaven. When the raven responds with its typical “Nevermore”, he is enraged, and, calling it a liar, commands the bird to return to the “Plutonian shore”,—but it does not move. Presumably at the time of the poem’s recitation by the narrator, the raven “still is sitting” on the bust of Pallas. The narrator’s final admission is that his soul is trapped beneath the raven’s shadow and shall be lifted “Nevermore”.