At age twenty-one, Rhode Island’s most famous master of the macabre, H. P. Lovecraft, was a high school drop-out; an awkward and emotionally crippled shut-in who wrote all night and slept by day. His only pleasures came from weaving his own bizarre, fledgling stories and composing his science column for The Providence Journal. A request to edit a U.S. edition of Bram Stoker’s Dracula emboldens him to investigate Rhode Island’s own vampire legend, Mercy Brown, resulting in a showdown that would forever change the literature of horror!
s he reversed the car, I couldn’t help but look back at the pitch black graveyard. There was a round, blue orb of light hovering over the area where Mercy Brown was buried. I didn’t bother alerting Bernie to its presence. I knew it was there expressly for me.
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On the ride home, even after I’d calmed, I could not shake the distinct feeling that we were being followed. There wasn’t another soul on the road, and I felt silly as I looked behind us for the fifth time. View full article »
Years before writing his most famous novel, Bram Stoker is working as the business manager of the famed Lyceum Theater Company of London. Wishing to make a hefty donation to the company: a mysterious, dapper Slavic gentleman visits the theater with plans to mix business AND pleasure.
Letter (By Hand), Actress Lillian Adams to Her Mother
Dublin, 12 August
I pray this finds you well and that your terrible gout is not too discomforting this week. I shall be home soon, and I am well tired of this summer run. Coming directly off the season as it did, my fatigue is beyond measure. I am sure most people would think it quite glamorous, being an actress with London’s famous Lyceum Company, la-tee-da, but it has been mostly tedious for me here. Mrs. McBride at the rooming house, though, has been so very kind to me, as I have said before. She takes the time to ask what food would be to my liking. I know how you tease at my fussiness, but I cannot help it.
The house at the Theatre Royal here in Dublin has continued full, and the people are very appreciative. Hamlet is so damn long. Sorry, but ‘tis a burden I cannot describe waiting for my few scenes. Mr. Henry-Bloody-Irving drones on and on with his speeches and I would rather sit backstage watching paint dry. I know you and all of London adore him; he is our illustrious leader and I should be grateful for the exposure. Miss Ellen Terry generally keeps a good spirit with us girls, but the same cannot be said for Mr. Irving. Oh, my dear, he frightens me so. You recall that time he railed at me when I was behind in my entrance. Remember, Lord how I cried. Thank God I still got me looks, as they say at home. He mostly leaves me alone. View full article »