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Post by helrunar on Nov 25, 2022 22:13:30 GMT
Today on social media I saw images of a couple of the illustrations from this new novelisation of the folk horror classic Blood on Satan's Claw (1971). The drawings look quite nice. Blurb: Beware the buried skull underfoot and watch out for children with fur on their backs...Blood on Satan's Claw is widely regarded as part of the ‘unholy trinity’ of cult classics which gave birth to the film genre that would become known as folk horror. Along with The Wicker Man and Witchfinder General, it found new ways to terrify audiences using elements of superstition and folklore.
Now, fifty years after its release, readers can experience the unearthing of this terror in the film’s first official novelisation: a compelling and frightening retelling of the fate of unfortunate villagers sacrificed by their own children as devil worship infiltrates their rural existence.
Written by the film’s original screenwriter Robert Wynne-Simmons and featuring haunting new illustrations from Richard Wells, it is an atmospheric and defining cult classic in the making.unbound.com/books/blood-on-satans-claw-or-the-devils-skin/H.
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Post by andydecker on Nov 25, 2022 22:43:52 GMT
Today on social media I saw images of a couple of the illustrations from this new novelisation of the folk horror classic Blood on Satan's Claw (1971). The drawings look quite nice. Blurb: Beware the buried skull underfoot and watch out for children with fur on their backs...Blood on Satan's Claw is widely regarded as part of the ‘unholy trinity’ of cult classics which gave birth to the film genre that would become known as folk horror. Along with The Wicker Man and Witchfinder General, it found new ways to terrify audiences using elements of superstition and folklore.
Now, fifty years after its release, readers can experience the unearthing of this terror in the film’s first official novelisation: a compelling and frightening retelling of the fate of unfortunate villagers sacrificed by their own children as devil worship infiltrates their rural existence.
Written by the film’s original screenwriter Robert Wynne-Simmons and featuring haunting new illustrations from Richard Wells, it is an atmospheric and defining cult classic in the making.unbound.com/books/blood-on-satans-claw-or-the-devils-skin/H. Thank you so much for the info, Steve! Instant sale.
With a foreword by Johnny Mains, no less. He writes he sat next to Linda Hayden while watching the movie at a festival.
I am watching a Nita Strauss solo 2021 with Alice Cooper and nursing a J&B, and still I am envious.
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Post by helrunar on Dec 2, 2022 19:40:13 GMT
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Post by helrunar on Dec 22, 2022 3:01:33 GMT
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Post by helrunar on Dec 24, 2022 14:33:13 GMT
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Post by helrunar on Dec 25, 2022 2:05:24 GMT
John Linwood Grant's latest facétie:
COUNT AGNES A chilling cautionary story for Christmas “Did I ever tell you,” murmured Canon Foxthrup, as he picked at the last of the Stilton, “Of my trip late last summer, the one to Sweden?” His friend Mr Bettleworth, wrestling with a particularly difficult Brazil nut, indicated with a movement of the head that he did not recollect such a tale. The good canon settled back in his chair. “Well, the gist of the matter is that, bereft of immediate duties at the time, I indulged myself by undertaking a short tour of the earlier churches of Southern Sweden. In the process — and most pertinent to the events I am about to recount — I happened to come across a most peculiar construction in a very modest settlement not far from Kalmar. The place itself was barely a village, and the church itself was common enough, possibly eighteenth century — but as an adjunct, it possessed an unusual form of mausoleum.” “The vault of a wealthy local family, I presume?” Mr Bettleworth stared in frustration at the nutcrackers in his hand. “It seemed so. Yet, cunningly constructed of local stone, this seven and half sided edifice contained but a single tomb, and that a sizeable effort, wrapped around with padlocks and iron chains. I enquired of the parson, and was informed that the tomb contained either several mortified squirrels without numerical ability, or the mortal remains of one Count Agnes. My command of the Swedish tongue is, as you know, is poor, and the parson had no English.” “Agnes? An, um, unusual name for a nobleman.” The canon waved one hand indulgently. “Apparently the Count’s parents were very modern — I suspected the dread hand of Methodism, myself. But anyway, I had been in there no more than an hour or so when, to my surprise, those very padlocks began to fall away!” “Great heavens!” cried Mr Bettleworth. “A portent; a warning of dread encounters to come?” Canon Foxthrup poured out further oloroso. “Metal fatigue, I believe. Sweden is very cold and damp; by opening the mausoleum, I had provided a fatal gust of fog-laden air. The parson was somewhat annoyed, and I was forced to conclude my tour with haste.” His friend squinted at him with suspicion. “And that is your entire tale?” “No, the odd part was that on the boat-train to Denmark, and then also on the steam ferry which brought me back to England, I had the unnerving feeling of being watched. You will know it, I am sure — that sensation where, whether amongst a crowd of fellow travellers, or being jostled at a social gathering, one person in particular — always one who is unfamiliar to you — has his eye upon you. I can tell you that my nerves began to fray a little. Cloaked in black, this figure was, and I would swear that he or one like him was at my heels from Malmö to the mean docks of Kingston-upon-Hull.” “Goodness,” responded Mr Bettleworth, though in a distracted fashion, as part of his mind was considering if his obstinate Brazil nut would yield up its bounty after being trapped between door and door jamb. “And so,” continued the venerable ecclesiastic, “You might imagine my feelings when, as I was about to enter the railway carriage bound for Bunbury and home, a hand fell upon my shoulder. Did I dare to turn? At length, I did, and beheld the sour, graven features of my pursuer…” “Count Agnes, come to reprimand you for disturbing his tomb!” asked his friend, rather hopefully. Canon Foxthrup frowned, examining the cheeseboard. “Of course not. Dear me, Bettleworth. No, apparently I had failed to pay for after-dinner coffee and liqueurs at my hotel in Kalmar. The Swedish take these matters terribly seriously, and I owed seven krona, fifty three öre, including a gratuity. Quite a sum. Naturally, I wrote a cheque there and then, and the fellow went off, relieved that he had not had to pursue me across the whole of England.” “But what of the Count?” Mr Bettleworth enquired, with distinctly less hope than before. “I have no idea. Perhaps that Swedish parson WAS talking about squirrels after all. I told our old friend Monty this tale only a few weeks ago, as it happens, and was gratified to see him scribbling in his pocketbook as I spoke — no doubt so that he could recommend me to his circle as a raconteur of note. So, what do you think of all that, eh?” But alas, when he looked up, neither Mr Bettleworth nor the sherry decanter were to be seen, and only several scarred but intact Brazil nuts remained to attend upon that worthy — if over-verbose — canon of Bunbury Cathedral…
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Post by 𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr on Jan 8, 2023 16:20:03 GMT
Thank you. Lord Berners was too lazy to go outside to paint a horse. That's Penelope Betjeman, wife of the poet, with the pony. She died aged 76, while trekking through the Himalayas.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 8, 2023 22:47:27 GMT
Fab photo. Thanks!
cheers, Hel.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 16, 2023 14:29:21 GMT
This is a cool short documentary shot in a mid 1970s educational style all about the Woodwose of Cannock Chase: www.youtube.com/watch?v=loZwFNT8H_sBlurb: "Towards the end of the 13th century, a large part of Cannock Forest in the English Midlands was cleared and hunting rights granted to The Bishop of Lichfield. In November 1292, Roger de Meyland led a hunting party across what was now known as Cannock Chase. He had no reason to suspect that, along with the deer and a dwindling population of wild boar, there was another large creature that avoided human contact. Hidden in the bracken, something was watching. Something feral, ferocious and utterly savage…" Produced in 1974, the British Cryptids films were presumably destined to be sold to a UK broadcaster - either BBC or ITV - but they seem to only have been shown at schools and ended up languishing in public libraries. Sadly, the video files recovered from the Internet Archive (which no longer seem to be online) were of poor quality and incomplete. The fragments are presented here as we found them. We leave it to the viewer to imagine what may be missing. Amongst the titles we were able to acquire are: ‘Yorkshire Yeti’, ‘Hereford Twiggywitch’, ‘Stag Men’, ’Souter Sea Wolf’ and ‘The Cumbrian Dregpike’, but the catalogue numbers on each film suggest that there could be many more. Apparently some viewers and fans are under the impression that these were really shot circa 1973-74. The people making these have a few web presences; here I'll just post the bandcamp one: whinnymoor.bandcamp.comIt takes a special kind of corkscrew-twisted genius to come up with work like this. We are not worthy! Hel.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 16, 2023 14:30:27 GMT
I'm really tempted to change my user name here to "Hereford Twiggywitch" but, being a Yank, I don't think that would be appropriate.
H.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 23, 2023 2:34:19 GMT
A friend of mine invited me over for lunch on Saturday. Towards the end of the visit, he asked me if I had heard about the media circus around the apocalyptic gender-themed, cannibalism themed, vigilante themed novel by trans author Gretchen Felker-Martin, Manhunt. Predictably I had heard nothing of it, although the book was enthusiastically profiled and promoted on the US National Public Radio station soon after publication. I looked it up on goodreads and was slightly floored to see that this tome has garnered nearly 1600 reader reviews: www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/53329296-manhuntI did briefly glance through the book (he had read it, and wondered if I'd be willing to peruse the story and provide an opinion--I had to decline), and a lot of it read like a compilation of somebody's inflammatory blog entries. Among other things this is the latest big-media product with a cannibalism theme; it seems to have become a major feature of exploitation media in the 2020s. The paperback's cover design features a slyly brutal reference to a very sensitive part of male anatomy. I guess this kind of thing could be considered an example of the spicy horror pulp of the present "enlightened" era. My friend mentioned that there were many sex scenes, all described rather robotically. Signing off, Hel.
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Post by pbsplatter on Jan 23, 2023 2:50:52 GMT
This one did somewhat pique my interest since the actual concept is kinda amusing, but playing like a Simon Clark version of an angry Tumblrite made me lose interest. I already got burned like that by The Loop, which I’d heard praised as being a Fog-worthy modern day tale of mass insanity, and it . . . isn’t. Instead it was borderline unreadable and the smarmy hamfisted politics just made it worse.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 23, 2023 3:21:06 GMT
What was initially somewhat extraordinary to me is that anyone who dared actually call the book a poorly written, incoherent mess was immediately denounced as transphobic. After thinking about it for maybe 30 seconds and recalling just when I'm living, I realized of course that those denunciations made perfect sense.
I'm just waiting for the announcement of the HBO Max series which is bound to be acclaimed as "edgy" and "brilliant."
Hel.
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Post by helrunar on Jan 23, 2023 3:24:09 GMT
1977 radio serial, Aliens in the mind, adapted from a story idea by Robert Holmes and co-starring Vincent Price and Peter Cushing--the first installment is good cozy fun for this classic horror fan: www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/b007jlt5Available on the website for another 29 days. Hel.
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Post by helrunar on Feb 1, 2023 14:57:11 GMT
From the blog of an internet author who goes by the moniker Folk Horror Magpie. There is a color photo which purports to be the remains of the first person discussed here but I am unable to post photos. If somebody else wants to post the photo, message me your email address and I'll email it to you. Cheers.
"Folk Horror Magpie" writes:
Though immurement or ‘live entombment’ is one of my top five no-thankyou ways to go, it has always fascinated me and one of the best stories comes from Thornton Abbey in my beloved Lincolnshire.
Dating back to 1139 the site of the abbey has been quietly accumulating ghosts for centuries. Writing in 1722 antiquarian William Stukeley records the discovery of complete skeleton - ‘seated at a table with a book and candlestick before him’ - in a small dungeon space that had been intentionally bricked up and forgotten about. The remains were thought to be Thomas de Gretham, a 14th-century abbot whose life of less-than-holy activities in the local drinking dens and concurrent rumours of practising the dark arts, led him to his dismal end. Unlike live burial, where a person dies fairly speedily by asphyxiation, actual death through immurement is via dehydration or starvation, a lengthy process.
It didn’t stop de Gretham’s activities entirely. He still wanders the grounds and is frequently seen around the gatehouse. Tradition has it that if the gatehouse is lit by the evening sun but the golden hue lingers after dark, the abbot will soon appear.
Remarkably there is a second story of immurement at the abbey, that of another abbot with a licentious lifestyle, one Walter Multon, who disappeared in 1443. So at least the two of them had things in common.
Ghost sightings persisted even after Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries in 1539, with a man seen walking across the parapet and through the wall. Only recently reports of ghosts intensified by the discovery of a plague pit alongside the abbey in 2016. A scout group were camping near the ruins, and two scouts were sent up to get water from the cottage in the grounds. They saw a figure of a woman ahead and approached only for the woman to disappear into thin air.
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