A:B:O

"A:B:O," by Walter de la Mare.

It would be hard to find two writers more dissimilar than M. P. Shiel and Walter de la Mare -- Shiel, who in the 1890s wrote some of the most deranged and wild-eyed horror stories of all time, and de la Mare, one of the most subtle and elusive people to make an impact on our field. But that was when de la Mare was older. "A:B:O" is the work of a younger man, and very much a product of the flaming fin-de-siecle mood that set fire to Shiel.

If you know "Xelucha," or "Vaila," or "Tulsah" by Shiel, and consider them crazy tales, you might find yourself at home with "A:B:O," not only for the overheated emotions, the melodramatics, the staccato dialogue that hints vaguely at private histories between the characters, but also for the topic. "A:B:O" is that one-of-a-kind achievement, a Walter de la Mare monster story.

'Dear Friend Pell. I am writing, in a fever. Come at once -- Antiquities! -- the lumber -- a mere scrawl -- Come at once, or I begin without you.'

And so Pelluther comes at once to help his antiquarian pal dig up something nasty in the garden.

When he again set to work upon the chest he prised open the lid at the first effort. The scrap of broken steel rang upon the metal of the chest. A faint and unpleasant odour became perceptible. Dugdale remained in the position the sudden lift of the lid had given his body, his head bent slightly forward, over the open chest. I put one hand upon the side of the chest. My fingers touched a little cake of hard stuff. I looked into the chest. I took a step forward and looked in. Yellow cotton wool lined the leaden sides and was thrust into the interstices of the limbs of the creature which sat within. I will speak without emotion.

He then becomes emotional, indeed. And the monster goes to work.

As vivid as the story can be (and it really does come to life on the page), it's also just a bit ridiculous. With a monster lurking in the house, the narrator goes off on a desperate quest for company, for anyone to share his fear:

'You silly fellow! May a sick man not pace his mansion. I will give you a five pound note to come and sit with me,' said I. 'Be neighbourly, my good fellow. I fear that a fit will overtake me. I am weak -- the heat -- epileptical too. Rats in the walls, I often hear their tumult. Come, sup with me.'

The cad shook his villainous head sagely.

'A five pound note -- two,' said I.

But even a mute beggar on the street can see that something is not quite right with our narrator:

'Come in, come in,' I screamed. 'You shall eat a meal, poor man. How dire is civilization in rags -- Evil fortune! Socialism! Millionaires! I'll be bound. Come in, come in.'

I was weeping with delight.

And so I have to wonder: was Walter de la Mare kidding? Was he writing a parody? (And to be fair, I often wonder the same thing about Shiel.)

Whether you take "A:B:O" as a joke, or as an undeniably vivid monster story, I doubt that you'll regret the time you spend with it, but you might find yourself scratching your head.