HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales
HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales HP Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror - Weird Tales
24 H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R D O C T O R J O H N D E E , 1 5 2 7 – 1 6 0 8
EVERY PERFORMER DREADS DYING ONSTAGE. BUT NOT LIKE THIS . . . 4B? 4BCHA’M 4B? 0F;S L?Q *o 7CFMIH 9ou have absolutely no idea how scary a real, live pantomime horse can be until you see one of those bastards in the flesh. If two grown men put on a silly costume and indulge in a little slapstick on stage, it’s all good, clean festive fun. Primary-school kids love it, teenagers think it’s painfully unfunny and any adults in the audience get a sentimental trip down memory lane to the corner with amnesia street. Now, imagine the real beast foaming at the mouth, iron-shod hooves striking sparks on the flagstones and both, separate, unholy halves stampeding dementedly towards you: It’s absolutely terrifying. What makes it worse is hearing someone—someone who sounds suspiciously like your drama coach—scream at the top of her already very high voice, “Dear God, this isn’t in the script!” I SUPPOSE it all began the afternoon one of our teachers sawed Fat Malky Fairbairn in half. “Dinnae, Mister King, sir!” Malky shouted as he thrashed around in the coffin-like box at the front of the classroom. The rest of us wrestled him down, and I crammed his head through the hole at one end and shut the lid with a bang. “Gonnae no dae that?” our schoolmate added as we snapped the clasps shut. “Quiet in the cheap seats,” Mister King said, popping a jam doughnut between Malky’s flapping lips. That shut him up and Mister King was free to go on with his lesson. H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R 25
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- Page 23 and 24: AND I WOULD NOT FEEL SO ALL ALONE .
- Page 25: Lunch with Cedric went well. He alw
- Page 29 and 30: t “Isn’t he one o’ they gangs
- Page 31 and 32: a meal out of you. Malky and I didn
- Page 33 and 34: smoke billowed from the burning spo
- Page 35 and 36: HE WOULD DO ANYTHING TO SAVE HIS BR
- Page 37 and 38: fine; the problem was, like always,
- Page 39 and 40: You and I were pros, never carried
- Page 41 and 42: just stood there a bit taking in th
- Page 43 and 44: “You coming or not?” “Hey, du
- Page 45 and 46: THERE ARE PATHS TO AND FROM THE WOR
- Page 47 and 48: g Macchi shrugged. “It is nothing
- Page 49 and 50: “A sad story, Padrone.” “It i
- Page 51 and 52: d and hopping toward the breach in
- Page 53 and 54: l "IRCHA $;S
- Page 55 and 56: WITHIN AN EGYPTIAN TOMB, HER DESTIN
- Page 57 and 58: A Hatshepsut Temple. Then back to y
- Page 59 and 60: she puts it in the sun. She is hopi
- Page 61 and 62: H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A
- Page 63 and 64: THERE ARE THOSE WHO PLAY MUSIC. AND
- Page 65 and 66: "Haven't heard piping like that in
- Page 67 and 68: (e continues to sit, in his forgott
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- Page 71 and 72: HOW COULD MAN’S BEST FRIEND SURVI
- Page 73 and 74: jumping up and down when Olson’s
- Page 75 and 76: eing torn from bone. “I am lost i
EVERY PERFORMER DREADS<br />
DYING ONSTAGE. BUT<br />
NOT LIKE THIS . . .<br />
4B? 4BCHA’M<br />
4B? 0F;S<br />
L?Q *o 7CFMIH<br />
9ou have absolutely no idea how scary a real, live pantomime horse<br />
can be until you see one <strong>of</strong> those bastards in the flesh. If two<br />
grown men put on a silly costume and indulge in a little slapstick<br />
on stage, it’s all good, clean festive fun. Primary-school kids love<br />
it, teenagers think it’s painfully unfunny and any adults in the audience<br />
get a sentimental trip down memory lane to the corner with amnesia street.<br />
Now, imagine the real beast foaming at the mouth, iron-shod hooves striking<br />
sparks on the flagstones and both, separate, unholy halves stampeding dementedly<br />
towards you: It’s absolutely terrifying.<br />
What makes it worse is hearing someone—someone who sounds suspiciously<br />
like your drama coach—scream at the top <strong>of</strong> her already very high voice,<br />
“Dear God, this isn’t in the script!”<br />
I SUPPOSE it all began the afternoon one <strong>of</strong> our teachers sawed Fat Malky<br />
Fairbairn in half.<br />
“Dinnae, Mister King, sir!” Malky shouted as he thrashed around in the c<strong>of</strong>fin-like<br />
box at the front <strong>of</strong> the classroom. The rest <strong>of</strong> us wrestled him down, and<br />
I crammed his head through the hole at one end and shut the lid with a bang.<br />
“Gonnae no dae that?” our schoolmate added as we snapped the clasps shut.<br />
“Quiet in the cheap seats,” Mister King said, popping a jam doughnut<br />
between Malky’s flapping lips. That shut him up and Mister King was free to go<br />
on with his lesson.<br />
H . P . L O V E C R A F T ’S M A G A Z IN E O F H O R R O R 25
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