vital to the success of a publication of this type, so kudos go to Andy Huckle, who is credited for both the layout and lettering. The layout of the book varies nicely, some stories with boxed panels neatly organized against a white background in the traditional way, some with panels or against full-size illustrations that bleed off the page. Various fonts are used for the easy-to-read lettering, and are boxed in solid white, or sometimes transparent panels which allow the underlying art to show through, or are left unfettered and superimposed directly onto the images in black or white as required.
Considering anything Lovecraftian as a “light read” is perhaps a contradiction in terms, however that is how I would classify this (and possibly any) graphic compendium. I enjoyed reading The Lovecraft Anthology Volume 1, and I think that any fan of macabre, otherworldly scenarios, stunning illustrations, and yes, even the unexpurgated writings of H. P. Lovecraft, will feel the same. I await Volume 2 with anticipation.
—Jon Koons
MUMMIFIED
BY JILL BAUMAN
Dying was the easy part.
Now I lie upon a slab
tightly wrapped,
bound to myself
become so hard and cold.
I am a feast for others.
My organs vandalized
crawling things
ravage me
nourish themselves
as I fall into ruin.
Examining myself
my outer self preserved
permanently
an eternal
monument
to my existence.
I leave my remains behind
my spirit hovers
for a while
then dissipates
as my soul
enters another
and my journey continues.
THE LONG LAST NIGHT
BY BRIAN LUMLEY
Born 2nd December, 1937, Brian Lumley came into the world just nine months after the most obvious of his forebears—meaning of course a “literary” forebear, namely, H. P. Lovecraft—had departed from it. In his early teens, as a result of reading Robert Bloch’s Lovecraft pastiche Notebook Found in a Deserted House, he became more surely attracted to macabre fiction, an attraction that has lasted a lifetime. HPL’s publisher August Derleth asked Lumley, whom he knew to be an aspiring author, whether he had anything solid he could use in a book he was preparing for publication, to be entitled Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos. Thus Lumley began writing in earnest. Derleth included stories by Lumley in a number of Arkham House anthologies and went on to publish three of the author’s books, Beneath the Moors; The Caller of The Black and The Horror at Oakdeene, all set mainly in Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos milieu and echoing HPL’s literary style. After 22 years in the British military, Lumley became “a professional author” (he had never really considered himself that before) and began to write in earnest. His breakthrough book was the ground-breaking horror novel Necroscope®, featuring Harry Keogh, the man who can talk to dead people; it became a best-selling series. Thirteen countries (and counting) have now published, or are in the process of publishing these and others of Lumley’s novels and short story collections, which in the USA alone have sold well over three million copies. In addition, Necroscope comic books, graphic novels, a role-playing game, quality figurines, and in Germany a series of audio books have been created from themes and characters in the Necroscope books, and Lumley has added his “real” voice to Dangerous Ground, a Downliners Sect rock & roll album released in the UK in 2004. In March 2010 Brian received the prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association. This was presented to him at the World Horror Convention in Brighton, UK. HPL’s most accomplished successor, Mr. Lumley helps launch the Elder Gods issue of Weird Tales with the following frightening science-fictional version of tomorrow’s London.
I met or bumped into the old man on what was probably the very rim of the Bgg’ha Zone. And after careful, nervous greetings (he had a gun and I didn’t) and while we shared one of my cigarettes, he asked me: “Do you know why it’s called that?”
He meant the Bgg’ha Zone, of course, because he’d already mentioned how we should be extremely careful just being there. Shrugging by way of a partial answer, I then offered: “Because it’s near the center of it?”
“Well,” he replied, “I suppose that defines it now. I mean that’s likely how most people think of it; because after three or four years a name tends to stick, no matter its actual origin. And let’s face it, there’s not too many of us around these days—folks who were here at the time, old’uns like myself—who are still here to remember what happened that time.”
“When the Bgg’ha Zone got its name, you mean?” I prompted him. “There’s a reason it’s called that? So what happened?”
Getting his thoughts together, he nodded, and finally said, “The real reason is that shortly after that damn twisted tower was raised not long after they first got here, after they came down from the stars and up from the sea, or whatever, the only time anyone went anywhere near the twisted tower voluntarily—‘to find out what it was like!’ I’ve heard it said, if you can credit anyone would do such a thing!—the damn fool came out again a ragged, shrieking lunatic who couldn’t do anything but scream a few mad words over and over again. ‘The Bgg’ha Zone!’ he would scream while he laughed, skittering around and pointing at that mile-high monstrosity where it stands dead centre of things; and: ‘The twisted tower!’ he’d yelp like a dog. But he was harmless except to himself, and it was all he did until they gagged him to stop all his noise. Then his heart gave out and he died with the froth of madness drying on his lips … ”
“You talk too much and too loudly,” I told him. “And if I really should be as afraid of this place as you make out, then what in God’s name are you doing here?” Before he could answer, I shook another Marlboro from its pack, lit it, took a drag and handed it to him. I had no reason to antagonize the old boy.
“God’s name?” He turned his head and stared at me where we sat amidst the rubble, on the remains of a toppled brick wall; stared at me with his bloodshot eyes—his sunken, crying eyes that he’d rubbed until they were a rough, raw red—before accepting and sucking on that second cigarette. And: “Oh, I have my reasons for being here” he said. “Nothing to do with God, however. Not the God we used to pray to, anyway … not unless I’m here as His agent, sort of working for Him without really knowing it—in which case He might have chosen a better way to set things up!”
“You’re not making a lot of sense,” I told him, “and you’re still much too noisy. Won’t they hear you? Don’t they sometimes patrol outside the Bgg’ha Zone? I’ve heard they do.”
“Patrols?” He took a deep drag, handed my smoke back to me, and went on: “You mean hunters? And do you know what they hunt? They hunt us! We’re it! Meat!”
Then, after another drag and a sly, sidelong glance at me, from eyes still bloodshot but narrowed now: “Anyway, and like I said, I have a good reason for being here. A damn good reason!” And he balanced a small, battered old suitcase on his knees and hugged it to him, but not too tightly. It looked very heavy for its size.
“So then,” he nodded again. “I reckon it’s your turn now to tell why you are here. I never saw you before and I don’t think you’re from the SSR … so?”
“The SSR?”
“The