Portraits of Terror

By Innsmouth Gold

Since the Dawn of Time humankind has expressed itself through the arts - from the earliest cave paintings through to blockbuster movies. Dance, sculpture, music and theatre have informed religious ritual, cultural expression and entertainment throughout history. HP Lovecraft and others developed the traditional literary ghost tale into a new for

• Language: English
• Publisher: Innsmouth Gold
• Release date: Jun 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637526002

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PORTRAITS OF TERROR

Edited by Robert  Poyton

THIS IS AN INNSMOUTH GOLD BOOK

978-1-63752-600-2    E-book

Copyright@ 2021 R Poyton.

Originally published 2021

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts

in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.innsmouthgold.com

Cover and interior art by Shelley De Cruz

Copyright@2020 Graveheart Designs

www.facebook.com/graveheartdesigns

"That's because only a real artist knows the

actual anatomy of the terrible or the physiology

of fear…"

- H.P. Lovecraft, Pickman's Model

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

NAUGHTY TOM - Lara Poyton

THE POET, THE PAINTER, THE MADNESS - Ian Delacroix 

SWELL TIMES - Mark Jenkins

A GIFT FROM NISROCH - B. Harlan Crawford

STILL GOT THE BLUES - Tony Bradbury 

THE FAERY REALM - Robert Poyton

THE BEGINNING OF THE END - Andy Joynes

IF SKIN WERE PARCHMENT - Lee Clark Zumpe

PAINTING FOR JOY - Shelley De Cruz

THE FAMILY OF MAN - John Chadwick

MUD - Russell Smeaton

IN THE SHADOW OF ALDEBARAN - Miguel Fliguer & Mike Slater

COSMIC ANGST & AWE, VAN GOGH AND LOVECRAFT- John DeLaughter

BIOGRAPHIES

FOREWORD

Can you imagine a life without art? Without music, paintings, sculpture, design, dance, entertainment of any form?  It is difficult isn’t it? Being creative and expressive forms an integral part of human nature.

We have examples of art as far back as our earliest ancestors - whether for ritual or other purposes we don’t know. Perhaps they formed part of a story telling tradition, with the whole group gathered around the fire as an elder recounted tales of great hunts of days gone by.

Over time, the oral tradition became the written tradition, alongside depictions in paintings and sculpture. The arts developed as methods of worship, of recording history, as cultural expression and as pure entertainment. From this developed religious rites, theatre, literature, all the way up into today’s movies, streaming TV, computer games and so on. It is humbling to imagine that it all started with a person drawing figures in the dirt with a stick.

One particular brand of literature was the ghost, horror, or weird tale. A descendant, no doubt, of those campfire stories of things that dwelt beyond the protective circle of light. A leading exponent of such tales was HP Lovecraft, often dubbed the father of modern horror. His stories expanded beyond the familiar tropes of the day, the ghosts, the vampires, the revenant, into the cosmic.

In his yarns, mankind was no longer the centre of the universe -  it may be that even humankind’s very existence was nothing more than an error, a joke, a thing of little or no consequence. Lovecraft populated his world with the now familiar figures of Cthulhu, Yog Sothoth and various other beings, so much so that a new Mythos was formed.

Friends and fellow writers added to and adapted the Mythos a process that continues to this day. Even now, some hundred years later, Lovecraftian literature flourishes. And not just literature - graphic novels, films, TV or Youtube adaptations, music, sculpture, HPL has been expressed in them all.

It seemed fitting, then, to produce an anthology of the Lovecraftian and the weird based around the concept of the Arts. Once again, the stout members of the Innsmouth Writing Circle have come up trumps, providing stories that include deranged sculptors, magical paintings, doomed musicians, sinister performers and more.  Twelve new and original tales, plus a thought-provoking essay on the cosmic angst of Lovecraft and Van Gogh.

We hope you enjoy this collection, and find something here to suitably chill, amuse or weird you out - or all three! I’d also like to ask that, as we slowly claw our way out of the current world situation, you take the time to support local artists of all types where you can. It has been a particularly tough time for those who provide so much rich art and entertainment for the rest of us.

It remains only for me to thank everyone involved in realising this project - from the contributors both literary and artistic, to our proof reading team, to all those who backed the Kickstart. Your support is very much appreciated.

Now, read on…

Robert Poyton

June 2021

NAUGHTY TOM

Lara Poyton

Ornament is the principal part of architecture... only Deity can turn dead walls into living ones.

John Ruskin, Lectures on Architecture

God's Teeth, Tom! Will your profligacy never end?

  Young Thomas Lyttelton, 6th Baronet, gave the tiniest smirk. He lazily swirled ruby red wine around the crystal goblet in his hand, affecting an air of amused indulgence at his father's outrage.

What were you thinking? You promise to swear off gambling and in the next breath, put the house up against a mediocre Dutch painting. And it isn't even the original!

Still the son offered no explanation or defence. In frustration, Lord George flourished a paper in his face.

Do I have to remind you of the words you wrote but a few months ago? He held the letter up to his eyes, squinting at the ornate handwriting. "I do give you the most solemn and sacred assurances that you have nothing to fear… Gaming I hold in detestation, and if again I ever relapse in that most absurd Vice I will forfeit my Life and my Estate, or what is as dear to me as either the good opinion of Men, and will allow myself patiently to be treated with universal contempt."

Thomas sighed. What can I say, Father? My character is divided between an ardent desire of applause and a more than equal love of pleasure. I freely own that my life has been marked with an extravagance of dissipation.

Enough! Enough of the grandiloquence! You are not speaking in the House of Lords now! Lord George slumped into a chair and rubbed his temples. That your mother never lived to see her son become the self-inflicted subject of gossip and broadsheet scandal is a bitter blessing, God rest her soul.

For the first time, Thomas showed a flicker of emotion at the mention of his mother. He took the chair opposite to his father and drained his glass. For a long while in which the only sound was the crackle of the fire, both men stared up at the stucco panel above the mantel.

I had hoped your Grand Tour of the Continent would bring moderation and maturity, Lord George said eventually. Clearly, that was wishful thinking on my part.

A loud snort emitted from his son made Lord George realise the lad had fallen asleep. He shook his head in vexation. There was no point in pushing the argument now; Thomas would be unconscious for many hours, having surrendered to the embrace of Methe.

Lord George's gaze returned to the plasterwork above the hearth, his eyes inching over every intricate detail as his mind wandered back in time...

Francesco, it is a masterpiece! I have never seen such sublime craftsmanship. It is even better than the panel you created for Towneley Hall. It will be the pride of Hagley Hall, if not the whole of Worcestershire.

Francesco Vassalli, the much celebrated stuccadore from the Riva San Vitale, gave a modest bow at the effusive praise. Lord George stared in wonderment at the scene before him. From basic materials such as lime, marble dust and animal hair, Vassalli had created an exquisite copy of a lost Maratta painting. There, sculpted in smooth, ivory coloured plaster, Pan attempted to win the love of Diana with a gift of a snow-white fleece. Every leaf, petal and blade of grass, every curl on the sheepskin, the flow of the goddess’ sheer robe, all individually moulded and carved and leaping with life from the wall.

A young man entered the room and realising he was interrupting, made to leave.

No, Thomas, stay. Come and see Maestro Vassalli's achievement.

The young man sauntered over and gave a cursory glance at the bas-relief. Yes, very nice. He gave a nod of the head towards the master craftsman. Signor, you are to be commended on your magnificent creation. But, Father, please excuse me. The evening draws in and there are urgent matters to which I must attend.

His eyes twinkled with mischievousness as he turned on his heel and left the White Hall.

Lord George heaved a sigh. You have sons, Francesco? I seem to have been cursed with the worst boy in the whole of England. Barely sixteen and I have already paid off two angry fathers this year alone. Numerous governesses and tutors, each one more strict than the previous, have not tamed the lad and I fear he will only become more outrageous. Why, only this morning, he announced his wish to follow me into politics. Can you imagine?

The Italian craftsman pulled his gaze from the door through which the young man had walked out. His face was lined with concern. Your only son, Signieur?

The lord nodded with a look of regret.

And so he will inherit the house upon your... passing?

Aye, but hopefully not in the near future. I do fear for the estate should it fall into his hands too early. Already the boy shows a lack of responsibility for anything. Oh, yes, he has a charming nature and a way with words, and some artistic sensitivity, but, he raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness, I have not spent the last five years and a small fortune rebuilding the house only to be lost in a drunken game of cards.

No, indeed, replied Vassalli. He was thoughtful for a moment. Signieur, I have a confession. I am a simple man but am prone to the sin of vanity. It is a conceit of mine to inscribe my name upon the works I am most proud of. Would you permit me to return tomorrow with my tools to affect such an indulgence?

Why, of course, Maestro. It would be an honour! It would be doubly so if you were to spend your last evening at our table tonight. I look forward to hearing about your next commission and little more on your techniques.

The stuccadore smiled. How could I decline such a gracious invitation, Signieur?

The next morning, Francesco Vassalli appeared at the Hall bearing a leather pouch of carving tools and a small box. His arrival was overshadowed by a commotion that in the White Hall. Silently, he slipped into the room and crossed to his work table where he began to mix up a thick paste. As he worked, he observed the drama as it unfolded before him. Lord George stood with his back to the  fireplace as a furious Thomas ranted and gesticulated before him.

Can you see, Father? Can you see what the stupid wench has done? Thomas pulled the bag-wig from his head.

What am I looking at, boy?

The damned harlot has cut my hair. Look! How can I been seen in public now?

Lord George appeared to be as outraged as his son, but perhaps for different reasons. Well, what do you expect? You probably convinced her that she was your sweetheart with that silver tongue of yours and she has simply taken a token for her locket. He placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder and steered him out of the hall. As they passed, he cast a glance at Vassalli that spoke volumes of his despair before continuing to scold the boy. Let us pray this one has not fallen foul of your carnal attentions. I can afford a new wig until your hair grows back but any more illegitimate children will bankrupt us!

The door closed behind father and son, leaving the stuccadore alone in the White Hall. Fixing medium at the right consistency, he covered the bowl with a cloth and turned his attention to the wooden box. He lifted the lid and carefully pulled the straw away, revealing a small plaster bird, detailed down to the last feather. He had been up all night crafting the little creature. The mould was old and well-used, a favourite for the creation of songbirds. Once dried and released from the mould, he had carefully carved details that turned it into a robin. The coin he had paid the barmaid to lift her skirts to the young baronet and procure a handful of hair whilst he was in his cups was a small investment to safeguard his legacy.

The hair had been chopped finely and stirred into the wet stucco mixture as Vassalli intoned ancient words of protection and filled the mould. Words that had been taught to him by the old strega who lived on the north shore of Lake Lugano when he had been an apprentice. Words to ensure his creations would last way beyond his mortal years so that he would never be forgotten. As he had confessed to Lord George, he suffered from vanity and pride. He would be damned if a reckless and foolish boy would put his life's work at risk.

The bird firmly affixed and his name carefully carved into the corner of the bas-relief, Francesco Vassalli packed up his belongings and left Hagley Hall for the final time.

Despite Lord George's efforts, Thomas had not mended his ways. Much to his father's anguish, the marriage he had arranged for his son to a wealthy widow, whilst paying off accrued gambling debts, had failed without progeny. An affair with another unfortunate barmaid and the consequent flight to Paris had earned him the title of Naughty Tom amongst society and his name featured with distressing frequency in the gossip pamphlets.

Thomas fulfilled his threat to enter the House of Commons as MP for Bewdley but was unseated for bribery just a year later. He disappeared again to the Continent but, when Lord George died in 1774, the prodigal son returned. He took his title of 2nd Baron of Frankley and inherited his father's seat in the House of Lords where, to secure his support, ministers bought him over with a lucrative sinecure for which he would have to do little or no work.

Unfortunately, the income from the sinecure was short-lived and, feeling betrayed by his Parliamentary colleagues, Thomas denounced Government and Court in a vitriolic speech. Turning his back on politics and running out of funds, Thomas made a momentous decision. Having no heirs, he could see no value in retaining the family home, the greatest drain on his resources. After all, he had comfortable accommodation in Berkeley Square that kept him within society and Pitt Place in Epsom provided a more private location to entertain selected guests.

Decision made, Thomas travelled back to Worcestershire to make preparations for the sale of the house. The late November weather was bone-chilling cold and relentlessly wet; the journey strenuous for both the horses and Thomas's failing health. A life lived hard and fast was taking its toll on the young man, even though he was still some years from forty.

Upon arrival, he delivered instructions to his staff to prepare for the revelry to end all revelries a week henceforth. If he was to leave this house forever, then it would be with the greatest amount of extravagance and dissipation he could manage. Let it not be said that Lord Lyttelton left the county with a mewling cry but a roar!

Finding himself ill on the evening of 24th November, he retired early to bed. His servant gave him the medicine ordered for these attacks, a tincture of rhubarb and mint, and let him be. The night was stormy, thunder crashed over the house whilst lightning stabbed at the trees and follies on the estate. Thomas lay under the bed covers, listless and drifting in and out of fitful sleep.

Shortly before midnight, the storm lulled. An uneasy stillness fell about the house. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief and shifted his weight. He was staring up at the canopy over the bed when he heard the noise. Faint at first, the softest of rustles and a gentle tapping. He raised his head and peered into the gloom. The only source of light was the dying fire in the hearth. It created a soft, burnished glow that extended only a few feet, casting the rest of the chamber into murky shadow. There was a flicker of movement, so subtle Thomas wondered if he imagined it.

Tic. Tic-tic.

Thomas sat up, now sure that there was something in the room.

Tic-tic. Tic.

Who's there? he called. 'Show yourself at once!

More fluttering and upon the foot of the bed, a small bird alighted. It skipped along the beam, the flash of red on its chest burning bright in the light of the fire.

Tic. It chirped, tail bobbing up and down. Tic. Tic.

What the devil? Thomas muttered. He was about to call out for his manservant to remove the bird when a soft voice spoke from the darkest corner of the room, whispering his name. He stared hard into the shadows and gasped as a form slowly emerged.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Soft curves and mounds, the colour of fresh cream, moved sensuously under a white diaphanous robe. She held out her hand and the robin obediently hopped up.

Thomas, she said in a voice like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. Thomas, beware. Prepare for death in three days. You shall not live beyond midnight on the third night.

It was so absurd, Thomas could do nothing but let out a sharp bark of laughter. What are you talking about? he asked, but the woman and her bird were gone.

Guests started arriving the next day. That evening, still feeling unsettled about what he thought he had seen in the night, he could not help telling his dream or vision at the to his assembled guests. But rather than admit the incident had left him shaken, Thomas made light of the matter, blaming it on alcohol and a surfeit of rich food.

The second day passed without note although Admiral Wolseley remarked to Lord Fortescue that their host seemed uncharacteristically subdued. After dinner that evening, Thomas excused himself early, claiming that there was much that still needed to be done before the party the next night.

This will never do, exclaimed Wolseley after Thomas had left. We must do something to dispel this fug that has overcome Naughty Tom.

Indeed, said Lady Flood. He is too preoccupied by the supposed hour of his death that he will be distracted all evening. How can we divert his attention from this nonsense?

One of the Miss Amphlett's cleared her throat discreetly. I suppose we could... no, it's a silly idea. She blushed, embarrassed that she had the temerity to speak up.

No, Harriet, urged her sister. Do tell. It pains me to see cousin Thomas so out of sorts.

Encouraged, the younger Miss Amphlett described her idea. "You see, by changing the clocks by an hour, at eleven Thomas will believe it to be midnight. Imagine his delight when no ill