Regular readers and followers will recollect the first issue I blogged six months ago identifying half the contents as reprints. This issue has 18 fiction stories and two articles. Sadly, I wasn’t able to repeat my performance with this issue. No doubt when millions of more pages of rural UK newspapers are eventually digitized we’ll be able to trace further reprinted works.
So, the second issue of Phantom features a release date of May 1957 and has cover art by R.W.S. (Ronald W. Smethurst). Once again no editor is noted but we can assume it is Leslie Syddall. This was the last issue to appear as by Vernon Publications or mention Dalrow Publishing. The next issue would appear as by Dalrow Publications and remain that way until the last four issues, which became Pennine Publications.
The unnamed editor presents readers with praise from a Phantom’s very first received letter, signed by a Robert Barnsley of Seven Oaks. Ironically, the person claims that they have never written a “fan” letter before but was thrilled enough to do so. So, is Barnsley a real person?
House of Evil is by H. Halton-Carr and the name from the start jars me. Halton is a district in Cheshire, England, and Carr is a tiny “hamlet” two hours southeast of Halton. What’s all this mean? I could not locate anyone with that surname in England. The tale involves two electricians assigned to wire an ancient stone-built house recently purchased but hasn’t been lived in for a long time. Arriving, they note the place is scary. Beginning in the cellar, one electrician spooks when he feels an unearthly chill and something touching him. Panicking, he freaks and screams and his partner rescues him. They depart in search of a parson to lay some ghosts or whatever. Explaining their problem, the parson explains the place may well be haunted as the original owner dealt in black magic, had an altar, etc. The trio return to the home, and the parson has a massive Cross. Sure enough, evil emanates and the parson pulls some religion and strong beliefs in God to destroy and remove the entity.
“The Old Mill” is a vignette by Robert Corkin. A man finds an old miser with a knife in his neck. Dying, he begs the narrator to locate his hidden fortune at the old mill. A girl walks in, screams, and flees. Realizing she thinks he murdered the man, he himself flees. The police hunt him but he eludes them and forever returns to the old mill, searching for the treasure. He doesn’t believe in ghosts himself but oddly enough, the story suggests that he himself might be a ghost!
Robert Corkin had two stories in this issue, two in the next issue, and one in the following. If Corkin is a real person, odds are he might have been born in the Sunderland or S. Shields districts, as since the early 1900s, both locations had a handful of Robert Corkins registered with births, with only one in Hartlepool as an outlier. The first two are only 20 minutes apart, whereas the third is seaside town a half hour southeast of Sunderland and extra 10 miles for Shields. I’m laying odds that all of these Robert Corkins are somehow related.
In Florence Allen’s The Turn of the Tide a man is tormented with the memory of his young wife falling off a cliff to her death. The body was never found. However, there is more to the story than reported to the police and press. A highly skilled painter, she secretly is painting what may be her last portrait but begs her husband not to look at it. He becomes jealous and the rage only intensifies when he discovers the identity. Certain she was the painted man’s plaything, the husband determines to toss the masterpiece off the cliff into the crashing waters below. Fighting over the canvas, the girl tumbles over and vanishes into the abyss. Some six months later he has rehashed the truth to his friend, a doctor. He hasn’t slept a single night since her passing and is in poor health. Sleeping over, the doctor remains silently awake, feigning sleep. His friend falls fast asleep then begins to get dressed! Clearly very much asleep, the doctor is convinced he is sleepwalking up until the man enters the girl’s sealed chambers, where she privately painted. He’s mortified to witness the man, still fully asleep, pick up her tools and continue to work on a nearly completed portrait. He knows the man doesn’t possess the skill to paint what is before him and realizes he is possessed by his dead wife’s skilled hands. Next day, our doctor sneaks into the room during daylight, views the piece and realizes it is an identical recreation of the destroyed canvas. The widowed man walks in, sees the finished work, looks at his own hands in horror, connects the dots, and throws himself off the cliff. A well-written, haunting story worthy of republication.
A poet of the 1930s-1950s scarcely now only known for her WWII poem London Under Bombardment, Greta Briggs also wrote short stories, including several weird tales. Here she supplies The Undead, her first of a few that would surface in Phantom. The tale opens in typical fashion: men sitting together at night discussing crimes. Then one broaches an improbable crime, one he hardly can speak. The man narrates a past in which he and his lovely daughter are guests of a man with a charming home and his faithful gardener. The owner of the estate fondly and regularly broadly discusses with any available ear his global travels and knowledge of voodoo, witch doctors, etc. It’s not long before our narrator realizes something is not right about the gardener. Finally discovering the truth, he elicits the aid of a friend-doctor and a philosopher. They obtain a long blade and a stake. Stealing into his dank room, he chops off the man’s head then they bury and stake him. He reveals to his party the man was a zombie whose soul was finally freed. What was his clue: the man did not breathe.
In F. J. Taylor’s Shadow on the Sand, four men lost their way in the desert after becoming separated from the rest of their unit. Desert heat claims the first member; they bury him. The second succumbs to hallucinations and falsely seeing a desert oasis, got his fill of sand. He died there with his face down upon the sand. The final pair push on, tongues parched and swollen. Unable to vocally communicate, they rely on body gestures and nods. When an approaching dark cloud looms, they both silently pray it’s a rain cloud. Alas, no, it’s a sandstorm, but thankfully, it doesn’t last long. Our narrator finds his companion no longer alive and leaves him. Stumbling along, he realizes he’s not alone, for his shadow follows him. Eventually he notices he no longer casts a shadow!
D. G. Howcroft presents The Unlikely Story of Mason. The protagonist relates his months living with a short story writer who finally hits it big when he authors a novel about matters of the afterlife, returning from the dead. He then follows up with a paranormal sequel of sorts, meeting with psychic investigators, attending séances, etc., but dies prematurely from a drug overdose. In truth, he’d overworked himself and was too attached to his work. Then the typewriter begins to pound out the closing pages of Mason’s unfinished work. A few days later, the renter dares enter the room again and finds the manuscript complete. Realizing Mason had reached beyond the grave to complete his magnum opus, he brings it to the man’s publisher. That fat bloated publisher verbally defecates upon Mason and his literary abilities, to which the renter takes a swing at him. A push of a button and in walks security to arrest and lock him away in an asylum. Why? Because before that swing, the renter stated Mason had finished the book after he died. Time passes, he’s locked away and reading in a newspaper the latest reviews of Mason’s posthumous novel while a nurse hands him his medication.
Alan Kent’s None Can Explain These Phantoms is a non-fiction article asking readers to explain strange phenomenon in which things are claimed to be seen or heard but unproven. Later reprinted in the 24 December 1960 issue of Huddersfield Daily Examiner (Yorkshire, England).
Perhaps the best story in the magazine is by newcomer L. B. Gordon, writing Two Eyes for an Eye. Inheriting an old manor and funds to manage it from his deceased uncle, Darnley is a surly bastard cheating on his wife. She’s meek but when she learns of the inheritance, she states she wants nothing to do with the estate. Darnley asserts her words mean nothing with the family and they’ll go soon as possible. She alludes to his cheating with other women, something he was not aware she knew of. Seems his eyes have a hypnotic quality to them that appeals to women. Arriving at the home, they behold it sits above the rocky cliffs, dashing sea water, screeching gulls. The wife and two kids dislike the place, but Darnley the arrogant s.o.b. adores the place. He’s hired a maid and handyman as he’s certain his lousy simple wife couldn’t possibly handle any housekeeping. Darnley admires the scene outside. What a perfect setting to murder his useless wife. Days pass, and his wife notes that she’s seen him kissing the maid. He slaps her face, blackening her eye. She wishes she was as free as the gulls outside, because at the very least, she could fly away from the home and the man that calls himself her “loving” husband. Later, she falls over the stairs after tripping over a loose rug and plummets to her death, breaking her neck. Her accidental death couldn’t be more perfect if not for the imperfect evidence of his blackening her eye. Police might speculate she’d have seen her way clear if not for her swollen eye! Dismissing the kids to a nearby aunt, the maid serves him next day. He flirts with her and she mentions she couldn’t sleep for all the screaming of the gull outside. He scoffs that gulls don’t fly at night, but secretly, he’s irked. He also heard the screams. Ordering the maid to make sandwiches, he decides to go fishing. Napping in the boat, he wakens to the fact something is wrong. A gull is perched on the edge. A gull with only one eye. He motors home and loads the shotgun, prepared to blow away the first gull that approaches. He’s certain something menacing is present. Going to bed with his gun, the clock strikes 3am and he hears the screams. At the window is the deathly visage of his wife. Boom! He fires the shotgun and blows the window to smithereens. He remains awake throughout the remainder of the night, knowing he must stay awake until daylight. Day comes and he sleeps…then the handyman hears the screams. Running up to Darnley’s room and entering, he spots the ruined window and a gull hopping out, with bloodied beak. Handyman and maid now are present and are mortified to see Darnley’s eyes both removed. Those eyes won’t be hypnotizing the pants off any more girls, and better yet, rather than the typical ending suggesting he should fall to his death, he’s left alive with his fate.
Thomas Maddock’s The Haunted House is a possible fairy tale. A farmer sold much of his property for a princely sum after many woes befell his farm after cutting down a blackthorn tree. The renters complain of mysterious circumstances and blame one another until a married couple decide the neighbor below must be responsible for various pranks. Confronting him, he blurts he’s having problems with his rooms and shows them his kitchen. The tiles are bulging, as if something is looking to break through. Lifting a loose tile, they behold a blackthorn root.
Gerard Hewson’s Simply Explained is a straight-forward story about a young married couple overcoming their fears and investigating supernatural beliefs. Moving to a remote countryside home, at night they are frightened by sounds emanating from the iron gate. Nobody is ever there so they suspect the place is haunted. Eventually they plan to see it through by hiding nearby. They wait and watch and eventually discover a hunting dog has been making its regular circuit at night. The story earlier appears in Volume 11 of Swatantra magazine in 1956. I don’t have access to that volume so am not sure which particular issue to reference. Still, the story itself takes place around Meldyke Hall, which is located in North Yorkshire, so the tale likely appears elsewhere, even earlier.
Call from the Beyond is supplied by one Andrew Armour; there was a Scottish actor born in 1924 and died 2008 by the name of Andrew Wilson Armour. There’s the remote chance he may have authored this piece. The story opens in cliché manner. Man receives a letter to see his old war buddy, but is written by his mother. He’s not well, etc. Arriving, he finds the man weak and pale, another cliché in these supernatural stories. Plot develops he’s been mourning the passing of Elsa and wants to hold her one more time. He attends séances and is hooked up with one Dr. Rimpau, a medium. Shockingly, he does call her form to earth, and they are able to converse. She warns him to not touch her. The bereaved man behaves each visit as ordered until one night he loses control, rushes forward, there is a scream. He’s committed a deep wrong, a human sin, for Dr. Rimpau is anything but normal. In fact, he might be a demon, for that is what the lover has become, complete with horns.
A chap playing darts while drunk lays claim to his having won due to the false presence of a ghost, of sorts. Whimsically calling the unseen force Mr. Chunky, the other drunk regulars over the course of days, weeks, months jokingly each contribute to his visual countenance and personality. They are all struck dumb when one day in walks a person fitting the description, wearing the exact clothes described, and an uncanny hand at darts and skittles. David Eames’ Mr. Chunky is not a ghost story. David Eames has three short stories in 1954 editions of the Birmingham Weekly Post and authored the book The Title’s My Own but in truth, David Eames is the alias of weird tales writer Denys Val Baker. Baker had the habit of editing collections of stories and including his own Baker tales and aliases as well, but I don’t know if Mr. Chunky landed in any of those books.
Fifty graduating lads make an agreement to meet on their fiftieth reunion, and nothing, not even death, should prevent this. And so, the 50th arrives finding 45 ghostly arrivals and five mortals. The five are granted the ability to briefly shuffle off their mortal coil and join in otherworldly activities. They sluff them off and the 50 traipse about the town causing all sorts of strange phenomenon mayhem. The narrator returns to his body. The doctor present and family pretty much thought he was a goner. He later learns one of the other mortals was found dead. Turns out he decided to remain a ghost than return to his body. Edgar Godwin’s The 50th Reunion is mostly a light-hearted comedy and less a spooky read.
Private Detective Dobson relates an old tale concerning two different lads who became fast friends. One was always getting into some form of trouble. The other was an honest, hardworking sort. One day, in the bar, the former grabbed up a hunting gun and fired off a round. It blew off one of his friend’s hands. Well, that didn’t stop the pair from being friends. A girl did. Moving into the area, the pair became infatuated with her and it finally came to a decision. The one-handed young man was without a means to care for her so moved miles away and pursued a hardworking life. She did not join him. She remained with the troublesome, better-looking man, got married, but their marital life was not a loving one. He took to drinking. Frequently drunk, he tired of hearing how his handless friend was a success and hard worker despite his impediment. So, he murdered him. We’re not given the details, and told he had a strong alibi. A year passes and the Yard had given up on the case. They knew he killed the other but couldn’t nail him. Then one day a guy comes in and tells him the wife moved out and her husband had vanished. Dobson gets a bright idea at night to check out a heavily wooded copse the boys used to hang out at. There he finds the soaked corpse of the late husband, strangled to death, in The Grip of Justice a lone skeletal hand about his throat. Not sure who Gertrude Johnson is, but this story has some meat to it but could have been strengthened with more details.
An engaged couple caught in a sudden downpour seek shelter in an abandoned mill. Climbing the ladder, the pair fall asleep. They awaken to a strange phosphorescent light and a stale flowery smell. Then the ghostly girl appears, terror-stricken, pounding about the room, seeking an outlet before she is hurled headfirst down and through the trapdoor. Looking down, they note the ladder knocked over. Dangling, the male drops below and reattaches the ladder so his fiancée can safely escape. That morning while eating in town, the Warden explains a hundred years ago the girl was assaulted in the mill and tossed headlong through the trapdoor to her death. She reappears annually as does the dislodged ladder leading up to H. S. Savige’s The Trap Door. Because the story-page gives the author’s name as “H. S. Savige”, not “Savage,” there was an Harry S. Savige given as a “journalist-soldier” wed to Gertrude Lattimore in 1940. Savige was in charge of the Isle of Ely edition of The Peterborough Advertiser but then was drafted into World War Two. He was born in 1913; his mother’s maiden name was Shipman, so his full name might be Harry Shipman Savige of Leicester. They had one child, Elaine D. Savige, in 1944; she married Kenneth Elcoat in 1967. Gertrude died in 1955; Harry remarried in 1958 to Gladys Dann. Savige remained affiliated with the Peterborough area most if not all his life so this story might appear in that newspaper or a regional one.
The Mystery of Peg-leg Pete by Marion Baines is indeed just that, a mystery, as the authoress fails to illuminate the history behind the apparition stumping up and down the steps. Two engage a hotel after their train arrives late. One rooming downstairs by the kitchen while the other is upstairs, the home has no electric. They are each given old-fashioned candles and matches. The downstairs room shows evidence of the fireplace having been used. Odd given how hot it is that time of year. Why have a fire at all? Upstairs, the second resident suffers two nights of listening to a person with obviously a wooden peg-leg dragged up the steps past their room. Retreating down to their friend’s room, they pass the peg-legged person. Next day, they check out and remark to the proprietress about peg-leg. She’s mortified to learn keeping the fire burning has failed and that he still exists. We’re never given any information to his identity, why he haunts the hotel, etc. A rather weakly concluded tale. Marion Baines in 1960 had a comedy play running called Family Crackers dealing with psychiatrists. The play was the runner-up in a prize competition held by the Northern Play Bureau. The 24 August 1967 issue of The Stage lists Marion Baines as a writer and dramatist. Her husband was probably actor George Baines, born circa 1898. Marion’s maiden name was possibly Birtles (married 1919) as prior to that I find a Miss Marion Birtles acting in various English theatres.
In Martin Thomas’s The Ghost Runs, a guy brings his ghost-skeptical friend to an abandoned house to prove there are otherworldly things out there. Only, the tables are flipped on the reader at the conclusion when we are given to understand the skeptic is the ghost.
The Visitor by L. Rose is a thinly disguised one-page tale involving a girl’s fright in bed at night as she hears noises in her bedroom and her blanket pulled down off her. It’s just her baby kitten, too young to manage to climb up the bed. A waste of literary space.
Robert Corkin supplies a heart-wrenching true-to-life drama in which a young man is holding a party at his parent’s house. The “kids” are playing a game called “haunting” in which they draw a card and read aloud their fate. His is to die on a specific date and return years later to haunt his mother on a likewise specific date. He tells her he’d never ever haunt her; she laments her husband, his dad, has been away for weeks. The son assures her he’s just working hard. The Major weeks later (now months) returns home late at night and climbs into bed. Frantic, she demands an explanation. He gives none. We learn he’s been romantically inclined towards a much younger woman, a schoolteacher. She demands he break away from his wife and they flee and marry. The scandal! She doesn’t care. He has plenty of money and if he loves her…and so, he returns home, leaves his wife a note and full explanation. And her son dies in a car wreck, as scheduled. Years pass and she longs for the return of her loving son. The day arrives, she remains awake all night. She hears a thudding in his room. Nothing is there. Then the door opens from outside…and a shadow emerges, slowly. She’s thrilled her son has returned to her from the grave only the shadow slowly, mercilessly enters and proves to be her cheating husband, himself abandoned ironically by the schoolteacher who went on to marry an oil millionaire. Her son never returned in Come Back to Me, but her wayward husband has. The story has the son dying in 1933 and returning in 1938, which makes me wonder if this and all of Robert Corkin’s tales are from the 1930s or early 1940s.
Arthur Kent (who is likely also the Alan Kent from earlier) supplies a one-page article called Victims Live–But It’s Murder! This deals with Haitian zombies and the process by which the islanders create them.