• A book on Christianity and the horror genre, looking at a biblical theology of horror (i.e., how horror is used in the scriptures), the history of horror in art, literature, theater, and film in the course of Christian history, a reflection on the significance of the dark and macabre in Christian holidays and worship practices, and a Christian engagement with the most notable characters, archetypes, and subgenres of horror. Currently, I’m torn between writing the entire work myself or enlisting the help of friends in a collection of essays.
• A play and/or screenplay revolving around the posthumous exposing of damaging facts about a highly esteemed Christian artist and theologian and the impact it has, particularly on the young writer who uncovers the scandalous information.
• A screenplay I started six years ago about mysterious supernatural occurrences on a college campus.
• A new screenplay based upon Gaston Leroux’s gothic mystery novel The Phantom of the Opera, paying particular attention to being faithful to the novel and emphasizing redemption themes.
• A novel set eight years in the future, in a time of increased economic and political unrest, yet featuring certain postmillennial undercurrents.
• A series of short novels formatted as a journal or epistolary account of the legends of Robin Hood. 
• I would love to write the lyrics/libretto for a rock opera based on the conversion of one of my favorite saints of the church. The key, as with some of the other above projects, is to find the right creative partners.

There is a point in the evening when the sun has finally gone to rest beyond the horizon, and yet its light still lingers on, reminding everything else of its continued presence, even after it has departed. The vanished sun’s phantom glow allows the things of the day to remain visible for a few more waking moments before the shadows of the evening come to suffocate them and drain them of their life in the daylight. These shadows come quickly, and one should not be found alone along a solitary dirt road, much worse near a graveyard or an old, dilapidated house or barn, when the time of shadows comes. That is, lest there be someone or something waiting in those shadows for you.

These shadows come very fast, indeed, in some of the old, rural parts of north Georgia. The Appalachian Mountains, which run down from the upper reaches of Maine, finally meet their low, rolling demise here. These ancient old foothills consume the last glimmers of sunlight long before it can reach those in the valleys down below. The tall, dark trees in a particularly woodsy area of the valleys can, at this strange moment in the day, suddenly turn from being at one moment steadfast shade trees, the friends of a beautiful day, to being looming adversaries with outstretched, claw-like fingers the very next.

My papa warned me about this time of day. He warned me that strange things happened in the shadows. He said that in the shadows mystical creatures roamed, and the dead of old could spring out of their graves and walk the earth until dawn. I was twelve years old that October of 1947, though, and really didn’t take a liking to such gibberish. Those were surely just wild stories he told me to make sure I was home by night. They were just like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and all of the other things I had learned by then not to believe in. Papa probably doesn’t even believe in them himself, I figured.

What is easy to dismiss during the daylight hours when you’re asking your mama for ten cents to go see the Saturday evening picture show is much less easy to put out of mind, however, when stepping out of the cinema much later in the evening. This is especially true after you’ve been filled with jitters from the images of The House of Dracula and its host of nocturnal ghouls. I stepped out of the theater at about seven that cool, early October evening to discover that, yes, the sun had slumped down behind Blackridge Mountain, and its glow sparsely covered the landscape. It was a mile and a half between town and home along the main road, and I realized that I had only two options. I could either run roadside and still have to face the last half mile in the dark, or I could shortcut through the old deer trail behind the drugstore through the woods, go straight across Orchard Hill, and high-tail it straight for home, praying that I reached my front porch steps before the landscape became nothing but a sea of jagged black shapes amidst a navy blue backdrop.

I sprung for the trail. I entered the woods and at once wished that I had stuck it out on the roadside. I had misjudged the trees by their friendlier daylight incarnations. These trees were massive monsters, blocking any glow of light from the sky, and I realized that now, instead of running part of my course in the dark, I would be facing my entire journey in the midst of shadow. I found my way through the trees on the upward slope of the hill, completely in darkness, and reached the remains of the old apple orchard without incident. I had to slow down here, though, because the trees of the orchard grew so tightly together.

Nobody kept up this orchard anymore. There was no need. The trees no longer produced apples. They simply grew, stretching and entangling their limbs with each other. As I tried to scurry as quickly as I could through the orchard, a rustling, accompanied by a clunking sound caught my ear. Clunk… clunk… clunk… the sound objects make when falling into a basket against each other. I had heard this sound many times in Papa’s store when apples were in season and the men and women filled their baskets full of juicy reds and goldens, one apple at a time. I looked behind me to where the sound was coming from and saw the old apple trees moving, but I saw no shape in thee shadows. The rustling and the clunking came closer and closer, though.

I was off like a shot. I didn’t know what this was, but I didn’t want it to catch up to me. I ran straight through the wild apple trees and the thick and thorny overgrowth surrounding it. My face was scratched probably three dozen times by the limbs, and my shirt and trousers were rent to ruin by the twigs and briars of the endless trees and undergrowth I tackled. Behind me, I could still hear the rustling of the trees, closer now and keeping pace with my run, the sound of apples now hitting the earth instead of a basket. This thing was chasing me!

I finally reached the edge of the old thicket, only to stumble across a jagged rock. I rushed to pick myself up, and looked down at the rock in the process. It was not a rock… it was a stone… a solitary, old gravestone. I had no clue what this odd finding was doing at the edge of an orchard. Overcoming the delay caused by the strange grave, I ran faster, having finally reached the open field and spotting the glowing lamplight from my living room window in the distance. As I cut across the grey grass, colorless in the darkness of night, and came within feet of my porch, I glanced back towards the scraggly old orchard. It looked calm, save for a pale, eerie glow that seemed to be coming from the spot of the old, solitary grave.

I burst into the house and ran up the stairs, pulling what remained of my dressings off and jumped into my bed, under the covers. I listened as the sound of the radio cracked downstairs: “…tonight’s special radio presentation of the gothic classic The Phantom of the Opera featuring Basil Rathbone, Susanne Foster, and Nelson Eddy…” Click! It shut off. I heard my father’s familiar footsteps climb the stairs and I watched as he entered my bedroom. I felt him sit down below me on the bed and run his fingers through my hair.

“You cut across Orchard Hill tonight, didn’t you, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You heard something, too, didn’t you?”

I hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

“What did you hear?”

“Papa, I heard someone moving through the trees, picking apples… but there were no apples, and there was nobody there. Then it started chasing me and, Papa, there was this grave and it glowed and…”

“Oh, there was someone there, son. It was old Mr. Harper still picking apples in his orchard. You see, when I was about your age, Mr. Harper grew more apples than anyone in the whole county. He had several men helping him tend his orchard because it was so large. One day, he walked in on one of his men, Eldridge Smith, having relations with Mrs. Harper. Old Mr. Harper went mad and ran both his wife and Mr. Smith through with his pruning shears. The rest of the hands came at once at the horrible noise. They overtook Mr. Harper and brought him before the judge. He confessed to the murders and was sentenced to die that very day. They hanged and buried him in his very own orchard. With his last words, he cursed his own apple trees, saying that no man would ever again taste a single fruit from his orchard. Since that time not one apple has grown in that orchard, and few have wandered through the old grove without hearing the sound of old Mr. Harper still picking his apples and keeping all who enter away from them.”

As a literature nerd, the eve of St. Walpurgis’ Feast (May Day) cannot come without this short story, originally meant to be the second chapter of

DRACULA’S GUEST, by Bram Stoker

When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich, and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer. Just as we were about to depart, Herr Delbrück (the maître d’hôtel of the Quatre Saisons, where I was staying) came down, bareheaded, to the carriage and, after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still holding his hand on the handle of the carriage door:

‘Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright but there is a shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm. But I am sure you will not be late.’ Here he smiled, and added, ‘for you know what night it is.’

Johann answered with an emphatic, ‘Ja, mein Herr,’ and, touching his hat, drove off quickly. When we had cleared the town, I said, after signalling to him to stop:

‘Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?’

He crossed himself, as he answered laconically: ‘Walpurgis nacht.’ Then he took out his watch, a great, old-fashioned German silver thing as big as a turnip, and looked at it, with his eyebrows gathered together and a little impatient shrug of his shoulders. I realised that this was his way of respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay, and sank back in the carriage, merely motioning him to proceed. He started off rapidly, as if to make up for lost time. Every now and then the horses seemed to throw up their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. On such occasions I often looked round in alarm. The road was pretty bleak, for we were traversing a sort of high, wind-swept plateau. As we drove, I saw a road that looked but little used, and which seemed to dip through a little, winding valley. It looked so inviting that, even at the risk of offending him, I called Johann to stop—and when he had pulled up, I told him I would like to drive down that road. He made all sorts of excuses, and frequently crossed himself as he spoke. This somewhat piqued my curiosity, so I asked him various questions. He answered fencingly, and repeatedly looked at his watch in protest. Finally I said:

‘Well, Johann, I want to go down this road. I shall not ask you to come unless you like; but tell me why you do not like to go, that is all I ask.’ For answer he seemed to throw himself off the box, so quickly did he reach the ground. Then he stretched out his hands appealingly to me, and implored me not to go. There was just enough of English mixed with the German for me to understand the drift of his talk. He seemed always just about to tell me something—the very idea of which evidently frightened him; but each time he pulled himself up, saying, as he crossed himself: ‘Walpurgis-Nacht!’

I tried to argue with him, but it was difficult to argue with a man when I did not know his language. The advantage certainly rested with him, for although he began to speak in English, of a very crude and broken kind, he always got excited and broke into his native tongue—and every time he did so, he looked at his watch. Then the horses became restless and sniffed the air. At this he grew very pale, and, looking around in a frightened way, he suddenly jumped forward, took them by the bridles and led them on some twenty feet. I followed, and asked why he had done this. For answer he crossed himself, pointed to the spot we had left and drew his carriage in the direction of the other road, indicating a cross, and said, first in German, then in English: ‘Buried him—him what killed themselves.’

I remembered the old custom of burying suicides at cross-roads: ‘Ah! I see, a suicide. How interesting!’ But for the life of me I could not make out why the horses were frightened.

Whilst we were talking, we heard a sort of sound between a yelp and a bark. It was far away; but the horses got very restless, and it took Johann all his time to quiet them. He was pale, and said, ‘It sounds like a wolf—but yet there are no wolves here now.’

‘No?’ I said, questioning him; ‘isn’t it long since the wolves were so near the city?’

‘Long, long,’ he answered, ‘in the spring and summer; but with the snow the wolves have been here not so long.’

Whilst he was petting the horses and trying to quiet them, dark clouds drifted rapidly across the sky. The sunshine passed away, and a breath of cold wind seemed to drift past us. It was only a breath, however, and more in the nature of a warning than a fact, for the sun came out brightly again. Johann looked under his lifted hand at the horizon and said:

‘The storm of snow, he comes before long time.’ Then he looked at his watch again, and, straightway holding his reins firmly—for the horses were still pawing the ground restlessly and shaking their heads—he climbed to his box as though the time had come for proceeding on our journey.

I felt a little obstinate and did not at once get into the carriage.

‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘about this place where the road leads,’ and I pointed down.

Again he crossed himself and mumbled a prayer, before he answered, ‘It is unholy.’

‘What is unholy?’ I enquired.

‘The village.’

‘Then there is a village?’

‘No, no. No one lives there hundreds of years.’ My curiosity was piqued, ‘But you said there was a village.’

‘There was.’

‘Where is it now?’

Whereupon he burst out into a long story in German and English, so mixed up that I could not quite understand exactly what he said, but roughly I gathered that long ago, hundreds of years, men had died there and been buried in their graves; and sounds were heard under the clay, and when the graves were opened, men and women were found rosy with life, and their mouths red with blood. And so, in haste to save their lives (aye, and their souls!—and here he crossed himself) those who were left fled away to other places, where the living lived, and the dead were dead and not—not something. He was evidently afraid to speak the last words. As he proceeded with his narration, he grew more and more excited. It seemed as if his imagination had got hold of him, and he ended in a perfect paroxysm of fear—white-faced, perspiring, trembling and looking round him, as if expecting that some dreadful presence would manifest itself there in the bright sunshine on the open plain. Finally, in an agony of desperation, he cried:

‘Walpurgis nacht!’ and pointed to the carriage for me to get in. All my English blood rose at this, and, standing back, I said:

‘You are afraid, Johann—you are afraid. Go home; I shall return alone; the walk will do me good.’ The carriage door was open. I took from the seat my oak walking-stick—which I always carry on my holiday excursions—and closed the door, pointing back to Munich, and said, ‘Go home, Johann—Walpurgis-nacht doesn’t concern Englishmen.’

The horses were now more restive than ever, and Johann was trying to hold them in, while excitedly imploring me not to do anything so foolish. I pitied the poor fellow, he was deeply in earnest; but all the same I could not help laughing. His English was quite gone now. In his anxiety he had forgotten that his only means of making me understand was to talk my language, so he jabbered away in his native German. It began to be a little tedious. After giving the direction, ‘Home!’ I turned to go down the cross-road into the valley.

With a despairing gesture, Johann turned his horses towards Munich. I leaned on my stick and looked after him. He went slowly along the road for a while: then there came over the crest of the hill a man tall and thin. I could see so much in the distance. When he drew near the horses, they began to jump and kick about, then to scream with terror. Johann could not hold them in; they bolted down the road, running away madly. I watched them out of sight, then looked for the stranger, but I found that he, too, was gone.

With a light heart I turned down the side road through the deepening valley to which Johann had objected. There was not the slightest reason, that I could see, for his objection; and I daresay I tramped for a couple of hours without thinking of time or distance, and certainly without seeing a person or a house. So far as the place was concerned, it was desolation, itself. But I did not notice this particularly till, on turning a bend in the road, I came upon a scattered fringe of wood; then I recognised that I had been impressed unconsciously by the desolation of the region through which I had passed.

I sat down to rest myself, and began to look around. It struck me that it was considerably colder than it had been at the commencement of my walk—a sort of sighing sound seemed to be around me, with, now and then, high overhead, a sort of muffled roar. Looking upwards I noticed that great thick clouds were drifting rapidly across the sky from North to South at a great height. There were signs of coming storm in some lofty stratum of the air. I was a little chilly, and, thinking that it was the sitting still after the exercise of walking, I resumed my journey.

The ground I passed over was now much more picturesque. There were no striking objects that the eye might single out; but in all there was a charm of beauty. I took little heed of time and it was only when the deepening twilight forced itself upon me that I began to think of how I should find my way home. The brightness of the day had gone. The air was cold, and the drifting of clouds high overhead was more marked. They were accompanied by a sort of far-away rushing sound, through which seemed to come at intervals that mysterious cry which the driver had said came from a wolf. For a while I hesitated. I had said I would see the deserted village, so on I went, and presently came on a wide stretch of open country, shut in by hills all around. Their sides were covered with trees which spread down to the plain, dotting, in clumps, the gentler slopes and hollows which showed here and there. I followed with my eye the winding of the road, and saw that it curved close to one of the densest of these clumps and was lost behind it.

As I looked there came a cold shiver in the air, and the snow began to fall. I thought of the miles and miles of bleak country I had passed, and then hurried on to seek the shelter of the wood in front. Darker and darker grew the sky, and faster and heavier fell the snow, till the earth before and around me was a glistening white carpet the further edge of which was lost in misty vagueness. The road was here but crude, and when on the level its boundaries were not so marked, as when it passed through the cuttings; and in a little while I found that I must have strayed from it, for I missed underfoot the hard surface, and my feet sank deeper in the grass and moss. Then the wind grew stronger and blew with ever increasing force, till I was fain to run before it. The air became icy-cold, and in spite of my exercise I began to suffer. The snow was now falling so thickly and whirling around me in such rapid eddies that I could hardly keep my eyes open. Every now and then the heavens were torn asunder by vivid lightning, and in the flashes I could see ahead of me a great mass of trees, chiefly yew and cypress all heavily coated with snow.

I was soon amongst the shelter of the trees, and there, in comparative silence, I could hear the rush of the wind high overhead. Presently the blackness of the storm had become merged in the darkness of the night By-and-by the storm seemed to be passing away: it now only came in fierce puffs or blasts. At such moments the weird sound of the wolf appeared to be echoed by many similar sounds around me.

Now and again, through the black mass of drifting cloud, came a straggling ray of moonlight, which lit up the expanse, and showed me that I was at the edge of a dense mass of cypress and yew trees. As the snow had ceased to fall, I walked out from the shelter and began to investigate more closely. It appeared to me that, amongst so many old foundations as I had passed, there might be still standing a house in which, though in ruins, I could find some sort of shelter for a while. As I skirted the edge of the copse, I found that a low wall encircled it, and following this I presently found an opening. Here the cypresses formed an alley leading up to a square mass of some kind of building. Just as I caught sight of this, however, the drifting clouds obscured the moon, and I passed up the path in darkness. The wind must have grown colder, for I felt myself shiver as I walked; but there was hope of shelter, and I groped my way blindly on.

I stopped, for there was a sudden stillness. The storm had passed; and, perhaps in sympathy with nature’s silence, my heart seemed to cease to beat. But this was only momentarily; for suddenly the moonlight broke through the clouds, showing me that I was in a graveyard, and that the square object before me was a great massive tomb of marble, as white as the snow that lay on and all around it. With the moonlight there came a fierce sigh of the storm, which appeared to resume its course with a long, low howl, as of many dogs or wolves. I was awed and shocked, and felt the cold perceptibly grow upon me till it seemed to grip me by the heart. Then while the flood of moonlight still fell on the marble tomb, the storm gave further evidence of renewing, as though it was returning on its track. Impelled by some sort of fascination, I approached the sepulchre to see what it was, and why such a thing stood alone in such a place. I walked around it, and read, over the Doric door, in German:

COUNTESS DOLINGEN OF GRATZ
IN STYRIA
SOUGHT AND FOUND DEATH
1801

On the top of the tomb, seemingly driven through the solid marble—for the structure was composed of a few vast blocks of stone—was a great iron spike or stake. On going to the back I saw, graven in great Russian letters:

‘The dead travel fast.’

There was something so weird and uncanny about the whole thing that it gave me a turn and made me feel quite faint. I began to wish, for the first time, that I had taken Johann’s advice. Here a thought struck me, which came under almost mysterious circumstances and with a terrible shock. This was Walpurgis Night!

Walpurgis Night, when, according to the belief of millions of people, the devil was abroad—when the graves were opened and the dead came forth and walked. When all evil things of earth and air and water held revel. This very place the driver had specially shunned. This was the depopulated village of centuries ago. This was where the suicide lay; and this was the place where I was alone—unmanned, shivering with cold in a shroud of snow with a wild storm gathering again upon me! It took all my philosophy, all the religion I had been taught, all my courage, not to collapse in a paroxysm of fright.

And now a perfect tornado burst upon me. The ground shook as though thousands of horses thundered across it; and this time the storm bore on its icy wings, not snow, but great hailstones which drove with such violence that they might have come from the thongs of Balearic slingers—hailstones that beat down leaf and branch and made the shelter of the cypresses of no more avail than though their stems were standing-corn. At the first I had rushed to the nearest tree; but I was soon fain to leave it and seek the only spot that seemed to afford refuge, the deep Doric doorway of the marble tomb. There, crouching against the massive bronze door, I gained a certain amount of protection from the beating of the hailstones, for now they only drove against me as they ricocheted from the ground and the side of the marble.

As I leaned against the door, it moved slightly and opened inwards. The shelter of even a tomb was welcome in that pitiless tempest, and I was about to enter it when there came a flash of forked-lightning that lit up the whole expanse of the heavens. In the instant, as I am a living man, I saw, as my eyes were turned into the darkness of the tomb, a beautiful woman, with rounded cheeks and red lips, seemingly sleeping on a bier. As the thunder broke overhead, I was grasped as by the hand of a giant and hurled out into the storm. The whole thing was so sudden that, before I could realise the shock, moral as well as physical, I found the hailstones beating me down. At the same time I had a strange, dominating feeling that I was not alone. I looked towards the tomb. Just then there came another blinding flash, which seemed to strike the iron stake that surmounted the tomb and to pour through to the earth, blasting and crumbling the marble, as in a burst of flame. The dead woman rose for a moment of agony, while she was lapped in the flame, and her bitter scream of pain was drowned in the thundercrash. The last thing I heard was this mingling of dreadful sound, as again I was seized in the giant-grasp and dragged away, while the hailstones beat on me, and the air around seemed reverberant with the howling of wolves. The last sight that I remembered was a vague, white, moving mass, as if all the graves around me had sent out the phantoms of their sheeted-dead, and that they were closing in on me through the white cloudiness of the driving hail.

Gradually there came a sort of vague beginning of consciousness; then a sense of weariness that was dreadful. For a time I remembered nothing; but slowly my senses returned. My feet seemed positively racked with pain, yet I could not move them. They seemed to be numbed. There was an icy feeling at the back of my neck and all down my spine, and my ears, like my feet, were dead, yet in torment; but there was in my breast a sense of warmth which was, by comparison, delicious. It was as a nightmare—a physical nightmare, if one may use such an expression; for some heavy weight on my chest made it difficult for me to breathe.

This period of semi-lethargy seemed to remain a long time, and as it faded away I must have slept or swooned. Then came a sort of loathing, like the first stage of sea-sickness, and a wild desire to be free from something—I knew not what. A vast stillness enveloped me, as though all the world were asleep or dead—only broken by the low panting as of some animal close to me. I felt a warm rasping at my throat, then came a consciousness of the awful truth, which chilled me to the heart and sent the blood surging up through my brain. Some great animal was lying on me and now licking my throat. I feared to stir, for some instinct of prudence bade me lie still; but the brute seemed to realise that there was now some change in me, for it raised its head. Through my eyelashes I saw above me the two great flaming eyes of a gigantic wolf. Its sharp white teeth gleamed in the gaping red mouth, and I could feel its hot breath fierce and acrid upon me.

For another spell of time I remembered no more. Then I became conscious of a low growl, followed by a yelp, renewed again and again. Then, seemingly very far away, I heard a ‘Holloa! holloa!’ as of many voices calling in unison. Cautiously I raised my head and looked in the direction whence the sound came; but the cemetery blocked my view. The wolf still continued to yelp in a strange way, and a red glare began to move round the grove of cypresses, as though following the sound. As the voices drew closer, the wolf yelped faster and louder. I feared to make either sound or motion. Nearer came the red glow, over the white pall which stretched into the darkness around me. Then all at once from beyond the trees there came at a trot a troop of horsemen bearing torches. The wolf rose from my breast and made for the cemetery. I saw one of the horsemen (soldiers by their caps and their long military cloaks) raise his carbine and take aim. A companion knocked up his arm, and I heard the ball whizz over my head. He had evidently taken my body for that of the wolf. Another sighted the animal as it slunk away, and a shot followed. Then, at a gallop, the troop rode forward—some towards me, others following the wolf as it disappeared amongst the snow-clad cypresses.

As they drew nearer I tried to move, but was powerless, although I could see and hear all that went on around me. Two or three of the soldiers jumped from their horses and knelt beside me. One of them raised my head, and placed his hand over my heart.

‘Good news, comrades!’ he cried. ‘His heart still beats!’

Then some brandy was poured down my throat; it put vigour into me, and I was able to open my eyes fully and look around. Lights and shadows were moving among the trees, and I heard men call to one another. They drew together, uttering frightened exclamations; and the lights flashed as the others came pouring out of the cemetery pell-mell, like men possessed. When the further ones came close to us, those who were around me asked them eagerly:

‘Well, have you found him?’

The reply rang out hurriedly:

‘No! no! Come away quick—quick! This is no place to stay, and on this of all nights!’

‘What was it?’ was the question, asked in all manner of keys. The answer came variously and all indefinitely as though the men were moved by some common impulse to speak, yet were restrained by some common fear from giving their thoughts.

‘It—it—indeed!’ gibbered one, whose wits had plainly given out for the moment.

‘A wolf—and yet not a wolf!’ another put in shudderingly.

‘No use trying for him without the sacred bullet,’ a third remarked in a more ordinary manner.

‘Serve us right for coming out on this night! Truly we have earned our thousand marks!’ were the ejaculations of a fourth.

‘There was blood on the broken marble,’ another said after a pause—’the lightning never brought that there. And for him—is he safe? Look at his throat! See, comrades, the wolf has been lying on him and keeping his blood warm.’

The officer looked at my throat and replied:

‘He is all right; the skin is not pierced. What does it all mean? We should never have found him but for the yelping of the wolf.’

‘What became of it?’ asked the man who was holding up my head, and who seemed the least panic-stricken of the party, for his hands were steady and without tremor. On his sleeve was the chevron of a petty officer.

‘It went to its home,’ answered the man, whose long face was pallid, and who actually shook with terror as he glanced around him fearfully. ‘There are graves enough there in which it may lie. Come, comrades—come quickly! Let us leave this cursed spot.’

The officer raised me to a sitting posture, as he uttered a word of command; then several men placed me upon a horse. He sprang to the saddle behind me, took me in his arms, gave the word to advance; and, turning our faces away from the cypresses, we rode away in swift, military order.

As yet my tongue refused its office, and I was perforce silent. I must have fallen asleep; for the next thing I remembered was finding myself standing up, supported by a soldier on each side of me. It was almost broad daylight, and to the north a red streak of sunlight was reflected, like a path of blood, over the waste of snow. The officer was telling the men to say nothing of what they had seen, except that they found an English stranger, guarded by a large dog.

‘Dog! that was no dog,’ cut in the man who had exhibited such fear. ‘I think I know a wolf when I see one.’

The young officer answered calmly: ‘I said a dog.’

‘Dog!’ reiterated the other ironically. It was evident that his courage was rising with the sun; and, pointing to me, he said, ‘Look at his throat. Is that the work of a dog, master?’

Instinctively I raised my hand to my throat, and as I touched it I cried out in pain. The men crowded round to look, some stooping down from their saddles; and again there came the calm voice of the young officer:

‘A dog, as I said. If aught else were said we should only be laughed at.’

I was then mounted behind a trooper, and we rode on into the suburbs of Munich. Here we came across a stray carriage, into which I was lifted, and it was driven off to the Quatre Saisons—the young officer accompanying me, whilst a trooper followed with his horse, and the others rode off to their barracks.

When we arrived, Herr Delbrück rushed so quickly down the steps to meet me, that it was apparent he had been watching within. Taking me by both hands he solicitously led me in. The officer saluted me and was turning to withdraw, when I recognised his purpose, and insisted that he should come to my rooms. Over a glass of wine I warmly thanked him and his brave comrades for saving me. He replied simply that he was more than glad, and that Herr Delbrück had at the first taken steps to make all the searching party pleased; at which ambiguous utterance the maître d’hôtel smiled, while the officer pleaded duty and withdrew.

‘But Herr Delbrück,’ I enquired, ‘how and why was it that the soldiers searched for me?’

He shrugged his shoulders, as if in depreciation of his own deed, as he replied:

‘I was so fortunate as to obtain leave from the commander of the regiment in which I served, to ask for volunteers.’

‘But how did you know I was lost?’ I asked.

‘The driver came hither with the remains of his carriage, which had been upset when the horses ran away.’

‘But surely you would not send a search-party of soldiers merely on this account?’

‘Oh, no!’ he answered; ‘but even before the coachman arrived, I had this telegram from the Boyar whose guest you are,’ and he took from his pocket a telegram which he handed to me, and I read:

Bistritz.

Be careful of my guest—his safety is most precious to me. Should aught happen to him, or if he be missed, spare nothing to find him and ensure his safety. He is English and therefore adventurous. There are often dangers from snow and wolves and night. Lose not a moment if you suspect harm to him. I answer your zeal with my fortune.—Dracula.

As I held the telegram in my hand, the room seemed to whirl around me; and, if the attentive maître d’hôtel had not caught me, I think I should have fallen. There was something so strange in all this, something so weird and impossible to imagine, that there grew on me a sense of my being in some way the sport of opposite forces—the mere vague idea of which seemed in a way to paralyse me. I was certainly under some form of mysterious protection. From a distant country had come, in the very nick of time, a message that took me out of the danger of the snow-sleep and the jaws of the wolf.

I wrote this little poem after reading a friend’s tweet about waking up in the middle of the night after watching a vampire movie. Sometimes my imagination is sparked by the most random things.

Do you wake affright at night,
Hoping for the morning light,
Reeling from most haunted dreams of
Dark phantasmal gore?

Do you grasp upon your nightstand
For a cross or stake with your hand
As you dread to see a shadow
Creep upon the door?

Is it Dracula or Orlock
Who has thrown your soul into shock
And whose tendrilled fingers outstretch
Toward you more and more?

Do you pray unto our Savior,
“Rescue me at once now from your
Adversary who delights in
Creeping ‘cross my floor!”

As the air grows ever crisper
In your home’s foreboding whisper,
And your heart begins to blister
In your body’s core,

You, as one beside you mutters,
“Back to sleep, and close the shutters,”
Sigh, and sheepishly turn over,
Ego badly sore.

Do not you, looking backward hence,
Wish earlier you’d had the sense
Not to watch a late night tale of
Grisly undead lore?

© 2011 Jacob A. Davis

- Isaiah 53:55-6, New English Bible

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Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 2,700 times in 2010. That’s about 6 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 10 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 149 posts. There were 41 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 5mb. That’s about 3 pictures per month.

The busiest day of the year was January 2nd with 39 views. The most popular post that day was I Thoroughly Enjoy Douglas Wilson.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were networkedblogs.com, facebook.com, twitter.com, thesojournersjournal.blogspot.com, and imageoftruth.wordpress.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for the wolfman dvd, christopher hitchens, wolfman dvd, phantom of the opera, and the wolfman.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

I Thoroughly Enjoy Douglas Wilson January 2010

Review: The Wolfman February 2010

The Many Masks of The Phantom of the Opera November 2009

Hitchens Nails “Liberal” Christianity January 2010
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Finding My Christmas: A Personal Journey to Advent December 2009

• “Halloween: Gargoyles and Pumpkins” by Richard Mouw, President of Fuller Theological Seminary.  Excerpt:

“Halloween masks and carved pumpkin faces are remnants of measures that were designed to protect people from the power of evil. I’m not arguing that we should revive their original uses. But Halloween is one important occasion for reminding ourselves that the power of the Evil One is still with us. Scary faces will not keep him at bay. But they can be a reminder of the need to be on guard against his wiles. With all of our advanced technologies, we still have not found automatic ways to resist him. The struggle is a spiritual one, but sometimes spiritual battles can be assisted by visible reminders of the Enemy’s presence. After all, Luther threw inkbottles at the Devil, even though he did not really think he could hit him! With that in mind, we should feel free to carve some scary faces on some pumpkins this time of year. And, given the way things are going in the Christian world, it might even be a workable idea to put a few gargoyles on the roofs of our churches!”

• “Concerning Halloween” by James B. Jordan, founder of Biblical Horizons.  Excerpt:

Oddly, some fundamentalists have been influenced by these slanted views of history. These fundamentalists do not accept the humanist and pagan rewriting of Western history, American history, and science, but sometimes they do accept the humanist and pagan rewriting of the origins of Halloween and Christmas, the Christmas tree, etc. We can hope that in time these brethren will reexamine these matters as well. We ought not to let the pagans do our thinking for us.

Nowadays, children often dress up as superheroes, and the original Christian meaning of Halloween has been absorbed into popular culture. Also, with the present fad of “designer paganism” in the so-called New Age movement, some Christians are uneasy with dressing their children as spooks. So be it. But we should not forget that originally Halloween was a Christian custom, and there is no solid reason why Christians cannot enjoy it as such even today.

A very happy Halloween to you all.