I've been remiss. I apologize. It's just that I've been busy: with work and meetings, but also with getting sick. It's not, I'm pleased to report, one of my signature cardiovascular ailments — no, this seems to be a Cosi-born illness, and so far has just made me tired and in need of a more manly alternative to the phrase "my tummy hurts". Also, Charles and I have been having something of a Halo 3 renaissance, and that's taken up a fair amount of time.

But all regularly scheduled activities continue: chief among them the Halloween short story contest. I've made some progress on mine, and can now assure you that as a fiction writer I am both long-winded and terrible. Still, it's something.

The essential details, for those only now paying attention: the deadline is a week from today; there's no minimum length; stories may be submitted anonymously; and the winner of the resulting popular vote gets $100. It's easy.

My absence from the internet stopped me from posting more inspirational Halloweeniana, so now I'm going to have to pick up the pace. My last offering was particularly lame, so let's return to one of the classics: M.R. James.

Some of James' stories are pretty creepy — The Ash-Tree is probably the best one I've read on that score — but that's not the thing about his work that I most enjoy. James taught at King's College and Eton, and composed many of his stories as part of the English tradition of telling ghost stories at Christmas Eve (yuletide, they call it, just to further British things up). It's a tradition I'd never heard of before, but one that sounds pretty great.

As you might imagine, James was bit of a tweedy academic; naturally, many of his protagonists are, too. Their tales generally go something like this:

"Ho there, Wedgelington! What brings you to the Antiquities Department of Chestlethwick College?"

"Well met, Asterforthe, old bean! To your question: as you can see, it's this blasted urn I've happened across while touring the countryside. By the queerness of the inscriptions I presume it to be Etruscan, or Norse, or perhaps Oriental in nature..."

"Yes, I expect you're right..."

"...But for the life of me I can't prise the infernal thing open! I find myself confounded — utterly flummoxed!"

"Perhaps if I just use this ornate silver dagger..."

——AN UNPLEASANT INTERLUDE COMMENCES——

"Well! That was certainly a rollicking supernatural adventure!"

"Quite so."

This is a bit unfair. Even if James' supernatural horrors lack some of the existential threat of later authors, they're still plenty spooky. His stories have satisfyingly unambiguous conclusions, but still manage to express themselves with nuance. The foreshadowing is immediately identifiable, but not irritatingly so. The pacing gets to the point, but isn't hurried.

They're good, solid ghost stories — and oh so British. If you've ever watched the Indiana Jones movies and wished that Marcus Brody had been given his own spin-off, then you'll probably enjoy these.

More good news: James' work is in the public domain, and many of the stories are available as free recordings, courtesy of Librivox. The narrator is Peter Yearsley, whose British accent and languid style complement the text perfectly. Here are the audio versions of James' first major collection. I suggest downloading them and sticking them on your iPod for the next time you're traveling at night.

I suppose I should pick one story, though, so we may as well go with Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad. It embodies all of the Jamesian traits I described above, is considered among his best efforts, and has an incredibly creepy title (borrowed from a Robert Burns poem, but still).

Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad

• Text
• MP3 @ 64kbps - 23.9MB
• MP3 @ 128kbps - 47.8MB