Talk to the Hand

More creepy beach sculptures. (h/t Goodshit)

We Need a Little Christmas

A Different Perspective

Who knew that there was such a thing as Polish Film Posters? Two examples:




More here. (h/t Goodshit)

Relax

Watch the sunrise. Or just close your eyes and breath.



(h/t Charlie Martin)

How to Hypnotize a Man

Click here and follow the instructions. Note! Decidedly NSFW (but still amusing).

Stand Like a Man and Give Some Back

Courtesy of Dirty Harry, I am reminded of how much I miss Deadwood and Ian McShane's portrayal of Al Swearengen. It's good advice and given in a manner that you won't forget.



Cross posted at Pajama Guys. Definitely NSFW (language).

Time to Decompress

When October Goes

Epilogue

The police came late that afternoon. They asked questions but voiced no suspicions. The ashes were still hot; they had not yet been raked. Louis answered their questions. They seemed satisfied. They spoke outside and he wore a hat. That was good. If they had seen his gray hair, they might have asked more questions. That would have been bad. He wore his gardening gloves, and that was good too. His hands were bloody and ruined.

He played solitaire that night until long after midnight.

He was just dealing a fresh hand when he heard the back door open.

What you buy is what you own, and sooner or later what you own will come back to you, Louis Creed thought.

He did not turn around but only looked at his cards as the slow, gritting footsteps approached. He saw the queen of spades. He put his hand on it.

The steps ended directly behind him.

Silence.

A cold hand fell on Louis's shoulder. Rachel's voice was grating, full of dirt.

"Darling," it said.

Pet Sematary - Stephen King

Scream For Your Life

True Dat

Suddenly, for some reason, a scene from Stephen King's The Shining leapt to mind. It was the one where Danny, the little kid, was playing in the snow outside the Overlook Hotel, and he found one of those big concrete tubes that kids like to climb through, and he got in, and suddenly he became aware of something else that was in the tube there with him: A kid who had climbed in there and couldn't get out, who had died there, who clamored toward Danny with a pathos that bordered on revulsion and then surpassed it, clearly wanting Danny to die there, too, to stay with him, forever...

Ian found himself simultaneously wondering why Kubrick didn't put that in the film and thinking, Momma, get me outta here, this place is starting to give me the creeps. He was not surprised to find himself walking at a highly accelerated pace.

"This," he told himself aloud, "is ridiculous. Fucking Stephen King. This is all his fault."

The Light At The End - John Skipp and Craig Spector

Tonight's the Night

Tonight the moon was almost full. And tonight was also Halloween.

Their are those who say they don't need to look at the sky or consult an almanac to know when a full moon lurks behind the rain clouds. For they are policemen and firemen and hospital workers and bartenders and ambulance drivers. From years of experience they have learned that the nights just before full moon will bring out more violence, more uncontrolled emotion, more just plain weirdness than any other time.

It has long been known that in mental hospitals the most bizarre behavior occurs in the twenty-four to forty-eight hours preceding the full moon. Now there is scientific theory to back this up: it is accepted as fact that the moon's weak magnetism affects the earth's metal-induced magnetic field. This is primarily true of iron. Based on this fact, a Chicago study concentrated on a single element in biological tissue. It concluded that magnetic and gravitational interaction between the earth and the moon may very well be involved in certain human physiological and psychological changes.

Halloween, of course, takes no account of science.

Halloween concerns itself with only evil forces.

Headhunter - Michael Slade

Clap for the Wolfman

The Boogeyman

Psycho is effective because it brings the Werewolf myth home. It is not outside evil, predestination; the fault lies not in our stars but in ourselves. We know that Norman is only outwardly the Werewolf when he's wearing Mom's duds and speaking in Mom's voice; but we have the uneasy suspicion that inside he's the Werewolf all the time.

Danse Macabre - Stephen King

Time to Take the Masks Off

Peter picked himself up on the stairs and, with no awareness of willing himself to move, went backward up the stairs to stand beside Jim on the landing.

The werewolf came slowly, unstoppably toard them, in no hurry at all. "You want to meet her, don't you?" His grin was ferocious. "She will be so pleased. You will have quite a welcome, I promise you."

Peter looked wildly around; saw phosphorescent light leaking from beneath a door.

"She is not perhaps quite in shape to see you yet, but that makes it all the more interesting, don't you think? We all like to see our friends with their masks off."

Ghost Story - Peter Straub

Listen

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

The Tell-Tale Heart - Edgar Allan Poe

Respect the Classics, Man!

Watch Michael Jackson - Thriller (Full Length) in Music Videos | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Legion

Kinderman entered the cell and pulled the door shut softly behind him. A naked light bulb hung from a wire in the center of the ceiling. Its filaments were weak and it cast a saffron glow on the room. Kinderman glanced at the white washbasin. A faucet was dripping, one slow drop at a time. In the silence their sound was heavy and distinct. Kinderman walked toward the cot and then stopped.

"It's taken you a long time to get here," said a voice. It was low and had whispers at its edge. It was sardonic.

Kinderman looked puzzled. The voice seemed familiar. Where had he heard it before? he wondered. "Mister Sunlight?" he said.

The man raised his head and when Kinderman loked at the dark, rugged features he staggered backward a step in shock. "My God!" he gasped. His heart began to race.

The patient's mouth was cracked in a grin. "It's a wonderful life," he leered, "don't you think?"

...Kinderman looked up from the file. "Were you here when this man was brought in?" he asked sharply.

"Yes."

"Search your memory, please. Doctor Temple. What was he wearing?"

"Jesus Christ, that was such a long time ago."

"Can you remember?"

"No."

"Were there signs of any injuries? Bruises? Lacerations?"

"That would be in the file," said Temple.

"It is not in the file! It is not!" The detective slapped the file on the desk with each "not."

"Hey, take it easy."

Kinderman stood up. "Have you or any nurse told the man in Cell Twelve about Father Dyer's murder?"

"I haven't. Why the hell would we tell him that?"

"Ask the nurses," Kinderman told him grimly. "Ask them. I want to know the answer by morning."

Kinderman turned and strode from the room. He walked up to Atkins. "I want you to check with Georgetown University," he said. "There was a priest there, Father Damien Karras. See if they still have his medical records, and also his dental records as well. Also, call Father Riley. I want him to come over here right now."

Atkins stared quizzically into Kinderman's haunted eyes. The detective answered his unspoken question. "Father Karras was a friend of mine," said Kinderman. "Twelve years ago he died. He fell down the Hitchcock Steps to the bottom. I attended his funeral," he said. "I just saw him. He is here in this ward in a straitjacket."

Legion - William Peter Blatty

They're Coming For You

What's Inside You?

She opened her eyes. "Daniel," she said, "your bride is waiting."

There was movement near the door. A figure drifted toward her.

"Daniel?"

"Yes, my love."

She held out her arms.

He crossed the room, and Florence felt the drawing from her body as he neared. She could just make out his features, gentle, frightened, filled with need for her. He lay beside her on the bed. She turned to face him. She could feel his breath, and pressing close, she gave her lips to him.

His kiss was long and tender. "I love you," he whispered.

"And I love you."

She closed her eyes and turned onto her back again, feeling his weight shift onto her. "With love," she murmured. "Please, with love."

"Florence," he said.

She opened her eyes.

In an instant, she lay petrified, heartbeat staggering as she gaped at what was lying on her.

It was the figure of a corpse, its face in an advanced state of decomposition. Livid, scaly flesh was crumbling from its bones, its rotted lips wreathed in a leering smile that showed discolored jagged teeth, all of them decayed. Only the slanting yellow eyes were alive, regarding her with demoniacal glee. A leaden bluish light enveloped its entire body, gases of putrefaction bubbling around it.

A scream of horror flooded from her throat as the moldering figure plunged inside her.

Hell House - Richard Matheson

Ask The Stories

The Brothers

"And what are you doing here?" Tom asked.

They looked at each other, full of amusement which somehow embraced and included Tom.

"Why, we are writing down stories," Jakob said.

"What for?"

"To amaze. To terrify. To delight."

"Why?"

"For the sake of the stories," Jakob said. "That must be clear. Why, our very lives have been storylike. Even the mistakes have been happy. Boy, did you know that in our original story it was a fur slipper which the poor orphan girl wore to the ball? What an inspired mistranslation made it glass!"

"Yes, yes. And you remember the strange dream I had about you, my brother: I stood in front of a cage, on top of a mountain...it snowed...you were in the cage, frozen...I had to peer through the bars of the cage – so much like one of our treasures..."

"Which we were determined to show the world the wonder we felt in discovering, yes. You were terrified – but it was a terror full of wonder."

"These stories are not for every child – they do not suit every child. The terror is there, and it is real. But our best defense is nature, is it not?"

Tom said "Yes" because he felt them waiting for an answer.

"So you see. You learn well, child." Jakob set down the quill pen with which he had been toying. "Wilhelm’s dream – do you know that when Wilhelm was dying, he spoke quietly and cheerfully about his life?"

"You see, we embraced our treasures, and they gave us treasure back a thousandfold," Wilhelm said. "They were the country in which we lived best. If our father had not died so young – if our childhood had been allowed its normal span – perhaps we could never have found what it is to live in that country."

"Do you hear what we are saying to you, boy?" Jakob asked. "Do you understand Wilhelm?"

"I think so," Tom said.

"The stories, our treasures, are for children, among others. But..."

Tom nodded: He saw. It was not the personal point.

"No child can go the whole way with them," Wilhelm said.

"We gave our wings," Jakob said. "For our song was our life. But as for you..." The brothers looked at him indulgently.

"Do not idly throw away any of your gifts," said Jakob. "But when you are called..."

"We answered. We all must answer," Wilhelm said. "Oh, my, what are we saying to this boy? It is late. Do you mind stopping work until tomorrow, brother? It is time to join our wives."

They turned large brown eyes toward him, clearly expecting him to leave.

"But what happens next?" Tom asked, almost believing that they were who they appeared to be and could tell him.

"All stories unfold," Jakob said. "But they take many turns before they reach their ends. Embrace the treasure, child. It is our best advice. Now we must depart."

Tom stood up from the chesterfield, confused; so much of what happened here ended with a sudden departure! "Where do you go? According to you, where are we?"

Wilhelm laughed. "Why, Shadowland, boy. Shadowland is everything to us, as it may be to you. Shadowland is where we spent our busy lives. You may be within a wood...within a storied wood…"

"Or fur-wrapped in a sleigh in deep snow..."

"Or dying for love of a sleeping princess..."

"Or before a dwindling fire with head full of pictures..."

"Or even asleep with a head full of cobwebs and dreams..."

"And still you will be in Shadowland."

Both brothers laughed, and blew out the candles on their desks.

"I have another question," Tom said into the lively blackness.

"Ask the stories, child," said a departing voice.

A flurry of quiet rustling, then silence: Tom knew they were gone. "But they never give the same answers," he said to the black room.

Shadowland - Peter Straub

Doctor Wu

Starling rolled the blue section through on the tray. She sat still while Lecter flipped through it.

He dropped it back in the carrier. "Oh, Officer Starling, do you think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool?"

"No. I think you can provide some insight and advance this study."

"And what possible reason could I have to do that?"

"Curiosity."

"About what?"

"About why you're here. About what happened to you."

"Nothing happened to me, Officer Starling. I happened. You can't reduce me to a set of influences. You've given up good and evil for behaviorism, Officer Starling. You've got everybody in moral dignity pants -- nothing is ever anybody's fault. Look at me, Officer Starling. Can you stand to say I'm evil? Am I evil, Officer Starling?"

"I think you've been destructive. For me it's the same thing."

"Evil's just destructive? Then storms are evil, if it's that simple. And we have fire, and then there's hail. Underwriters lump it all under 'Acts of God.'"

"Deliberate - "

"I collect church collapses, recreationally. Did you see the recent one in Sicily? Marvelous! The facade fell on sity-five grandmothers at a special Mass. Was that evil? If so, who did it? If He's up there, He just loves it, Officer Starling. Typhoid and swans -- it all comes from the same place."

"I can't explain you, Doctor, but I know who can."

He stopped her with his upraised hand. The hand was shapely, she noted, and the middle finger perfectly replicated. It is the rarest form of polydactyly...

"A census taker tried to quantify me once. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a big Amarone. Go back to school, little Starling."

The Silence Of The Lambs - Thomas Harris

Killer Klowns

Fairy Tales Can Come True...

Once upon a time there dwelt on the outskirts of a large forest a poor woodcutter with his wife and two children; the boy was called Hansel and the girl Gretel. He had always had little enough to live on, and once, when there was a great famine in the land, he couldn't even provide them with daily bread. One night, as he was tossing about in his bed, full of cares and worry, he sighed and said to his wife: "What's to become of us? How are we to support our poor children, now that we have nothing more for ourselves?" "I'll tell you what, husband," answered the woman, "early tomorrow morning we'll take the children into the thickest part of the wood; there we shall light a fire for them and give them each a piece of bread; then we'll go on to our work and leave them alone. They won't be able to find their way home and we shall thus be rid of them..."

The Andrew Lang Fairy Tale Treasury - edited by Cary Wilkins

Zombie PSA's

People to Avoid

E is for ELEVATOR PEOPLE

They never speak and they cannot meet your gaze. There are five hundred buildings in the United States whose elevators go deeper than the basement. When you have pressed the basement button and reached the bottom, you must press the basement button twice more. The elevator doors will close and you will hear the sound of special relays being thrown, and the elevator will descend. Into the caverns. Chance has not looked favorably on occasional voyagers in those five hundred cages. They have pressed the wrong button, too many times. They have been seized by those who shuffle through the caverns, and they have been...treated. Now they ride the cages. They never speak, and they cannot meet your gaze. They stare up at the numbers as they light and then go off, riding up and down even after night has fallen. Their clothes are clean. There is a special dry cleaner who does the work. Once you saw one of them, and her eyes were filled with screams. London is a city filled with narrow, secure stairways.

From A to Z, in the Chocolate Alphabet - Harlan Ellison

Something Wicked

Three in the morning, thought Charles Halloway, seated on the edge of his bed. Why did the train come at that hour?

For, he thought, it's a special hour. Women never wake then, do they? They sleep the sleep of babes and children. But men in middle age? They know that hour well. Oh God, midnight's not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there's hope, for dawn's just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body's at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You're the nearest to dead you'll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you'd slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that's burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It's a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead-- And wasn't it true, had he read it somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time...?

Stop! he cried silently.

"Charlie?" his wife said in her sleep.

Slowly, he took off the other shoe.

His wife smiled in her sleep.

Why?

She's immortal. She has a son.

Your son, too!

But what father ever really believes it? He carries no burden, he feels no pain. What man, like woman, lies down in darkness and gets up with child? The gentle, smiling ones own the good secret. Oh, what strange wonderful clocks women are. They nest in time. They make the flesh that holds fast and binds eternity. They live inside the gift, know power, accept, and need not mention it. Why speak of Time when you are Time, and shape the universal moments, as they pass, into warmth and action. How men envy and often hate these warm clocks, these wives, who know they will live forever. So what do we do? We men turn terribly mean, because we can't hold to the world or ourselves or anything. We are blind to continuity, all breaks down, falls, melts, stops, rots, or runs away. So, since we cannot shape Time, where does that leave men? Sleepless. Staring.

Three A.M. That's our reward. Three in the morn. The soul's midnight. The tide goes out, the soul ebbs. And a train arives at an hour of despair...Why?

"Charlie...?"

His wife's hand moved to his.

"You...all right...Charlie?"

She drowsed.

He did not answer.

He could not tell her how he was.

Something Wicked This Way Comes - Ray Bradbury

Pardon Me

While I interrupt the non-stop Halloween blogging for the following announcement.



Sorry for the interruption. Regular Halloween blogging will resume.

Haunted Memories

Keep Your Head

The Eyes Have It

His eyes were golden-yellow, all golden-yellow, with neither whites nor irises; all golden-yellow, with vertical black-slit pupils.

She looked at him.

He looked at her, golden-yellowly, and then at the swaying upside-down crucifix.

She looked at them watching her and knife-in-hand screamed at them, "What have you done to his eyes?"

They stirred and looked at Roman.

"He has His Father's eyes," he said.

Rosemary's Baby - Ira Levin

Cruel Fate

Oh, my God! They ate his brains!

And Your Little Dog, Too

Come now,
my child,
if we were planning
to harm you, do you think
we'd be lurking here
beside the path
in the very dark-
est part of
the forest?

But Even So - Kenneth Patchen

That's "Shinning". Do You Want To Get Sued?

the simpsons the shining from jackie on Vimeo.

Close Your Eyes

Danny turned and ran. Bolting through the bathroom door, his eyes starting from their sockets, his hair on end like the hair of a hedgehog about to be turned into a sacrificial

(croquet? Or roque?)

ball, his mouth open and soundless. He ran full-tilt into the outside door of 217, which was now closed. He began hammering on it, far beyond realizing that it was unlocked, and he had only to turn the knob to let himself out. His mouth pealed forth deafening screams that were beyond human auditory range. He could only hammer on the door and hear the dead woman coming for him, bloated belly, dry hair, outstretched hands – something that had lain slain in that tub for perhaps years, embalmed there in magic.

The door would not open, would not, would not, would not.

And then the voice of Dick Hallorann came to him, so sudden and unexpected, so calm, that his locked vocal cords opened and he began to cry weakly – not with fear but with blessed relief.

(I don’t think they can hurt you…they’re like pictures in a book…close your eyes and they’ll be gone.)

His eyelids snapped down. His hands curled into balls. His shoulders hunched with the effort of his concentration:

(Nothing there nothing there not there at all NOTHING THERE THERE IS NOTHING!)

Time passed. And he was just beginning to relax, just beginning to realize that the door must be unlocked and he could go, when the years-damp, bloated, fish-smelling hands closed softly around his throat and he was turned implacably around to stare into that dead and purple face.

The Shining - Stephen King

Whatever I Say...

It's Alive!

Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the graveworms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror, a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch - the miserable monster whom I had created.

Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

The Power of Bunnies Compels You

There Is Only One

"You're familiar with the rules concerning exorcism, Damien?"

"Yes, I am," answered Karras.

Merin began buttoning up the cassock. "Especially important is the warning to avoid conversations with the demon..."

"The demon." He'd said it so matter-of-factly, thought Karras. It jarred him.

"We may ask what is relevant," said Merrin as he buttoned the collar of the cassock. "But anything beyond that is dangerous. Extremely." He lifted the surplice from Karras' hands and began to slip it over the cassock. "Especially, do not listen to anything he says. The demon is a liar. He will lie to confuse us; but he will also mix lies with the truth to attack us. The attack is psychological, Damien. And powerful. Do not listen. Remember that. Do not listen."

As Karras handed him the stole, the exorcist added, "Is there anything at all you would like to ask me, Damien?"

Karras shook his head. "No. But I think it might be helpful if I gave you some background on the different personalities that Regan has manifested. So far, there seem to be three."

"There is only one," said Merrin softly...

The Exorcist - William Peter Blatty

Listen

"Do you know anything about the record?"

It appeared that Fisher wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "Guests would arrive, to find him gone. That record would be played for them." He paused. "It was a game he played. While the guests were here, Belasco spied on them from hiding."

Barrett nodded.

"Then again, maybe he was invisible," Fisher continued. "He claimed the power. Said that he could will the attention of a group of people to some particular object, and move among them unobserved."

"I doubt that," Barrett said.

"Do you?" Fisher's smile was strange as he looked at the phonograph. "We all had our attention on that a few moments ago," he said. "How do you know he didn't walk right by us while we were listening?"

Hell House - Richard Matheson

On the Hunt

What were they watching? Nothing; they were all dead. But their eyes were open. They were watching a performance starring the madman and the body of Mrs. Leeds, beside Mr. Leeds in the bed. An audience. The crazy could look around at their faces.

Graham wondered if he had lit a candle. The flickering light would simulate expression on their faces. No candle was found. Maybe he would think to do that next time...

This first small bond to the killer itched and stung like a leech. Graham bit the sheet, thinking.

Why did you move them again? Why didn't you leave them that way? Graham asked. There's something you don't want me to know about you. Why, there's something you're ashamed of. Or is it something you can't afford for me to know?

Did you open their eyes?

Red Dragon - Thomas Harris

Bite Me

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and I could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer, nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and waited, waited with beating heart.

Dracula - Bram Stoker

Leslie Nielson - Dracula's Brides. - The best video clips are right here

Won't You Sign In, Stranger?

"He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn't specify the point. He's an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can't describe him. And it's not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment."

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson

Quoth the Raven

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.

"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, "Eat my shorts!"

The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe and Bart Simpson

The Raven The Simpsons

Three Wishes

"Go and get it and wish," cried the old woman, quivering with excitement.

The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. "He has been dead ten days, and besides he--I would not tell you else, but--I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?"

"Bring him back," cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. "Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?"

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.

Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.

"Wish!" she cried, in a strong voice.

"It is foolish and wicked," he faltered.

"Wish!" repeated his wife.

He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again."

The Monkey's Paw - W.W. Jacobs

Our Lady of Darkness

The solitary, steep hill called Corona Heights was black as pitch and very silent, like the heart of the unknown. It looked steadily downward and northeast away at the nervous, bright lights of downtown San Francisco as if it were a great predatory beast of night surveying its territory in patient search of prey...

On every side of Corona Heights the street and house lights of San Francisco, weakest at end of night, hemmed it in apprehensively, as if it were indeed a dangerous animal. But on the hill itself there was not a single light...

And now something seemed to stir in the massed darkness there...perhaps one of the city’s wild dogs, homeless for generations, yet able to pass as tame...perhaps some wilder and more secret animal that had never submitted to man’s rule, yet lived almost unglimpsed amongst him. Perhaps a man (or woman) so sunk in savagery or psychosis that he (or she) didn’t need light. Or perhaps only the wind...

Yet the impression lingered that the hill had grown restless, having at last decided on its victim.

Our Lady of Darkness - Fritz Leiber

Hill House

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions or absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against the hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

The Haunting of Hill House - Shirley Jackson

And Speaking of Pumpkins...

Lots of fun pumpkin carving ideas here.

Everyone Hail to the Pumpkin Song

Night Thoughts

At night, when I go to bed, I still am at pains to be sure that my legs are under the blankets after the lights go out. I'm not a child anymore but...I don't like to sleep with one leg sticking out. Because if a cool hand ever reached out from under the bed and grasped my ankle, I might scream. Yes, I might scream to wake the dead. That sort of thing doesn't happen, of course, and we all know that...the thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.

Stephen King

What Horror Villain Are You?

That's me.

Welcome to...

...the Halloween edition of the Teahouse. For the next 30 days I'll be posting on the sights and sounds of the season. Each morning will begin - as it did today - with a quote or a video from one of my favorite movies or authors (I'll try to let you know when anything is NSFW). In addition, there will be links and pictures, stories (maybe even something original!) and anecdotes; all of those things that do a Halloween Lover good.

And now that Ray Bradbury has shown us the country we'll be visiting, let's find out...

The October Country

...that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons come and go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain...

The October Country - Ray Bradbury

Goldman on Newman

When Lady L was done, Newman returned to his home in Connecticut and Kastner took me up to a crucial meeting: Changes were needed and were they the kind of alterations I could accommodate. (If I hadn't, by the way, I would have been gone and someone else would have done them. If Newman's interest would hold. Stars like Newman get offered everything practically every day, and if a situation begins to get messy, they can get turned off. Quickly.

Paul Newman is the least starlike superstar I've ever worked with. He's an educated man and a trained actor and he never wants more close-ups. What he wants is the best possible script and character he can have. And he loves to be surrounded by the finest actors available, because he believes the better they are, the better the picture's apt to be, the better he'll come out. Many stars, maybe even most, don't want that competition.

We walked the back lanes of Westport and it all went well. But what I remember most about it was that Newman carried a handful of pebbles and I noticed that whenever a car drove by, he was always in the act of tossing a pebble into the woods, so that his back was to the street. It's hard not to notice Paul Newman and he was doing all he could to talk and not be stared at.

With Newman set, Kastner and I drove back to the city and on the way he said, "You don't know what happened, do you?" I said I didn't. He told me the following: "You just jumped past all the shit."

And he was right. I was no longer a putz novelist from New York. Now I was a putz novelist who had written a Paul Newman picture. Any first credit in Hollywood is tremendously meaningful. When that credit involves pleasing a major star, you can square that import.

from Adventures in the Screen Trade (1983)

If Only It Were This Simple

Break's Over

Since most of my political posting is done here (as VermontGuy, natch), I'll try to make this an election-free zone. October will be full of Halloween stuff and since I'd be amazed if anyone even remembers this blog exists, that means anything goes, right?

Hmmm, maybe this guy can help:

Relax, have a cigar, make yourself at home. Hell is full of high court
judges, failed saints. We've got Cardinals, Archbishops, barristers,
certified accountants, music critics, they're all here. You're not
alone, you're never alone. Not here you're not. Okay, break's over.

What, no politicians?

Now This is Cool

More here. (h/t Goodshit)

Obama's New Spiritual Advisor

Post Your Secrets

An interesting - and often poignant - website (link in title). Feel free to join in the discussion of the "Three-Fork Enigma".

Last Words

More here. (h/t Goodshit)

Heh

Waiting for Spring

Okay, so it's the first day of Spring. So...guess which picture I'm seeing out my window.

Stupid weather.

Sunset at the North Pole

Who Are These Guys?

Over the last year or so, I've noticed an increase in nuisance marketing. By that I mean telephone calls - usually computer generated - offering to help lower my credit card debt, extend my car's warranty, install a satellite dish and too many more to remember. And all of this is despite my not having any credit card debt (these days I use debit), not caring about my car's warranty (it has 153K on it, after all), and not being able to install a satellite dish where I live because no line of sight exists to the satellites. It's gotten so bad that all my calls are now screened by answering machine and I'd say at least two-thirds of them are this kind of nonsense.

Now, imagine my surprise when I'm having a conversation with an older couple, both in their 80's, and they confess to getting the same calls!

Is this the way things are sold these days? By hectoring us with recorded calls for products or services that we've shown no interest in? Do they really think that if I haven't called them back after the 5th, or 10th, or even 20th call that I'm ever going to call them back? Or that if I did call them back I would give them anything other than a string of expletives?

It reminds me of the old adage in the car industry about calling customers until they "buy or die".

The amazing thing is that on some level they must be successful, otherwise they wouldn't continue to do it.

Announcement

Over the last couple of years, LAGuy and I have traded posts, usually about movies, and after a conversation last week, he was kind enough to invite me to start posting at the Pajama Guy site. In keeping with the "Guy" theme, I am posting as VermontGuy. So, by all means check it out. I've been a regular reader of theirs since before I established this site and it's well worth a daily check. Not only is it more topical and updated more often than the Teahouse, now it's got me, too.

Dear loyal Teahouse readers (the few, the proud, the demented): be not dismayed. I'm not abandoning my baby. I'll still be posting here, although my posts may start to take on a more personal nature, since I can get my political ya-ya's out over at Pajama Guy. Think of it as spreading the love.

And don't we all need a little more love in our lives?

Housework and Sex

According to an AP story today, husbands who help out more around the house may get a reward they weren't expecting - more sex:

American men still don't pull their weight when it comes to housework and child care, but collectively they're not the slackers they used to be. The average dad has gradually been getting better about picking himself up off the sofa and pitching in, according to a new report in which a psychologist suggests the payoff for doing more chores could be more sex...

...Joshua Coleman, a San Francisco-area psychologist and author of "The Lazy Husband: How to Get Men to Do More Parenting and Housework," said equitable sharing of housework can lead to a happier marriage and more frequent sex.

"If a guy does housework, it looks to the woman like he really cares about her — he's not treating her like a servant," said Coleman, who is affiliated with the Council on Contemporary Families. "And if a woman feels stressed out because the house is a mess and the guy's sitting on the couch while she's vacuuming, that's not going to put her in the mood."

I can just see it now. "Hi, honey," you say as she gets home after work. "I fixed that leak in the sink you were complaining about and I folded and put away all the clothes that were in the dryer. Oh, and I did the vacuuming, too. So...how about some head?"

Yeah. That'll work.

Update: This was originally posted over at Pajama Guy yesterday. I'm cross-posting it here because I don't want it to disappear when Gaucho transforms into VermontGuy at that site. If none of this makes any sense, don't worry. Announcements yet to come.

Old vs. New

James Lileks can't decide if he wants to watch Alien Vs. Predator: Requiem or 3:10 To Yuma and offers up this recollection on the entire Aliens franchise:

Have a nagging desire for more “Aliens” stuff. Don’t want to watch the fourth one ever again, though. And the third one does not exist in my mind, because of what it did to the ending of the second one. So let me get this straight – there are six “Aliens” movies, and two-thirds bite the wax tadpole; why do I care?

I would agree that the original is a classic of the horror genre (even though I know LAGuy doesn't share my affection for it). The second movie is another classic, although from a different genre: Action/Suspense. The third, well, here is where things get a little wonky. My feeling is that it's a damn fine movie, although I understand exactly where Lileks is coming from. The first two movies leave you with a feeling of hope, a sort of Barack Obama "Yes, We Can!" moment.

In Alien 3, director David Fincher seems determined - from the very beginning - to take that feeling of hope and flush it directly down the dumpster. Much like his movie Seven, you not only leave the theater believing "No, We Can't!", but you also wonder why we even tried in the first place. And you want to find the nearest shower.

The fourth movie, Alien Resurrection, is a fascinating train wreck of a flick. There are several excellent movie moments - Ripley blowing the head off an Alien with a shotgun comes to mind - but they never coalesce into a coherent film. Horror often walks a tightrope between being scary and being unintentionally funny and at the end of the movie, when the Mother Alien and her spawn are sharing a tender moment, it's hard to suppress a giggle.

As for the Alien-Predator mashups, the first one is okay. Having Lance Henriksen around is a nice touch and the birth of the Predalien is kind of cool, but other than that it's nothing special. I haven't seen the latest yet. Since all the reviews suggest it sucks Scrabble tiles, I'll wait for it to come to Skinemax.

So I guess I don't agree that two-thirds bite the wax tadpole. Maybe half. Or maybe I do agree and just have a weakness for tadpoles, wax or otherwise. Either way, suddenly I find myself with a nagging desire for more "Aliens" stuff.

Go figure.

And Speaking of Stereotypes

I'm shocked! Shocked, I tell you! to find that racism is alive and well in this campaign. (h/t Protein Wisdom)

Note: the first link takes you to the first photo of the Assassination of Barack Obama Art exhibit in NYC. Click on the next button until you come to photos 6 and 7. Warning! May not be SFW.

Rites of Spring

The good news and the bad news:

I just saw a fly on one of our windows - surely a sign of Spring, since flies are pretty scarce during the Winter. The bad news?

He's about to be eaten by one of our cats.

Pictures

One thing I've gotten hooked on lately is the wealth of incredible photography (digitally altered or not) on the web. These are just a few I found at Pixdaus, on of my favorite pic sites. If you're not careful, you can spend hours looking at photo after photo.

The Senator Becomes President

This is interesting:

What are the chances of being elected president directly from a seat in the Senate? History's answer, at best, is "slim." While 15 of the nation's 41 (now 43) presidents served in the Senate at some point in their public careers, only two—Warren Harding and John F. Kennedy—won their presidential races as incumbent senators.

In 2008, barring some unforeseen circumstance, that "slim" chance is a guarantee.

Cute but True

Cat Haiku:

You're always typing.
Well, let's see you ignore my
sitting on your hands.

More here.(h/t Goodshit)

Can't or Won't?

I saw this at Kate’s site and rather than leave a long comment there, I thought I’d post about it. I could probably do an ongoing series on the subject – and who knows, I might – but today I want to focus on the first thing that came to mind when I saw it.

For me, when I see the word “impossible”, it means “I can’t”.

Now, for all of us, there are things in life we can’t do. I can’t, for example, run the hundred yard dash in less than 10 seconds. I can’t dunk a basketball. I can’t jump from here to the moon. For you it might be something different. For most of us, however, “I can’t” is just a substitute for “I won’t”, or perhaps “I don’t want to”.

“I can’t” is like a get out of jail free card. It absolves us of all responsibility. It’s bigger than we are. Stronger, too. It’s something we just can’t fight. And it manifests in our lives on a daily basis in ways big and small.

Ultimately, “I can’t” is a cop-out, a rationalization about all the things we deal with in life that are beyond us. And to paraphrase a line from The Big Chill, just try getting through a single day without several juicy rationalizations. “I can’t” is our mantra and eventually, it becomes the prism through which we define ourselves.

One of the first steps toward doing the impossible is to take ownership of “I can’t”. When “I can’t” becomes “I won’t” or “I don’t want to”, then it becomes personal and honest. “I can’t” doesn’t need a reason. “I won’t” or “I don’t want to” require one.

“I won’t”. Why not? “Well, I just don’t want to”. Sure, I get that. But why don’t you want to?

You see? “I can’t” lets you off the hook. The others require an explanation – even if it’s only to yourself. Once you know the reason – the why – then you have something to work with.

And something to work with is something you CAN change.

Enough

I'm sick of this shit. Spring can't come soon enough.

Dead Sex

A man I used to know confided to me once that it really turned him on to have a woman pretend to play dead during sex. I'm pretty sure he was kidding but it did give me an idea for a whole different kind of "Night of the Living Dead" movie.

Now it appears that the idea is catching on, at least with some species. In an experiment conducted in Denmark, researchers have discovered that some spiders - male spiders, that is - have better sex by pretending to play dead:

All the males sought to attract partners by offering a gift of food, held in the mouth.

But the ones that lay flat and motionless -- even if meant getting dragged about by a female that had latched onto the victuals -- wound up in a much better position, as it were, to engage in sexual activity.

The hapless males that tried the direct approach wound up keeping the free meal but not getting what they were really after.

Males that played dead were also allowed to copulate longer than males that did not, ensuring more eggs could fertilized, the researchers reported.

Actually, this technique isn't new. I've used it for years, although the results haven't been very satisfactory.

Maybe it's the snoring that ruins it.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

Full Moon Over Burlington

Two shots of the full moon last night, plus one coming out of the eclipse.

Just in Time for Valentine's Day

Now they tell us:

Psychologists studying relationships confirm the steady decline of romantic love. Each year, according to surveys, the average couple loses a little spark. One sociological study of marital satisfaction at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Penn State University kept track of more than 2,000 married people over 17 years. Average marital happiness fell sharply in the first 10 years, then entered a slow decline.

Wow. That's a little like saying if you jump off a 10-story building, you're going to fall sharply for 10 stories and then enter a sudden stop.

But for some people, the romantic feelings never decline. Futurepundit discusses the research to discover why and how it may lead to exchanging neuro-scans instead of phone numbers in the future.

A New Look at an Old Favorite

Nazi-Hunting in the Men's Room

No, it's not a trailer for the new Indiana Jones movie, it's real - real, I tell you - and, to some, very frightening:

What would we be permitted by the state to write about? How about Nazis? It's been years since I've run into one, but apparently they're everywhere. A British blogger, pooh-poohing my book, said there are more Nazis than Muslims in England. Really? In Canada, meanwhile, defenders of Section 13 of the Human Rights Code — the one that makes "criminals" of Maclean's — warn that if the private member's motion of Keith Martin, MP, proposing its repeal were to succeed, Nazis would be free to peddle their dangerous Nazi ideas to simple-minded Canadians who might lack the fortitude to resist. As evidence of the Nazi tide waiting to engulf the Dominion once Section 13 is repealed, Liberal spin doctor Warren Kinsella posted on his website a photograph he'd taken in a men's room stall showing the words "WHITE POWER" and a swastika scrawled on the wall at knee height. Why Mr. Kinsella is photographing public toilets on his knees I don't know, but every guy needs a hobby. At any rate, Warren sees this loser's graffiti as critical evidence of the imminent Nazi threat to the peaceable kingdom.

Nazis. I hate those guys.

From Scratch

...it is a marathon and not a sprint...Everyone has their own unique circumstances. Maybe you are young and healthy like me and you can fight out quick. Maybe you are a single mother of two and you need more time. Maybe you are an older gentleman and you’re confined to a wheelchair. Everybody faces adversity, and everybody has their own story to write in the end.

It’s important to question: Am I making the most of my situation? Am I on track? Am I prepared to be disciplined for 2, 3, 5, 10 years? This isn’t to say that we need to be robots – there’s a lot to be said about how happy we were down in Charleston as penny-pinchers – but we need to maintain that focus. And also, are we imparting our knowledge – and mistakes – on others…our friends, our family, our children? That’s how we really begin to break the cycle of the persistence of the same lifestyle.

And whatever you do, don’t lose sight of that prize that you’re shooting for.

From an interview with Adam Shepard at Get Rich Slowly. (emphasis theirs)

If you're not familiar with Adam Shepard and his book, Scratch Beginnings, here's his website. I highly recommend it.

Add Imagination and Stir

(h/t Goodshit)

This Should Be Obvious

I'd never read the term "revealed preference" before, but it makes perfect sense to me:

What most of us are really in favor of is higher taxes on other people. If we wanted higher taxes on ourselves, we'd give the money to charity.