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Burial Day Books is a boutique publisher of supernatural horror.  Once a week we research a particular element dealing with superstition, folklore or myth and write a short piece about that element from the Gravedigger’s perspective. These elements were sometimes used somewhere in a previous horror story in history. Or, these elements could have been pulled from particular ideals, or from items that illicit fear. We may also discuss curious traditions that we feel admirers of horror, and beyond, would enjoy learning. Our blogs, while written from a fictional character ‘s perspective, are non-fictional. Overall, our blogs discuss true beliefs, phenomena, practices or customs.

 

Obsession is something we think about often. Fine, obsession is something we obsess about often. As we typically have a
Curious things occur late at night on these cemetery grounds and believe me when I tell you stranger things happen
Winter chill is not something that leaves us quickly around these parts. Spring time is here, but the bite of
Sometimes our work involves clearing and cleaning burial plots.  We often find candle holders, stuffed animals, cards, and pictures leaning
We welcome the first day of March here at Burial Day Books! We will also be posting our newest short
Yes, we know! It’s been long! Too long! We’ve missed you but the crypt has kept us busy, busy, strangely
Today I read an adaptation of the legend of the Erlking. While the adaptation I read today was not entirely
It is the time of love and lust and lovers.  Saint Valentine’s Day is but a few hours away my
As we entered the month tragic news emerged – according to The Edgar Allan Poe House & Museum, as of
Last week operations were well, stalled, due to a wicked blizzard that made shoveling tragically unpleasant. This week we hope

Can something horrific be born out of obsession?

Obsession is something we think about often. Fine, obsession is something we obsess about often. As we typically have a lot of time in between funeral services we often wonder about the impact of relationships on people’s lives. Much of what we do each and every day is dictated by a relationship we have with another person, whether living or dead. Therefore, much of what we do with our life is driven by a relationship we hold with another person.

In P Maxwell’s story, “Mrs. Schroeder’s Baby,” Mrs. Schroeder’s only desire is to have a child. Her few social interactions take place in her small town’s market, or at church. And regardless that she has no significant other, her free time is devoted to planning an event that otherwise seems unlikely to ever occur.

We all want things in life. It is certainly a part of our existence – desiring objects, or relationships with people. However, what does it say when someone rearranges their life in preparation for something that has not yet occurred, or may never occur? Do we dismiss these actions as simply silly, or should we look deeper to see if there is something darker brewing there?

In reading, and then rereading “Mrs. Schroeder’s Baby” I kept thinking back, and yes, obsessing over H.P. Lovecraft’s “The Dunwich Horror.” Lovecraft is a master and there is much to discuss about Lovecraft later on, but for now we just want to note that there are hints in Maxwell’s story that just brought us back to that weird Lovecraft tale, “The Dunwich Horror.” There’s the small town, the suspicious event, and well…the weird and strange that occurs.

While there are vast differences in both tales Maxwell’s story is certainly tragic, and very weird per what we have seen occur in Lovecraft’s strange worlds.

We will continue thinking about obsession, and about Mrs. Schroeder. We wonder where she is tonight and we wonder whether or not she is happy.

-Gravedigger

Haunted houses are truly insidious

Curious things occur late at night on these cemetery grounds and believe me when I tell you stranger things happen in the day. Sometimes I am charged with running errands inside the funeral home. Recently Undertaker had to make a house visit and he requested that I sit in the funeral home and attend to any phone calls that may come through in the business office. I prefer my own work outside, with the dead, as opposed to work with the living via telephone, but nonetheless I agreed.

The house is immense, and the operations parts, such as embalming rooms and crematorium are located on the lower level. As soon as I eased myself down onto Undertaker’s chair in his office the telephone rang. I answered but no one responded. I hung up, and again the telephone rang. I picked up the telephone, gave my proper introduction and was greeted only by dead silence.

Then the doorbell rang.

With no one on the other line I hung up the telephone and made my way to the front door, where there was also no one present. Quite perturbed by it all I stomped back over to the Undertaker’s office and found the telephone off the hook, on the desk with the busy signal blaring. I hung up the phone again calmly, sat down and leaned back in the chair.

“I will be outside momentarily,” I said. “The Undertaker has requested that I sit here and attend to any business needs, but I assure you that I will be out of your house and back to the grounds as soon as possible.”

With that said, the strange incidents ceased.

Later that night I went to the movie theater to see the recent horror movie, Insidious. The movie began with a family of five;  a mother, father, two little boys and an infant daughter, who had all moved into a rather large, old house. The home fit the classic haunted house mold, with multiple levels, and rooms, an impressive stairway, nooks and crannies and the must-have dark and shadowy cob-web-covered attic. After a fall off a ladder in the attic, one of the son’s, Dalton, falls into an unexplained coma. When the family starts hearing things, seeing things, and after the mother is attacked by a ghost in her bedroom it is time to move out of the haunted house.

However, sometimes the dead follow.

On moving day into the new home new ghosts appear. Quickly, the experts are called in. With the assistance of a paranormal investigative team the family learns that it is not either house that is haunted, but their comatose son, Dalton.

This film busts open the haunted house genre. There are plenty of unexpected moments, and there were also frightened screams throughout the movie theater. The film is intelligent, well planned, and overall well-paced.

I am very familiar with haunted houses. I grew up in one. I work on the grounds right outside of one, and I certainly know that they can surely be terrifying, but then again, I am the Gravedigger and so it takes a lot to scare me.

Go and see Insidious dears. You will be pleased.

-Gravedigger

Turn of the wind!

Winter chill is not something that leaves us quickly around these parts. Spring time is here, but the bite of winter remains. Just yesterday I was standing outside and the wind began to kick up. I looked around and realized that my work on the grounds had been accomplished for the day. So, I went over to the tool shed located on our cemetery property. I was careful to leave the door to the shed slightly ajar so that if the Undertaker looked out of the window of the funeral home he would see the opened door and surmise that is where I could be found if needed.

Inside the shed, I picked up a broom to give the space a good sweeping. As soon as I started sweeping the wind outside intensified, blowing the door completely opened. The blast of wintery air encircled me. A panicked tapping caused me to turn around, and there, at the window outside looking in on me was a woman.  Her dress was black as midnight, and her long, dark curls cascaded down her bone white face. Those black eyes pierced my very core with their iciness. I dropped the broom, rushed outside and found no one there. The headstones, tombs and vaults were all but silent, except of course for the noisy wind that touched everything.

Back inside the shed I propped up the broom against the wall and stood there again, looking at the window. In all of my years of service here I had never seen a ghost and so I began to wonder, if what I did see was really a ghost. Was I living inside of a ghost story right here, right now? I dusted off the top of a stool and took a seat, thinking back to Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw, one of my favorite little ghost stories. James wrote The Turn of The Screw in 1898. The story is narrated in retrospect from the manuscript of a governess who is charged to care for the niece and nephew of a wealthy business man who lives in London. The business man lives in London while the governess cares for the children at a country estate, called Bly. In the story ghosts appear, but only to the governess. Her despair is in keeping the children away from the ghosts, as she is convinced the children have had interactions with these specters. What makes James’ novella so interesting to this day is that the reader is never given the satisfaction of knowing whether or not the ghosts existed or if they existed solely in the governesses mind.

A tap on the window made me nearly fall back off the stool. Before I could gain my full composure the Undertaker was standing over me, his hands behind him. He towered over me in his black suite, white shirt and black tie. As always his face showed little emotion, and his eyes scanned the room without turning his head. “I think you may have dropped this outside over there, by the window.” From behind his back he produced a withered copy of The Turn of the Screw. Before I could utter a word the Undertaker had left.

I am still unsure if what I saw was a ghost, but I am sure of this, the book in my hands was certainly not left there by me.

-Gravedigger

Stay out of the woods!

Sometimes our work involves clearing and cleaning burial plots.  We often find candle holders, stuffed animals, cards, and pictures leaning against headstones, and sadly if they are not recovered we have to remove them before we prepare for the winter and the rain season. Considering we are so busy we often have to throw away these mementos as otherwise they will be scattered all over the cemetery when the snow thaws in spring – as it has done so already. It is already quite difficult sweeping away rocks and pebbles to ensure a pristine lawn for our dead.

Your dear Gravedigger was asked today to prepare a burial plot for a couple, a husband and a wife. When the Undertaker showed me to a flat patch of land I was surprised as we had many lovely plots along the wood, or beneath trees, that well, I myself thought would be a delightful resting place for the everafter. Undertaker, who is a rather tall, stoic fellow, who wears a permanent look of empathetic pain shook his head slowly and raised a finger to his lips when I asked about the plot beneath the tree.

“But, the plots beneath the trees are more delightful, and charming, especially for an eternal embrace,” I smiled as I leaned against my shovel.

Undertaker remained silent. A crow cawed above and cawed again, as if pressing Undertaker to answer my question. Undertaker finally grumbled under his breath that the couple were the victims of a hungry man in the wood, so a grave beneath a tree would not be appropriate.  Before I could ask another question Undertaker strolled back up the hill to the funeral home.

Now, with so little answers I was left to ponder as to exactly who, or what, led to the couple’s demise. ‘A hungry man in the wood ?’ I wondered. Well, there are many wicked men, and male beings, that dwell in the forest. I thought to myself, ‘Could this possibly have been the work of the Erlking?’ That would be a striking coincidence as just the other week I had told you about him. Then I recalled that the Erlking is sometimes referred to as “goblin-like.” Could that have been it? Could the couple have been put to an end by the grotesque, evil, temperamental goblin? Most goblins are small creatures, but they do possess magical abilities. No, that just didn’t feel right I thought. It could not have been a gnome either then. The word gnome is pretty synonymous with goblin, but gnomes are thought to be more diminutive beings that live underground.

Sitting down against a tree it did not take me much longer to remember…the Troll’s! Trolls live in rocky areas, caves, and forests. Trolls are first found in Norse mythology, and they are a class of jötunn’s. Scandanavian folklore describes Trolls as human-like, but extremely ugly, as well as man-eaters.

Now, I don’t know exactly what happened in the wood to that poor couple. I do know that they will be laid to rest tomorrow, far away from the wood. I do also know that I will stay very far away from the wood, and any ugly, angry and hungry man-eating trolls.

-Gravedigger

He comes in like a lion, but goes out like a lamb

We welcome the first day of March here at Burial Day Books! We will also be posting our newest short story soon! We are thrilled and would just like to remind you all to add us on Facebook. We need more friends. Please add us. We don’t bite. We promise. Of course, there is always Twitter as well if you would like to follow us there, from a safer distance.

We wanted to speak to you briefly about this month as we mourn…well, so many as that is what we do. Working and living among the dead is a fascinating profession. This is a darkly world where surprisingly each day something new is learned. Just today a woman delivered a package of clothing and accessories she would like her dear aunt dressed with for the funeral. In the box we found a lovely ring with a dark stone embedded with red flakes. Upon researching we learned that this lovely gem is a mineral called a heliotrope, otherwise known as a bloodstone – the birthstone of March. (more…)

It’s been too long!

Yes, we know! It’s been long! Too long! We’ve missed you but the crypt has kept us busy, busy, strangely and tragically busy!

There has been much writing and reading to work on. There have been many tales of terror we have gotten lost in exploring!

We will announce shortly our new tale of supernatural enticement soon, quickly.

We shall update you with more musings of our darkly ways tomorrow our dears.

-Gravedigger

Darling, deadly Erlking

Today I read an adaptation of the legend of the Erlking. While the adaptation I read today was not entirely satisfying it did put me into a mental state in which all I could think about was the Erlking. I then began to wonder if I have ever seen the Erlking without knowing it was the Erlking and just ignored his attempts to lure me altogether.  That thought alone made me both panic and slightly excited. Had I overcome the Erlking’s advances with my sheer cunning? Or perhaps I overcame the king with my morbid personality that does occasionally make me overlook the obvious such as dead bodies trying to creep up from our cemetery grounds, floating orbs, and the incessant howling of ghastly canines beyond our graveyard wall.

If you are unfamiliar with the Erlking then let me share with you what I do know – quickly. The Erlking is a character common in European folklore. He is seen as a wickedly seductive fairy that entices people, and causes their death. Sound familiar? Our dear friend the Grim Reaper comes to mind. While the Erlking does bring death, like our black robed companion, he does seem like a much more compelling figure then the Angel of Death. Interestingly, the character in Scandanavian folklore was depicted as a female, the daughter of the Erlking. Many cultures depict death as a sentient being, and even some depict Death as female.

Sunday we hope to talk a bit more about the Erlking, as well as some varying concepts of the personifications of death.

For now, we leave you with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s poetic adaptation of the legend, which does stray greatly from the legend, but still we find it completely fascinating as the Erlking is seen only by the child.

Der Erlkönig
English Adaptation of the original German poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp’d in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

“My son, wherefore seek’st thou thy face thus to hide?”
“Look, father, the Erl King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl King, with crown and with train?”
“My son, ’tis the mist rising over the plain.”

“Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
For many a game I will play there with thee;
On my beach, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold.”

“My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl King now breathes in mine ear?”
“Be calm, dearest child, thy fancy deceives;
the wind is sighing through withering leaves.”

“Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care
My daughters by night on the dance floor you lead,
They’ll cradle and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep.”

“My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl King is showing his daughters to me?”
“My darling, my darling, I see it alright,
‘Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight.”

“I love thee, I’m charm’d by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou aren’t willing, then force I’ll employ.”
“My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
For sorely the Erl King has hurt me at last.”

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He holds in his arms the shuddering child;
He reaches his farmstead with toil and dread,—
The child in his arms lies motionless, dead.

-Gravedigger

In death hold me

It is the time of love and lust and lovers.  Saint Valentine’s Day is but a few hours away my friends.

Have you secured your darling who you would hand over a Valentine?  Have you yet to ask for that tender, devilish, sexy soul to be your dear? A few hours remain this night, but do hurry. Unless of course you want to remain secret. Sending  a secret Valentine to that person you admire is also an option. Perhaps you can send him, or her, a blood red rose. Or simply, a lovely card professing your desperate, passionate, obsessive longing for them to recognize you and want you as well.

There are many martyrs named Valentine, but there is one in particular who some believe is the man who birthed this day of love and compassion.  According to the golden legend, Legenda Aurea, compiled around 1260, St. Valentine secretly wed Christians during the time of Roman Emperor Claudius II’s rule. When Claudius learned of these marriages, at a time when Pagan Rome ruled and Christianity was banned, St. Valentine was jailed. In jail, he befriended his jailers blind daughter, and eventually they fell in love. On the evening of his execution he wrote her a simple note that read; “From your Valentine.” Later his beloved’s eyesight was restored, granting the miracle for his saint hood.

I admit my friends that there is someone out there that my black, spiked heart longs for. Yet, my life is eternally one of misery and regret as I cart away bodies of the young and old, those that have loved and those that have been loved. So, when the relics of St. Valentine are brought out February 14 in a casket at the Whitefriar Carmelite Church in Dublin for a mass dedicated to youth and love, hope that my cold, empty heart will find a Valentine.

-Gravedigger

Save the Edgar Allan Poe House!

As we entered the month tragic news emerged – according to The Edgar Allan Poe House & Museum, as of July 2010 the city of Baltimore cut funding for the Poe house curator position as well as other expenses for the Poe House. The Poe house must become self-sufficient, but given the time frame the situation looks grim.

The Baltimore Poe House is located at 203 Amity Street. Around 1832 or 1833 Maria Clemm, her ailing mother Elizabeth, her daughter Virginia and her nephew Edgar, moved into the little house. Poe was about 23 years-old at the time. He left the house in 1835.

While Poe only lived in the house a short time, it is presumed that he penned some significant works there – MS. Found in a Bottle, Shadow – A Parable, Berenice – A Tale, Morella, as well as several poetical works.

Poe rests only a few miles from this house at the Westminster Hall and Burying Ground and we must say we have visited our dearest Eddie’s grave several times, as well as the Poe House, and are terribly saddened by this news. He is the inspiration for all that we do, and now we must help.

Now, there is clearly much to discuss about Poe, his life and his works and we aim to write at great length about Poe throughout our time here with you. For now, what is most important is sharing the importance of keeping the Poe House open and operating.

Below is the link to the official website for the Poe House where you can read further about the threat.

http://www.eapoe.org/

Here is where we need your help. Below is the link to the petition to save the Poe house. Sign it! Now! Tell your friends. Tell your enemies! Tell everyone to sign this petition!

Save The Poe House!
http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/save-the-poe-house-and-museum-in-baltimore/

Edgar Allan Poe is my hero, my mentor, and my inspiration to write horror. He is the master of macabre, and the inventor of the detective story. He perfected the short story, and most importantly because of him horror became a literary art influencing thousands of writers. We owe him to keep his history protected. He is a great American author and he should be forever honored.

Sign the petition now!

-Gravedigger

Loss of Sight

Last week operations were well, stalled, due to a wicked blizzard that made shoveling tragically unpleasant. This week we hope to post Wednesday as well as Sunday so that we can continue on with our planned routine, because what is life, or even death, without a routine?

As we shoveled paths for ourselves through the two feet of snow we began to think about the idea of sight. So much before us was covered. We began to obsess with the idea of sight until the obsession eventually took over your dear Gravedigger’s very own sight. Several days past and my eye balls throbbed and gruesomely bulged.  It was both ghastly, and thought provoking.  Did I need a doctor? I was not so sure. I didn’t want to mention my condition to the Undertaker who would likely sell me a plot and do away with me. So, I kept my pain silent, and hidden, hoping upon hope that it would pass.

In my condition, I began to think of our dear Jorge Luis Borges (August 24, 1899-June 14, 1986), the famous, fabulist, Argentine writer, essayist, and poet. Borges’ national renown was solidified by his intricate short stories whose common themes were dreams, labyrinths, the nature of time, religion and God.   However, his beginnings were in poetry. In his thirties Borges began to suffer from a degenerative condition that led to his eventual blindness. The tragedy became that one of the greatest Latin American writers could no longer see his art, his life, his own words.

I began to read Borges’ Poems of the Night, a collection of poems of his work throughout his literary career that dealt with the topic of dreams, night, and blindness.  Popular Borges themes from his short stories appear throughout –  religion, mirrors, and the labyrinth. An interesting side note here; Borges was quoted as saying that he had two nightmares; one of labyrinths and the other of mirrors. His living nightmare, the world he feared by night, probably became the world he lived in by day without his sight.

The poems are beautiful in this collection and are haunting and consuming. With titles such as Break of Day, Almost A Last Judgment, The Cyclical Night, and In Praise of Darkness. His poetry weaves you within this dark maze, making you ask yourself if you really want to find a way out.

I will certainly discuss Borges in greater length at another time. There is too much to tell right now about this master. I do also want to reassure you that your dear, sinful Gravedigger has recovered and can now see clearly again. Perhaps I found my sight somewhere in one of Borges’ labyrinths.

I leave you now with a quote from his poem Ars Poetica –
“To be aware that waking dreams it is not asleep
While it is another dream, and that the death
That our flesh goes in fear of is that death
Which comes every night and is called sleep.”
– Jorge Luis Borges

-Gravedigger