The Hairy Ones Shall Dance E-Book

Gans T. Field

• Herausgeber: Alien Ebooks
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 133

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2007

Beschreibung

In the quiet town of Thorndike, a new terror is about to unfold. Dr. Otto Zoberg, a mysterious figure with a dark past, arrives with an interest in the local legend of Devil’s Croft. His investigation leads him to Susan, a young woman whose mother once shared Zoberg's fascination with the supernatural. As the doctor delves deeper into the town's secrets, he uncovers an ancient curse that awakens a beastly presence. With the townsfolk suspicious and tensions rising, Zoberg's past sins resurface, revealing a chilling connection to the horrors that now haunt Thorndike. Can the doctor and Susan unravel the mystery before it consumes them?

The Hairy Ones Shall Dance is a classic tale of suspense and horror, where the line between man and beast blurs, and the shadows hide more than just secrets.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THE HAIRY ONES SHALL DANCE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION

FOREWORD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

THE HAIRY ONESSHALL DANCE

GANS T. FIELD

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Introduction copyright © 2023 by Karl Wurf.

Originally published as a 3-part serial in Weird Tales, January to March 1938.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com

INTRODUCTION

Gans T. Field, an enigmatic figure in early 20th-century pulp fiction, is best remembered for his contributions to the legendary pulp magazine Weird Tales. Though details of his life remain scarce, Field’s work has left an indelible mark on the horror genre. One of his notable stories, The Hairy Ones Shall Dance, delves into the chilling world of werewolves, a staple of supernatural fiction that has fascinated and terrified readers for centuries.

Weird Tales, first published in 1923, was a pioneering platform for horror and fantasy fiction. It introduced readers to a realm of macabre and fantastical stories, featuring writers like H.P. Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, and Clark Ashton Smith. The magazine’s unique blend of horror, fantasy, and the supernatural set it apart, making it a cornerstone of genre fiction. The Hairy Ones Shall Dance exemplifies the eerie and atmospheric storytelling that Weird Tales championed, drawing readers into a world where the ordinary meets the unthinkable.

* * * *

Werewolves, creatures that transform from human to wolf under the full moon, embody the primal fear of losing control to the beast within. This theme has been explored in countless tales, from folklore to modern horror, captivating audiences with its blend of mystery and terror. Classic literary examples include The Werewolf by Clemence Housman and The Wolf Leader by Alexandre Dumas.

Within the pages of Weird Tales, werewolf stories found a unique and eerie home. H. Warner Munn’s The Werewolf of Ponkert is a notable example, weaving a tale of horror and transformation that thrilled readers. Another example is Wolfshead by Robert E. Howard, showcasing the magazine’s penchant for macabre and thrilling narratives. These stories, among others, have cemented the werewolf’s place in the pantheon of horror fiction, captivating readers with their dark allure.

Here are some recommendations for modern and classic werewolf fiction, should this story leave you wanting more:

Silver Bullet, by Stephen King. This novella, also published as Cycle of the Werewolf, showcases a series of gruesome werewolf attacks in a small town over the course of a year.

The Werewolf of Paris, by Guy Endore. Set against the backdrop of the Franco-Prussian War, this classic tale follows Bertrand Caillet, who is plagued by his monstrous transformations.

Moon Called, by Patricia Briggs. The first book in the Mercy Thompson series, it features a strong-willed mechanic who is also a coyote shapeshifter living among werewolves and other supernatural beings.

Bitten, by Kelley Armstrong. Elena Michaels, the world’s only female werewolf, tries to lead a normal life but is drawn back into the dangerous world of her pack.

Shiver, by Maggie Stiefvater. This novel tells the story of Grace and Sam, exploring their complex relationship as Sam shifts between human and wolf.

The Last Werewolf, by Glen Duncan. Follows Jacob Marlowe, the last known werewolf, as he grapples with his existence and the forces trying to end his life.

The Wolf Gift,by Anne Rice. This novel introduces Reuben Golding, a young reporter who becomes a werewolf and must navigate his new reality.

The Wolfman by Nicholas Pekearo. Marlowe Higgins, a Vietnam veteran and werewolf, tries to direct his transformations to target only those who deserve to die.

Mongrels, by Stephen Graham Jones. A coming-of-age story about a young boy growing up in a family of werewolves.

The Were-Wolf, by Clemence Housman. One of the earliest werewolf stories in English literature, featuring a female werewolf as the lead character.

FOREWORD

To Whom It May Concern:

Few words are best, as Sir Philip Sidney once wrote in challenging an enemy. The present account will be accepted as a challenge by the vast army of skeptics of which I once made one. Therefore I write it brief and bald. If my story seems unsteady in spots, that is because the hand that writes it still quivers from my recent ordeal.

Shifting the metaphor from duello to military engagement, this is but the first gun of the bombardment. Even now sworn statements are being prepared by all others who survived the strange and, in some degree, unthinkable adventure I am recounting. After that, every great psychic investigator in the country, as well as some from Europe, will begin researches. I wish that my friends and brother-magicians, Houdini and Thurston, had lived to bear a hand in them.

I must apologize for the strong admixture of the personal element in my narrative. Some may feel that I err against good taste. My humble argument is that I was not merely an observer, but an actor, albeit a clumsy one, throughout the drama.

As to the setting forth of matters which many will call impossible, let me smile in advance. Things happen and have always happened, that defy the narrow science of test-tube and formula. I can only say again that I am writing the truth, and that my statement will be supported by my companions in the adventure.

—Talbot Wills.

November 15, 1937.

CHAPTER 1

“Why Must the Burden of Proof Rest with the Spirits?”

“You don’t believe in psychic phenomena,” said Doctor Otto Zoberg yet again, “because you won’t.”

This with studied kindness, sitting in the most comfortable chair of my hotel room. I, at thirty-four, silently hoped I would have his health and charm at fifty-four—he was so rugged for all his lean length, so well groomed for all his tweeds and beard and joined eyebrows, so articulate for all his accent. Doctor Zoberg quite apparently liked and admired me, and I felt guilty once more that I did not entirely return the compliment.

“I know that you are a stage magician—” he began afresh.

“I was once,” I amended, a little sulkily. My early career had brought me considerable money and notice, but after the novelty of show business was worn off I had never rejoiced in it. Talboto the Mysterious—it had been impressive, but tawdry. Better to be Talbot Wills, lecturer and investigator in the field of exposing fraudulent mediums.

For six years I had known Doctor Otto Zoberg, the champion of spiritism and mediumism, as rival and companion. We had first met in debate under auspices of the Society for Psychical Research in London. I, young enough for enthusiasm but also for carelessness, had been badly out-thought and out-talked. But afterward, Doctor Zoberg had praised my arguments and my delivery, and had graciously taken me out to a late supper. The following day, there arrived from him a present of helpful books and magazines. Our next platform duel found me in a position to get a little of my own back; and he, afterward, laughingly congratulated me on turning to account the material he had sent me. After that, we were public foemen and personal inseparables. Just now we were touring the United States, debating, giving exhibitions, visiting mediums. The night’s program, before a Washington audience liberally laced with high officials, had ended in what we agreed was a draw; and here we were, squabbling good-naturedly afterward.

“Please, Doctor,” I begged, offering him a cigarette, “save your charges of stubbornness for the theater.”

He waved my case aside and bit the end from a villainous black cheroot. “I wouldn’t say it, here or in public, if it weren’t true, Talbot. Yet you sneer even at telepathy, and only half believe in mental suggestion. Ach, you are worse than Houdini.”

“Houdini was absolutely sincere,” I almost blazed, for I had known and worshipped that brilliant and kindly prince of conjurers and fraud-finders.

“Ach, to be sure, to be sure,” nodded Zoberg over his blazing match. “I did not say he was not. Yet, he refused proof—the proof that he himself embodied. Houdini was a great mystic, a medium. His power for miracles he did not know himself.”

I had heard that before, from Conan Doyle as well as Zoberg, but I made no comment. Zoberg continued:

“Perhaps Houdini was afraid—if anything could frighten so brave and wise a man it would assuredly come from within. And so he would not even listen to argument.” He turned suddenly somber. “Perhaps he knew best, ja. But he was stubborn, and so are you.”

“I don’t think you can say that of me,” I objected once more. The cheroot was alight now, and I kindled a cigarette to combat in some degree the gunpowdery fumes.

Teeth gleamed amiably through the beard, and Zoberg nodded again, in frank delight this time. “Oh, we have hopes of you, Wills, where we gave up Houdini.”

He had never said that before, not so plainly at any rate. I smiled back. “I’ve always been willing to be shown. Give me a fool-proof, fake-proof, supernormal phenomenon, Doctor; let me convince myself; then I’ll come gladly into the spiritist camp.”

“Ach, so you always say!” he exploded, but without genuine wrath. “Why must the burden of proof rest with the spirits? How can you prove that they do not live and move and act? Study what Eddington has to say about that.”

“For five years,” I reminded him, “I have offered a prize of five thousand dollars to any medium whose spirit miracles I could not duplicate by honest sleight-of-hand.”

He gestured with slim fingers, as though to push the words back into me. “That proves absolutely nothing, Wills. For all your skill, do you think that sleight-of-hand can be the only way? Is it even the best way?”

“I’ve unmasked famous mediums for years, at the rate of one a month,” I flung back. “Unmasked them as the clumsiest of fakes.”

“Because some are dishonest, are all dishonest?” he appealed. “What specific thing would convince you, my friend?”

I thought for a moment, gazing at him through the billows of smoke. Not a gray hair to him—and I, twenty years his junior, had six or eight at either temple. I went on to admire and even to envy that pointed trowel of beard, the sort of thing that I, a magician, might have cultivated once. Then I made my answer.

“I’d ask for a materialization, Doctor. An ectoplasmic apparition, visible and solid to touch—in an empty room with no curtains or closets, all entrances sealed by myself, the medium and witnesses shackled.” He started to open his mouth, but I hurried to prevent him. “I know what you’ll say—that I’ve seen a number of impressive ectoplasms. So I have, perhaps, but not one was scientifically and dispassionately controlled. No, Doctor, if I’m to be convinced, I must make the conditions and set the stage myself.”

“And if the materialization was a complete success?”

“Then it would prove the claim to me—to the world. Materializations are the most important question in the whole field.”

He looked long at me, narrowing his shrewd eyes beneath the dark single bar of his brows. “Wills,” he said at length, “I hoped you would ask something like this.”

“You did?”

“Ja. Because—first, can you spare a day or so?”

I replied guardedly, “I can, I believe. We have two weeks or more before the New Orleans date.” I computed rapidly. “Yes, that’s December 8. What have you got up your sleeve, Doctor?”

He grinned once more, with a great display of gleaming white teeth, and flung out his long arms. “My sleeves, you will observe, are empty!” he cried. “No trickery. But within five hours of where we sit—five hours by fast automobile—is a little town. And in that town there is a little medium. No, Wills, you have never seen or heard of her. It is only myself who found her by chance, who studied her long and prayerfully. Come with me, Wills—she will teach you how little you know and how much you can learn!”

CHAPTER 2

“You Can Almost Hear the Ghosts.”

I have sat down with the purpose of writing out, plainly and even flatly, all that happened to me and to Doctor Otto Zoberg in our impromptu adventure at psychic investigation; yet, almost at the start, I find it necessary to be vague about the tiny town where that adventure ran its course. Zoberg began by refusing to tell me its name, and now my friends of various psychical research committees have asked me to hold my peace until they have finished certain examinations without benefit of yellow journals or prying politicians.

It is located, as Zoberg told me, within five hours by fast automobile of Washington. On the following morning, after a quick and early breakfast, we departed at seven o’clock in my sturdy coupé. I drove and Zoberg guided. In the turtle-back we had stowed bags, for the November sky had begun to boil up with dark, heavy clouds, and a storm might delay us.

On the way Zoberg talked a great deal, with his usual charm and animation. He scoffed at my skepticism and prophesied my conversion before another midnight.

“A hundred years ago, realists like yourself were ridiculing hypnotism,” he chuckled. “They thought that it was a fantastic fake, like one of Edgar Poe’s amusing tales, ja? And now it is a great science, for healing and comforting the world. A few years ago, the world scorned mental telepathy—”

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “I’m none too convinced of it now.”

“I said just that, last night. However, you think that there is some grain of truth to it. You would be a fool to laugh at the many experiments in clairvoyance carried on at Duke University.”

“Yes, they are impressive,” I admitted.

“They are tremendous, and by no means unique,” he insisted. “Think of a number between one and ten,” he said suddenly.

I gazed at my hands on the wheel, thought of a joking reply, then fell in with his mood.

“All right,” I replied. “I’m thinking of a number. What is it?”

“It is seven,” he cried out at once, then laughed heartily at the blank look on my face.

“Look here, that’s a logical number for an average man to think of,” I protested. “You relied on human nature, not telepathy.”

He grinned and tweaked the end of his beard between manicured fingers. “Very good, Wills, try again. A color this time.”

I paused a moment before replying, “All right, guess what it is.”

He, too, hesitated, staring at me sidewise. “I think it is blue,” he offered at length.

“Go to the head of the class,” I grumbled. “I rather expected you to guess red—that’s most obvious.”

“But I was not guessing,” he assured me. “A flash of blue came before my mind’s eye. Come, let us try another time.”

We continued the experiment for a while. Zoberg was not always correct, but he was surprizingly close in nearly every case. The most interesting results were with the names of persons, and Zoberg achieved some rather mystifying approximations. Thus, when I was thinking of the actor Boris Karloff, he gave me the name of the actor Bela Lugosi. Upon my thinking of Gilbert K. Chesterton, he named Chesterton’s close friend Hilaire Belloc, and my concentration on George Bernard Shaw brought forth a shout of “Santa Claus.” When I reiterated my charge of psychological trickery and besought him to teach me his method, he grew actually angry and did not speak for more than half an hour. Then he began to discuss our destination.

“A most amazing community,” he pronounced. “It is old—one of the oldest inland towns of all America. Wait until you see the houses, my friend. You can almost hear the ghosts within them, in broad daylight. And their Devil’s Croft, that is worth seeing, too.”