The Next Issue of The Chamber Magazine Comes Out February 3 at 10:00 a.m. US Central Time

The Chamber Magazine: Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry--The Strange and Dark and Beautiful
  • Fiction
    • “Unknown Worlds” Horror by Patrick McEvoy
    • “Making Ends Meat” Dark Fiction by Philip Finkelstein
    • “There but for the Beasts” Dark, Psychological Fiction by David Connor
    • “To Drive a Spirit In” Supernatural Dark Fiction by Aly Rusciano
    • “Frost” Horror by Dena Linn
    • “The Rtist” Dark Fiction by Karris Rae
    • “The Integration of Noah Bloom” Horror by Lexie Garcia
    • “Legacy” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by Evan Kaiser
    • “The Face in the Mirror” Horror by Z.F. Douglas
    • “The Tap Room” Dark Fiction by James W. Morris
    • “The Flat Share” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by J.L. Corbett
  • Flash Fiction
    • “Lover” Dark Flash Horror by Alan Caldwell
    • “Truth Reigns in the Dark” Surreal Dark Flash Fiction by Marie-Louise McGuinness
  • Poetry
    • Three Dark Poems by Jon Humphreys: “I, Phone”, “William”, and “Muse”

The Next Issue of The Chamber Magazine Comes Out February 3 at 10:00 a.m. US Central Time

The Chamber Magazine: Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry--The Strange and Dark and Beautiful
  • Fiction
    • “Unknown Worlds” Horror by Patrick McEvoy
    • “Making Ends Meat” Dark Fiction by Philip Finkelstein
    • “There but for the Beasts” Dark, Psychological Fiction by David Connor
    • “To Drive a Spirit In” Supernatural Dark Fiction by Aly Rusciano
    • “Frost” Horror by Dena Linn
    • “The Rtist” Dark Fiction by Karris Rae
    • “The Integration of Noah Bloom” Horror by Lexie Garcia
    • “Legacy” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by Evan Kaiser
    • “The Face in the Mirror” Horror by Z.F. Douglas
    • “The Tap Room” Dark Fiction by James W. Morris
    • “The Flat Share” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by J.L. Corbett
  • Flash Fiction
    • “Lover” Dark Flash Horror by Alan Caldwell
    • “Truth Reigns in the Dark” Surreal Dark Flash Fiction by Marie-Louise McGuinness
  • Poetry
    • Three Dark Poems by Jon Humphreys: “I, Phone”, “William”, and “Muse”

The Next Issue of The Chamber Magazine Comes Out February 3 at 10:00 a.m. US Central Time

The Chamber Magazine: Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry--The Strange and Dark and Beautiful
  • Fiction
    • “Unknown Worlds” Horror by Patrick McEvoy
    • “Making Ends Meat” Dark Fiction by Philip Finkelstein
    • “There but for the Beasts” Dark, Psychological Fiction by David Connor
    • “To Drive a Spirit In” Supernatural Dark Fiction by Aly Rusciano
    • “Frost” Horror by Dena Linn
    • “The Rtist” Dark Fiction by Karris Rae
    • “The Integration of Noah Bloom” Horror by Lexie Garcia
    • “Legacy” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by Evan Kaiser
    • “The Face in the Mirror” Horror by Z.F. Douglas
    • “The Tap Room” Dark Fiction by James W. Morris
    • “The Flat Share” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by J.L. Corbett
  • Flash Fiction
    • “Lover” Dark Flash Horror by Alan Caldwell
    • “Truth Reigns in the Dark” Surreal Dark Flash Fiction by Marie-Louise McGuinness
  • Poetry
    • Three Dark Poems by Jon Humphreys: “I, Phone”, “William”, and “Muse”

The Next Issue of The Chamber Magazine Comes Out February 3 at 10:00 a.m. US Central Time

The Chamber Magazine: Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry--The Strange and Dark and Beautiful
  • Fiction
    • “Unknown Worlds” Horror by Patrick McEvoy
    • “Making Ends Meat” Dark Fiction by Philip Finkelstein
    • “There but for the Beasts” Dark, Psychological Fiction by David Connor
    • “To Drive a Spirit In” Supernatural Dark Fiction by Aly Rusciano
    • “Frost” Horror by Dena Linn
    • “The Rtist” Dark Fiction by Karris Rae
    • “The Integration of Noah Bloom” Horror by Lexie Garcia
    • “Legacy” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by Evan Kaiser
    • “The Face in the Mirror” Horror by Z.F. Douglas
    • “The Tap Room” Dark Fiction by James W. Morris
    • “The Flat Share” Dark, Supernatural Fiction by J.L. Corbett
  • Flash Fiction
    • “Lover” Dark Flash Horror by Alan Caldwell
    • “Truth Reigns in the Dark” Surreal Dark Flash Fiction by Marie-Louise McGuinness
  • Poetry
    • Three Dark Poems by Jon Humphreys: “I, Phone”, “William”, and “Muse”

The Saturday Night Special: “Old Garfield’s Heart” by Robert E. Howard (1933)

"Old Garfield's Heart" by Robert E. Howard in The Chamber Magazine

I WAS SITTING on the porch when my grandfather hobbled out and sank down on his favorite chair with the cushioned seat, and began to stuff tobacco in his old corncob-pipe.

“I thought you’d be goin’ to the dance,” he said.

“I’m waiting for Doc Blaine,” I answered. “I’m going over to old man Garfield’s with him.”

My grandfather sucked at his pipe awhile before he spoke again.

“Old Jim purty bad off?”

“Doc says he hasn’t a chance.”

“Who’s takin’ care of him?”

“Joe Braxton—­against Garfield’s wishes. But somebody had to stay with him.”

My grandfather sucked his pipe noisily, and watched the heat lightning playing away off up in the hills; then he said: “You think old Jim’s the biggest liar in this county, don’t you?”

“He tells some pretty tall tales,” I admitted. “Some of the things he claimed he took part in, must have happened before he was born.”

“I came from Tennesee to Texas in 1870,” my grandfather said abruptly. “I saw this town of Lost Knob grow up from nothin’. There wasn’t even a log-hut store here when I came. But old Jim Garfield was here, livin’ in the same place he lives now, only then it was a log cabin. He don’t look a day older now than he did the first time I saw him.”

“You never mentioned that before,” I said in some surprise.

“I knew you’d put it down to an old man’s maunderin’s,” he answered. “Old Jim was the first white man to settle in this country. He built his cabin a good fifty miles west of the frontier. God knows how he done it, for these hills swarmed with Comanches then.

“I remember the first time I ever saw him. Even then everybody called him ‘old Jim.’

“I remember him tellin’ me the same tales he’s told you—­how he was at the battle of San Jacinto when he was a youngster, and how he’d rode with Ewen Cameron and Jack Hayes. Only I believe him, and you don’t.”

“That was so long ago—­” I protested.

“The last Indian raid through this country was in 1874,” said my grandfather, engrossed in his own reminiscences. “I was in on that fight, and so was old Jim. I saw him knock old Yellow Tail off his mustang at seven hundred yards with a buffalo rifle.

“But before that I was with him in a fight up near the head of Locust Creek. A band of Comanches came down Mesquital, lootin’ and burnin’, rode through the hills and started back up Locust Creek, and a scout of us were hot on their heels. We ran on to them just at sundown in a mesquite flat. We killed seven of them, and the rest skinned out through the brush on foot. But three of our boys were killed, and Jim Garfield got a thrust in the breast with a lance.

“It was an awful wound. He lay like a dead man, and it seemed sure nobody could live after a wound like that. But an old Indian came out of the brush, and when we aimed our guns at him, he made the peace sign and spoke to us in Spanish. I don’t know why the boys didn’t shoot him in his tracks, because our blood was heated with the fightin’ and killin’, but somethin’ about him made us hold our fire. He said he wasn’t a Comanche, but was an old friend of Garfield’s, and wanted to help him. He asked us to carry Jim into a clump of mesquite, and leave him alone with him, and to this day I don’t know why we did, but we did. It was an awful time—­the wounded moanin’ and callin’ for water, the starin’ corpses strewn about the camp, night comin’ on, and no way of knowin’ that the Indians wouldn’t return when dark fell.

“We made camp right there, because the horses were fagged out, and we watched all night, but the Comanches didn’t come back. I don’t know what went on out in the mesquite where Jim Garfield’s body lay, because I never saw that strange Indian again; but durin’ the night I kept hearin’ a weird moanin’ that wasn’t made by the dyin’ men, and an owl hooted from midnight till dawn.

“And at sunrise Jim Garfield came walkin’ out of the mesquite, pale and haggard, but alive, and already the wound in his breast had closed and begun to heal. And since then he’s never mentioned that wound, nor that fight, nor the strange Indian who came and went so mysteriously. And he hasn’t aged a bit; he looks now just like he did then—­a man of about fifty.”

In the silence that followed, a car began to purr down the road, and twin shafts of light cut through the dusk.

“That’s Doc Blaine,” I said. “When I come back I’ll tell you how Garfield is.”

Doc Blaine was prompt with his predictions as we drove the three miles of post-oak covered hills that lay between Lost Knob and the Garfield farm.

“I’ll be surprised to find him alive,” he said, “smashed up like he is. A man his age ought to have more sense than to try to break a young horse.”

“He doesn’t look so old,” I remarked.

“I’ll be fifty, my next birthday,” answered Doc Blaine. “I’ve known him all my life, and he must have been at least fifty the first time I ever saw him. His looks are deceiving.”

Old Garfield’s dwelling-place was reminiscent of the past. The boards of the low squat house had never known paint. Orchard fence and corrals were built of rails.

Old Jim lay on his rude bed, tended crudely but efficiently by the man Doc Blaine had hired over the old man’s protests. As I looked at him, I was impressed anew by his evident vitality. His frame was stooped but unwithered, his limbs rounded out with springy muscles. In his corded neck and in his face, drawn though it was with suffering, was apparent an innate virility. His eyes, though partly glazed with pain, burned with the same unquenchable element.

“He’s been ravin’,” said Joe Braxton stolidly.

“First white man in this country,” muttered old Jim, becoming intelligible. “Hills no white man ever set foot in before. Gettin’ too old. Have to settle down. Can’t move on like I used to. Settle down here. Good country before it filled up with cow-men and squatters. Wish Ewen Cameron could see this country. The Mexicans shot him. Damn ’em!”

Doc Blaine shook his head. “He’s all smashed up inside. He won’t live till daylight.”

Garfield unexpectedly lifted his head and looked at us with clear eyes.

“Wrong, Doc,” he wheezed, his breath whistling with pain. “I’ll live. What’s broken bones and twisted guts? Nothin’! It’s the heart that counts. Long as the heart keeps pumpin’, a man can’t die. My heart’s sound. Listen to it! Feel of it!”

He groped painfully for Doc Blaine’s wrist, dragged his hand to his bosom and held it there, staring up into the doctor’s face with avid intensity.

“Regular dynamo, ain’t it?” he gasped. “Stronger’n a gasoline engine!”

Blaine beckoned me. “Lay your hand here,” he said, placing my hand on the old man’s bare breast. “He does have a remarkable heart action.”

I noted, in the light of the coal-oil lamp, a great livid scar in the gaunt arching breast—­such a scar as might be made by a flint-headed spear. I laid my hand directly on this scar, and an exclamation escaped my lips.

Under my hand old Jim Garfield’s heart pulsed, but its throb was like no other heart action I have ever observed. Its power was astounding; his ribs vibrated to its steady throb. It felt more like the vibrating of a dynamo than the action of a human organ. I could feel its amazing vitality radiating from his breast, stealing up into my hand and up my arm, until my own heart seemed to speed up in response.

“I can’t die,” old Jim gasped. “Not so long as my heart’s in my breast. Only a bullet through the brain can kill me. And even then I wouldn’t be rightly dead, as long as my heart beats in my breast. Yet it ain’t rightly mine, either. It belongs to Ghost Man, the Lipan chief. It was the heart of a god the Lipans worshipped before the Comanches drove ’em out of their native hills.

“I knew Ghost Man down on the Rio Grande, when I was with Ewen Cameron. I saved his life from the Mexicans once. He tied the string of ghost wampum between him and me—­the wampum no man but me and him can see or feel. He came when he knowed I needed him, in that fight up on the headwaters of Locust Creek, when I got this scar.

“I was dead as a man can be. My heart was sliced in two, like the heart of a butchered beef steer.

“All night Ghost Man did magic, callin’ my ghost back from spirit-land. I remember that flight, a little. It was dark, and gray-like, and I drifted through gray mists and heard the dead wailin’ past me in the mist. But Ghost Man brought me back.

“He took out what was left of my mortal heart, and put the heart of the god in my bosom. But it’s his, and when I’m through with it, he’ll come for it. It’s kept me alive and strong for the lifetime of a man. Age can’t touch me. What do I care if these fools around here call me an old liar? What I know, I know. But hark’ee!”

His fingers became claws, clamping fiercely on Doc Blaine’s wrist. His old eyes, old yet strangely young, burned fierce as those of an eagle under his bushy brows.

“If by some mischance I should die, now or later, promise me this! Cut into my bosom and take out the heart Ghost Man lent me so long ago! It’s his. And as long as it beats in my body, my spirit’ll be tied to that body, though my head be crushed like an egg underfoot! A livin’ thing in a rottin’ body! Promise!”

“All right, I promise,” replied Doc Blaine, to humor him, and old Jim Garfield sank back with a whistling sigh of relief.

He did not die that night, nor the next, nor the next. I well remember the next day, because it was that day that I had the fight with Jack Kirby.

People will take a good deal from a bully, rather than to spill blood. Because nobody had gone to the trouble of killing him, Kirby thought the whole countryside was afraid of him.

He had bought a steer from my father, and when my father went to collect for it, Kirby told him that he had paid the money to me—­which was a lie. I went looking for Kirby, and came upon him in a bootleg joint, boasting of his toughness, and telling the crowd that he was going to beat me up and make me say that he had paid me the money, and that I had stuck it into my own pocket. When I heard him say that, I saw red, and ran in on him with a stockman’s knife, and cut him across the face, and in the neck, side, breast and belly, and the only thing that saved his life was the fact that the crowd pulled me off.

There was a preliminary hearing, and I was indicted on a charge of assault, and my trial was set for the following term of court. Kirby was as tough-fibered as a post-oak country bully ought to be, and he recovered, swearing vengeance, for he was vain of his looks, though God knows why, and I had permanently impaired them.

And while Jack Kirby was recovering, old man Garfield recovered too, to the amazement of everybody, especially Doc Blaine.

I well remember the night Doc Blaine took me again out to old Jim Garfield’s farm. I was in Shifty Corlan’s joint, trying to drink enough of the slop he called beer to get a kick out of it, when Doc Blaine came in and persuaded me to go with him.

As we drove along the winding old road in Doc’s car, I asked: “Why are you insistent that I go with you this particular night? This isn’t a professional call, is it?”

“No,” he said. “You couldn’t kill old Jim with a post-oak maul. He’s completely recovered from injuries that ought to have killed an ox. To tell the truth, Jack Kirby is in Lost Knob, swearing he’ll shoot you on sight.”

“Well, for God’s sake!” I exclaimed angrily. “Now everybody’ll think I left town because I was afraid of him. Turn around and take me back, damn it!”

“Be reasonable,” said Doc. “Everybody knows you’re not afraid of Kirby. Nobody’s afraid of him now. His bluff’s broken, and that’s why he’s so wild against you. But you can’t afford to have any more trouble with him now, and your trial only a short time off.”

I laughed and said: “Well, if he’s looking for me hard enough, he can find me as easily at old Garfield’s as in town, because Shifty Corlan heard you say where we were going. And Shifty’s hated me ever since I skinned him in that horse-swap last fall. He’ll tell Kirby where I went.”

“I never thought of that,” said Doc Blaine, worried.

“Hell, forget it,” I advised. “Kirby hasn’t got guts enough to do anything but blow.”

But I was mistaken. Puncture a bully’s vanity and you touch his one vital spot.

Old Jim had not gone to bed when we got there. He was sitting in the room opening on to his sagging porch, the room which was at once living-room and bedroom, smoking his old cob pipe and trying to read a newspaper by the light of his coal-oil lamp. All the windows and doors were wide open for the coolness, and the insects which swarmed in and fluttered around the lamp didn’t seem to bother him.

We sat down and discussed the weather—­which isn’t so inane as one might suppose, in a country where men’s livelihood depends on sun and rain, and is at the mercy of wind and drouth. The talk drifted into other kindred channels, and after some time, Doc Blaine bluntly spoke of something that hung in his mind.

“Jim,” he said, “that night I thought you were dying, you babbled a lot of stuff about your heart, and an Indian who lent you his. How much of that was delirium?”

“None, Doc,” said Garfield, pulling at his pipe. “It was gospel truth. Ghost Man, the Lipan priest of the Gods of Night, replaced my dead, torn heart with one from somethin’ he worshipped. I ain’t sure myself just what that somethin’ is—­somethin’ from away back and a long way off, he said. But bein’ a god, it can do without its heart for awhile. But when I die—­if I ever get my head smashed so my consciousness is destroyed—­the heart must be given back to Ghost Man.”

“You mean you were in earnest about cutting out your heart?” demanded Doc Blaine.

“It has to be,” answered old Garfield. “A livin’ thing in a dead thing is opposed to nat’er. That’s what Ghost Man said.”

“Who the devil was Ghost Man?”

“I told you. A witch-doctor of the Lipans, who dwelt in this country before the Comanches came down from the Staked Plains and drove ’em south across the Rio Grande. I was a friend to ’em. I reckon Ghost Man is the only one left alive.”

“Alive? Now?”

“I dunno,” confessed old Jim. “I dunno whether he’s alive or dead. I dunno whether he was alive when he came to me after the fight on Locust Creek, or even if he was alive when I knowed him in the southern country. Alive as we understand life, I mean.”

“What balderdash is this?” demanded Doc Blaine uneasily, and I felt a slight stirring in my hair. Outside was stillness, and the stars, and the black shadows of the post-oak woods. The lamp cast old Garfield’s shadow grotesquely on the wall, so that it did not at all resemble that of a human, and his words were strange as words heard in a nightmare.

“I knowed you wouldn’t understand,” said old Jim. “I don’t understand myself, and I ain’t got the words to explain them things I feel and know without understandin’. The Lipans were kin to the Apaches, and the Apaches learnt curious things from the Pueblos. Ghost Man was—­that’s all I can say—­alive or dead, I don’t know, but he was. What’s more, he is.”

“Is it you or me that’s crazy?” asked Doc Blaine.

“Well,” said old Jim, “I’ll tell you this much—­Ghost Man knew Coronado.”

“Crazy as a loon!” murmured Doc Blaine. Then he lifted his head. “What’s that?”

“Horse turning in from the road,” I said. “Sounds like it stopped.”

I stepped to the door, like a fool, and stood etched in the light behind me. I got a glimpse of a shadowy bulk I knew to be a man on a horse; then Doc Blaine yelled: “Look out!” and threw himself against me, knocking us both sprawling. At the same instant I heard the smashing report of a rifle, and old Garfield grunted and fell heavily.

“Jack Kirby!” screamed Doc Blaine. “He’s killed Jim!”

I scrambled up, hearing the clatter of retreating hoofs, snatched old Jim’s shotgun from the wall, rushed recklessly out on to the sagging porch and let go both barrels at the fleeing shape, dim in the starlight. The charge was too light to kill at that range, but the bird-shot stung the horse and maddened him. He swerved, crashed headlong through a rail fence and charged across the orchard, and a peach tree limb knocked his rider out of the saddle. He never moved after he hit the ground. I ran out there and looked down at him. It was Jack Kirby, right enough, and his neck was broken like a rotten branch.

I let him lie, and ran back to the house. Doc Blaine had stretched old Garfield out on a bench he’d dragged in from the porch, and Doc’s face was whiter than I’d ever seen it. Old Jim was a ghastly sight; he had been shot with an old-fashioned .45-70, and at that range the heavy ball had literally torn off the top of his head. His features were masked with blood and brains. He had been directly behind me, poor old devil, and he had stopped the slug meant for me.

Doc Blaine was trembling, though he was anything but a stranger to such sights.

“Would you pronounce him dead?” he asked.

“That’s for you to say.” I answered. “But even a fool could tell that he’s dead.

“He is dead,” said Doc Blaine in a strained unnatural voice. “Rigor mortis is already setting in. But feel his heart!”

I did, and cried out. The flesh was already cold and clammy; but beneath it that mysterious heart still hammered steadily away, like a dynamo in a deserted house. No blood coursed through those veins; yet the heart pounded, pounded, pounded, like the pulse of Eternity.

“A living thing in a dead thing,” whispered Doc Blaine, cold sweat on his face. “This is opposed to nature. I am going to keep the promise I made him. I’ll assume full responsibility. This is too monstrous to ignore.”

Our implements were a butcher-knife and a hack-saw. Outside only the still stars looked down on the black post-oak shadows and the dead man that lay in the orchard. Inside, the old lamp flickered, making strange shadows move and shiver and cringe in the corners, and glistened on the blood on the floor, and the red-dabbled figure on the bench. The only sound inside was the crunch of the saw-edge in bone; outside an owl began to hoot weirdly.

Doc Blaine thrust a red-stained hand into the aperture he had made, and drew out a red, pulsing object that caught the lamplight. With a choked cry he recoiled, and the thing slipped from his fingers and fell on the table. And I too cried out involuntarily. For it did not fall with a soft meaty thud, as a piece of flesh should fall. It thumped hard on the table.

Impelled by an irresistible urge, I bent and gingerly picked up old Garfield’s heart. The feel of it was brittle, unyielding, like steel or stone, but smoother than either. In size and shape it was the duplicate of a human heart, but it was slick and smooth, and its crimson surface reflected the lamplight like a jewel more lambent than any ruby; and in my hand it still throbbed mightily, sending vibratory radiations of energy up my arm until my own heart seemed swelling and bursting in response. It was cosmic power, beyond my comprehension, concentrated into the likeness of a human heart.

The thought came to me that here was a dynamo of life, the nearest approach to immortality that is possible for the destructible human body, the materialization of a cosmic secret more wonderful than the fabulous fountain sought for by Ponce de Leon. My soul was drawn into that unterrestrial gleam, and I suddenly wished passionately that it hammered and thundered in my own bosom in place of my paltry heart of tissue and muscle.

Doc Blaine ejaculated incoherently. I wheeled.

The noise of his coming had been no greater than the whispering of a night wind through the corn. There in the doorway he stood, tall, dark, inscrutable—­an Indian warrior, in the paint, war bonnet, breech-clout and moccasins of an elder age. His dark eyes burned like fires gleaming deep under fathomless black lakes. Silently he extended his hand, and I dropped Jim Garfield’s heart into it. Then without a word he turned and stalked into the night. But when Doc Blaine and I rushed out into the yard an instant later, there was no sign of any human being. He had vanished like a phantom of the night, and only something that looked like an owl was flying, dwindling from sight, into the rising moon.


Robert Ervin Howard (January 22, 1906 – June 11, 1936) was an American writer. He wrote pulp fiction in a diverse range of genres. He is well known for his character Conan the Barbarian and is regarded as the father of the sword and sorcery subgenre.

Howard was born and raised in Texas. He spent most of his life in the town of Cross Plains, with some time spent in nearby Brownwood. A bookish and intellectual child, he was also a fan of boxing and spent some time in his late teens bodybuilding, eventually taking up amateur boxing. From the age of nine he dreamed of becoming a writer of adventure fiction but did not have real success until he was 23. Thereafter, until his death by suicide at age 30, Howard’s writings were published in a wide selection of magazines, journals, and newspapers, and he became proficient in several subgenres. His greatest success occurred after his death…

from Wikipedia

If you enjoyed this story, you may also enjoy “The Fearsome Touch of Death” also by Robert E. Howard.


“Old Garfield’s Heart” was first published in Weird Tales in December, 1933.

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html.  To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au

Programming Error Night of Nov. 30 – Dec. 1, 2022

Just to let everyone know, tomorrow’s cover page with the links to the stories went out earlier than planned last night before the posts were published. As a result, you may click on a link from the cover, and it will go nowhere. This should not be the case tomorrow. Tomorrow the full issue will go out at 10:00 a.m. including the posts and (hopefully) all will run smoothly. There are some other minor glitches in the system currently, but those are being resolved. I apologize for any inconvenience.

Respectfully,

Phil Slattery

Day 4 of the Jack the Ripper Remembrance

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks in its blog, The Chamber is remembering the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888. At 10:00 a.m. (US Central Time) on the anniversary of each of the five “canonical” murders (August 31, September 8, September 30, and November 9) , The Chamber will run a documentary on Jack the Ripper from YouTube, so that you can compare the varying perspectives on the Ripper and see how widely the different theories on the Ripper’s identity vary. So grab the tea or coffee of you choice and a light breakfast and join us for should be four intense yet fascinating mornings.

From The Illustrated Police News for November 17, 1888 showing the discovery of Mary Jane Kelly's body at 13 Miller's Court
From The Illustrated Police News for November 17, 1888 showing the discovery of Mary Jane Kelly’s body at 13 Miller’s Court

What better way to remember Jack the Ripper’s last known murder than to visit a reconstruction of the crime scene? Be forewarned: this is not for the squeamish!

Finally, let me wrap up this series with an interesting thought that occurred to me awhile back and which I have never heard previously: what if the reason Jack the Ripper stopped killing was because his last would-be victim killed him first? It would not be surprising if many of the denizens of the Whitechapel, considering they lived in a dangerous area and knew Jack the Ripper was around, armed themselves. This opens up a wealth of new possibilities. Unfortunately, I have seen no evidence of this, but it is a nice theory.


For more information on Jack the Ripper, this Wikipedia article provides a summary of Jack the Ripper’s murder spree. For more excellent Jack the Ripper YouTube videos, follow this link to “Missing Evidence: Jack the Ripper” and “Unmasking Jack the Ripper”, whose producers limited them to be played only on YouTube.

More superb videos on Jack the Ripper are available to you on The Chamber’s Jack the Ripper Playlist on YouTube.

The Illustrated Police News for November 24, 1888

You are invited to The Chamber Magazine’s Remembrance of the Jack the Ripper’s Murder Spree

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks The Chamber is commemorating the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888.

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks in its blog, The Chamber is remembering the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888. At 10:00 a.m. (US Central Time) on the anniversary of each of the five “canonical” murders (August 31, September 8, September 30, and November 9) , The Chamber will run a documentary on Jack the Ripper from YouTube along with a few other esoteric tidbits of information. So grab the tea or coffee of you choice and a light breakfast and join us for should be four intense yet fascinating mornings.

Contents

Short Fiction

“Stitched Jack” Short Story by Billy Stanton

“Papa’s Candy Store” Dark Fiction by Hanna Bäckström

“The Event” Sci-fi Horror by Kate Bergquist

“Midnight in the Presidential Palace” Historical Horror by Kevin DG Johnson

“Shift of Doom” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

“Addictive Sunglasses” Dark Fiction by Callum McGee

“Proof” Dark Science-Fiction by Grove Koger

“Specimen” Horror by Ron Sanders

“The Puddlers” Dark Apocalyptic Fiction by K. Hartless

“Warmth that Chills” Dark Fiction by Hareendran Kallinkeel

“Never Again” Dark Fiction by R.P. Singletary

“Urban Appetites” Horror by Kilmo

“My Heirloom You’ll Be” Dark Fiction by Dimas Rio

“Tomato Seeds” Dark Fiction by Maggie Hall

“The Guest” Science-Fiction by James Hanna

Flash Fiction

“Tide Turners” Flash Horror by Billy Stanton

Two Works of Flash Fiction by Dylan Thomas Lewis: “Hallowed Cliff” and “They Did It for their Freedom”

“Mary’s Garden” Flash Horror by Thomas Falater

Poetry

Three Dark Poems by Joseph Farina: “icon”, ” the danger in reading words in darkness alone” and “portrait”

“Eye Spy” Dark Poetry by Michael Lavine

The Next Issue Appears December 2

Any time is a good time for chocolate.

Loading problems. Click in this area to go to contents.

Contents

Short Fiction

“Stitched Jack” Short Story by Billy Stanton

“Papa’s Candy Store” Dark Fiction by Hanna Bäckström

“The Event” Sci-fi Horror by Kate Bergquist

“Midnight in the Presidential Palace” Historical Horror by Kevin DG Johnson

“Shift of Doom” Dark Fiction by Alan Catlin

“Addictive Sunglasses” Dark Fiction by Callum McGee

“Proof” Dark Science-Fiction by Grove Koger

“Specimen” Horror by Ron Sanders

“The Puddlers” Dark Apocalyptic Fiction by K. Hartless

“Warmth that Chills” Dark Fiction by Hareendran Kallinkeel

“Never Again” Dark Fiction by R.P. Singletary

“Urban Appetites” Horror by Kilmo

“My Heirloom You’ll Be” Dark Fiction by Dimas Rio

“Tomato Seeds” Dark Fiction by Maggie Hall

“The Guest” Science-Fiction by James Hanna

Flash Fiction

“Tide Turners” Flash Horror by Billy Stanton

Two Works of Flash Fiction by Dylan Thomas Lewis: “Hallowed Cliff” and “They Did It for their Freedom”

“Mary’s Garden” Flash Horror by Thomas Falater

Poetry

Three Dark Poems by Joseph Farina: “icon”, ” the danger in reading words in darkness alone” and “portrait”

“Eye Spy” Dark Poetry by Michael Lavine

The Next Issue Appears December 2

Any time is a good time for chocolate.

The Saturday Night Special: “Araby” by James Joyce

Photo of James Joyce, author of Araby,  by Alex Ehrenzweig, 1915
Photo of James Joyce by Alex Ehrenzweig, 1915

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: ‘O love! O love!’ many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.

‘And why can’t you?’ I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

‘It’s well for you,’ she said.

‘If I go,’ I said, ‘I will bring you something.’

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

‘Yes, boy, I know.’

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer, but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

‘I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.’

At nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

‘The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,’ he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

‘Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him late enough as it is.’

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ He asked me where I was going and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Caf Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

‘O, I never said such a thing!’

‘O, but you did!’

‘O, but I didn’t!’

‘Didn’t she say that?’

‘Yes. I heard her.’

‘O, there’s a… fib!’

Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

‘No, thank you.’

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.


James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, poet, and literary critic. He contributed to the modernist avant-garde movement and is regarded as one of the most influential and important writers of the 20th century. Joyce’s novel Ulysses (1922) is a landmark in which the episodes of Homer’s Odyssey are paralleled in a variety of literary styles, particularly stream of consciousness. Other well-known works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His other writings include three books of poetry, a play, letters, and occasional journalism. [from Wikipedia]


If you would like to know more about James Joyce, Richard Ellmann’s biography of Joyce is available in The Chamber’s Bookshop.

If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy “The Broken Doll” by Kate Bergquist.

Editorial: The Pushcart Prize

I have been reading up on the Pushcart prize. If you are not familiar with it, it is an award given out to the “best [literary works] of the small presses”.

I was surprised to find that quite a few people speak of being nominated for it disparagingly. The common idea is that being nominated for it is no big deal as over 10,000 people are nominated it for it each year. Some say that because so many are nominated that it is embarrassing to mention a Pushcart nomination among one’s writing credits and advise writers not to mention it.

To me, this is B.S.

To be nominated for any award (with the exception of the Darwin Awards and their ilk) is always an honor. It may be a small honor, but it is an honor nonetheless.

To be nominated for any award, one has to be selected out of a pool; the larger the pool, the more meaningful the nomination. My question then is: if 10,000 people are nominated for the Pushcart, how big was the pool from which they were selected? I can hazard only the broadest of guesses, but I suspect the figure is in at least the hundreds of thousands.

Another perspective on this is that to be nominated an editor or publisher has to nominate the writer. An editor may read hundreds of literary works in a year (maybe more), but he/she can nominate only six for the Pushcart. So, to be nominated, one’s work must stand out to that editor, a person who may have read hundreds of superb literary works per year for decades. Furthermore, if a publication has several editors, the six will likely have to be chosen out of all the hundreds of works all those editors have read. So when an editor nominates someone for the Pushcart (or any other prize) he/she is vouching for the high quality of that writer’s work. And if that nomination comes from an editor in a highly respected literary journal (e.g. Granta, the New Yorker, Agni, or The Paris Review), then that nomination means a lot.

So, why do I bring all this up?

For the first time, I am going to nominate six of The Chamber’s contributors for the Pushcart. I have already made my final decision and I need only put the package together to send to Pushcart Press (for some reason, they don’t accept nominations by email, only via the USPS). I will announce the nominees (and hopefully winners) at a later date. It was not easy making the selection because of the hundreds of excellent works submitted.

Thank you for your time, and thanks to all those who have submitted or otherwise contributed to The Chamber. It is a pleasure and honor to read and publish your work.

The Chamber Magazine October 2022

Contents

Short Fiction

“Garden of Moths” Dark Fiction by Colt Fry

“Hurdy-Gurdy” Horror by Billy Stanton

“Mentone” Supernatural, Psychological Thriller by Sjoerd van Wijk

Things Have Been Strange Around Here” Psychological Horror by Amelia Slater

“Mr. Fate” Horror by Billy Stanton

“The Dare” Dark Fiction by Kate Bergquist

“Cat People” Urban Horror by K.C. Callender

“Ryan O’Shaughnessy Battles an Ape” Dark Urban Fiction by James Hanna

Flash Fiction

Three Works of Flash Fiction by Conor Barnes: “The Dream Eater”, “The Duel”, and “Void”

“Safe Space” Dark Flash Fiction by Alan Caldwell

“Just a Phase” Dark Flash Fiction by Alan Caldwell

Poetry

Two Dark Poems by Joseph A. Farina: “syndrome” and “skid noir”

“The Uncanny Resurrection of Tellurian Scenes” Dark, Surrealistic Poetry by Ashleigh Genus

Five Dark Poems by Meg Smith:  “Offleash Werewolf Park”, “Maxime”, “Backstairs Ghost”, “The Crocodile, Unbound”, and “The Incorruptible”

“A Skeleton’s Toast” Dark Poem by Thomas White

“Getting Ready to Stalk the Living” Dark Poem by A.J. Huffman

Three Dark Poems by John Tustin: “The Room is Yellow”, “Spitted Nails”, and “Stigmata Blood”

Three Dark Poems by Stephanie Smith: “Breeding”, “The Dance”, and “Thorns”

The Next Issue Appears November 4

Editorial: The Pushcart Prize

Today, I have been reading up on the Pushcart prize. If you are not familiar with it, it is an award given out to the “best [literary works] of the small presses”.

I was surprised to find that quite a few people speak of being nominated for it disparagingly. The common idea is that being nominated for it is no big deal as over 10,000 people are nominated it for it each year. Some say that because so many are nominated that it is embarrassing to mention a Pushcart nomination among one’s writing credits and advise writers not to mention it.

To me, this is B.S.

To be nominated for any award (with the exception of the Darwin Awards and their ilk) is always an honor. It may be a small honor, but it is an honor nonetheless.

To be nominated for any award, one has to be selected out of a pool; the larger the pool, the more meaningful the nomination. My question then is: if 10,000 people are nominated for the Pushcart, how big was the pool from which they were selected? I can hazard only the broadest of guesses, but I suspect the figure is in at least the hundreds of thousands.

Another perspective on this is that to be nominated an editor or publisher has to nominate the writer. An editor may read hundreds of literary works in a year (maybe more), but he/she can nominate only six for the Pushcart. So, to be nominated, one’s work must stand out to that editor, a person who may have read hundreds of superb literary works per year for decades. Furthermore, if a publication has several editors, the six will likely have to be chosen out of all the hundreds of works all those editors have read. So when an editor nominates someone for the Pushcart (or any other prize) he/she is vouching for the high quality of that writer’s work. And if that nomination comes from an editor in a highly respected literary journal (e.g. Granta, the New Yorker, Agni, or The Paris Review), then that nomination means a lot.

So, why do I bring all this up?

For the first time, I am going to nominate six of The Chamber’s contributors for the Pushcart. I have already made my final decision and I need only put the package together to send to Pushcart Press (for some reason, they don’t accept nominations by email, only via the USPS). I will announce the nominees (and hopefully winners) at a later date. It was not easy making the selection because of the hundreds of excellent works submitted.

Thank you for your time, and thanks to all those who have submitted or otherwise contributed to The Chamber. It is a pleasure and honor to read and publish your work.

Update: Buy Me a Coffee Site

New Twitter-proportioned Banner

I am making a subtle change to The Chamber’s overall organization. I will start previewing certain things (like next month’s cover) over at The Chamber’s Buy Me a Coffee site. I will test this a while and see how it goes. If there is enough interest and I can start to stay organized, I may have memberships there at a low rate, so donors can have access to plans and development and other stuff in advance of the main website and blog. I put a few posts up over there tonight, so you may want to hop over and check them out.

On another minor note, the banner above is one I designed to be used on Twitter or as a featured image on a post. After some experience with posting stories on this website, I have found that the featured image for a story (which may or may not be the one the reader sees at the top of a page) is the one that goes out to Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and Tumbler. Cropping it to fit a Twitter post seems to be the best way to make it fit into all four social media sites. You may see this from time to time.

Editorial: The Pushcart Prize

Today, I have been reading up on the Pushcart prize. If you are not familiar with it, it is an award given out to the “best [literary works] of the small presses”.

I was surprised to find that quite a few people speak of being nominated for it disparagingly. The common idea is that being nominated for it is no big deal as over 10,000 people are nominated it for it each year. Some say that because so many are nominated that it is embarrassing to mention a Pushcart nomination among one’s writing credits and advise writers not to mention it.

To me, this is B.S.

To be nominated for any award (with the exception of the Darwin Awards and their ilk) is always an honor. It may be a small honor, but it is an honor nonetheless.

To be nominated for any award, one has to be selected out of a pool; the larger the pool, the more meaningful the nomination. My question then is: if 10,000 people are nominated for the Pushcart, how big was the pool from which they were selected? I can hazard only the broadest of guesses, but I suspect the figure is in at least the hundreds of thousands.

Another perspective on this is that to be nominated an editor or publisher has to nominate the writer. An editor may read hundreds of literary works in a year (maybe more), but he/she can nominate only six for the Pushcart. So, to be nominated, one’s work must stand out to that editor, a person who may have read hundreds of superb literary works per year for decades. Furthermore, if a publication has several editors, the six will likely have to be chosen out of all the hundreds of works all those editors have read. So when an editor nominates someone for the Pushcart (or any other prize) he/she is vouching for the high quality of that writer’s work. And if that nomination comes from an editor in a highly respected literary journal (e.g. Granta, the New Yorker, Agni, or The Paris Review), then that nomination means a lot.

So, why do I bring all this up?

For the first time, I am going to nominate six of The Chamber’s contributors for the Pushcart. I have already made my final decision and I need only put the package together to send to Pushcart Press (for some reason, they don’t accept nominations by email, only via the USPS). I will announce the nominees (and hopefully winners) at a later date. It was not easy making the selection because of the hundreds of excellent works submitted.

Thank you for your time, and thanks to all those who have submitted or otherwise contributed to The Chamber. It is a pleasure and honor to read and publish your work.

Please take a moment to review The Chamber

The Chamber Magazine Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry The Strange and Dark and Beautiful

I would like to take a moment from your busy day to ask a quick favor: could you please give The Chamber a quick, honest review on Google Business by following this link? Accumulating reviews is critical to the contemporary business world. Every one helps.

Also, the next time you see The Chamber mentioned somewhere online or in social media, could you grant The Chamber a quick, honest review also? Keeping The Chamber’s face in front of the public as much as possible helps build a devoted readership.

Thank you in advance for your assistance in this matter. I hope you have a great day.

Respectfully,

Phil Slattery, Publisher

Day 3 of the Jack the Ripper Remembrance

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks in its blog, The Chamber is remembering the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888. At 10:00 a.m. (US Central Time) on the anniversary of each of the five “canonical” murders (August 31, September 8, September 30, and November 9) , The Chamber will run a documentary on Jack the Ripper from YouTube along with a few other esoteric tidbits of information. So grab the tea or coffee of you choice and a light breakfast and join us for should be four intense yet fascinating mornings.

For more information on Jack the Ripper, this Wikipedia article provides a summary of Jack the Ripper’s murder spree. For more excellent Jack the Ripper YouTube videos, follow this link to “Missing Evidence: Jack the Ripper” and “Unmasking Jack the Ripper”, whose producers limited them to be played only on YouTube

More superb videos on Jack the Ripper are available to you on The Chamber’s Jack the Ripper Playlist on YouTube.

The Illustrated Police News for September 15, 1888
The cover of the September 21, 1889, issue of Puck magazine, featuring cartoonist Tom Merry's depiction of the unidentified Whitechapel murderer Jack the Ripper.
The cover of the September 21, 1889, issue of Puck magazine, featuring cartoonist Tom Merry’s depiction of the unidentified Whitechapel murderer Jack the Ripper.

Look closely at this magazine cover. The man scrutinizing the theoretical images of Jack the Ripper is carrying a bloody knife and wearing a leather apron, as many believe Jack the Ripper did. In fact, an alternate name for Jack the Ripper is “leather apron”.

Please take a moment to review The Chamber

The Chamber Magazine Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry The Strange and Dark and Beautiful

I would like to take a moment from your busy day to ask a quick favor: could you please give The Chamber a quick, honest review on Google Business by following this link? Accumulating reviews is critical to the contemporary business world. Every one helps.

Also, the next time you see The Chamber mentioned somewhere online or in social media, could you grant The Chamber a quick, honest review also? Keeping The Chamber’s face in front of the public as much as possible helps build a devoted readership.

Thank you in advance for your assistance in this matter. I hope you have a great day.

Respectfully,

Phil Slattery, Publisher

You are invited to The Chamber Magazine’s Remembrance of the Jack the Ripper’s Murder Spree

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks The Chamber is commemorating the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888.

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks in its blog, The Chamber is remembering the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888. At 10:00 a.m. (US Central Time) on the anniversary of each of the five “canonical” murders (August 31, September 8, September 30, and November 9) , The Chamber will run a documentary on Jack the Ripper from YouTube along with a few other esoteric tidbits of information. So grab the tea or coffee of you choice and a light breakfast and join us for should be four intense yet fascinating mornings.

The Illustrated Police News for September 15, 1888

Now Taking Submissions for the October 7 Issue!

The Chamber Magazine: Contemporary Dark Fiction and Poetry is now taking submissions for the October 7 issue.

The Chamber is now taking submissions for the October 7 issue. Submissions for the September issue are closed. Halloween-related material is welcome but not required to submit. Please have your submission in before October 1. Be sure to include the genre and/or subgenre of your work in your cover letter along with the word count and a bio of approximately fifty words or less.

Check out the latest in our Bookshop and Gift Shop while you are here.

You are invited to The Chamber Magazine’s Remembrance of the Jack the Ripper’s Murder Spree

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks The Chamber is commemorating the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888.

In the spirit of the horror and true crime genres, over the next several weeks in its blog, The Chamber is remembering the horrific murder spree of the infamous Jack the Ripper during the late summer and early fall of 1888. At 10:00 a.m. (US Central Time) on the anniversary of each of the five “canonical” murders (August 31, September 8, September 30, and November 9) , The Chamber will run a documentary on Jack the Ripper from YouTube along with a few other esoteric tidbits of information. So grab the tea or coffee of you choice and a light breakfast and join us for should be four intense yet fascinating mornings.