Erica McEachern

It is true that I have sent six bullets through the head of my best friend, and yet I hope to shew by this statement that I am not his murderer.

Now that is what I call a hook. Regardless of Lovecraft’s tendency for verbosity, he knows how to write a first line brilliantly. Immediately I wanted to know why one would shoot their best friend (although knowing Lovecraft, it had to be terrible) and wanted to understand how a man of sound reason (he understood the gravity of his act, so I made an assumption) would seek to justify such an act. That line is just like the monster in your closet. It grabs you without warning and drags you into the nightmare without mercy.

Now, the nightmare lets go two sentences later, when the narrator launches into an overly flowery contemplation of his actions and their ramifications. The tension really doesn’t pick up until much later in the story. I wondered how important that heightened sense of fear was to someone like Lovecraft. As writers, we are told to build tension in every sentences, every scene. But Lovecraft loves to launch into exhaustive explanations that meander. So what was more important to him? Setting? Character? The demons and monsters that invariably show up at the end of his stories? The idea of an evil that cannot be fully conquered? Or was he just exploring strange ideas and seeing where the fancy took him? I don’t understand his intentions, and it confuses me a bit. 

As for the story itself, I was shocked by the monster at the end. It was a nice surprise, if a gurgling bag of bones can be a nice surprise. My kinds of nice surprises usually involve something wrapped with a bow, but wrapped in a decrepit cape will work in the right context. The title clued me in again (what is it with him giving everything away with this titles?) that there would be something at the end on the doorstep, but the fact that poor Derby had to wear his wife’s corpse really threw me. I actually smiled. The looming, evil father figure fell flat for me, but perhaps that was because we read Hell House last week, and this guy didn’t seem nearly as depraved as Belasco. I was underwhelmed. Is that wrong to admit?

The characters were beautifully executed this time. I enjoyed how Lovecraft used Derby’s upbringing to reinforce his weak will. The fact that he developed learned to fight for himself and find some strength to battle his wife was a pleasant surprise.  It was good to set that up with his cushy upbringing but I wished the death of his father had more resonance. It would be hard to compete since his wife/father-in-law was already possessing him, but Derby felt so keenly when he was aware so I expected more than a throw away line. I had a hard time buying the relationship between the narrator and Derby though. All of the emotional toil is really displayed in Derby’s actions, and while we are told the narrator’s feelings we are never forced to feel them. Show don’t tell, right?

Of all the things we’ve read for this class, I think I may like this story the most. Yes, the writing is still dated, but he has ideas and ways of describing characters and setting that modern writers can learn a lot from. I also think his first line is amazing. I hope I can come up with something that punchy. Speaking of which, I think I have some writing to do.

Let me begin with a confession: I,Erica, am a complete and utter chickenshit. I wanted to challenge myself with this class. Could I turn my imagination off and analyze these manuscripts as works of art, or would I shy away from the dark corners of the house because some author filled my head with fear? Survey says: I’m screwed. Hell House had some issues, but I did feel palatable fear. It didn’t feel good, but it felt right. He scared me. Good job, Mr. Matheson.

The characters enter a house (which was a character in itself, but for me, lacked enough description) to vanquish a ghost, the biggest baddest ghost of them all. Stuff happens. People die. Boobies are chomped on, and not everyone makes it out. Until the end (spoilers or something) when Edith and Fisher go back into the house to take on Belasco, I was hooked. Having them trapped within, dead bodies around them, their imaginations being taken over by Belasco, I was right there. I squirmed at more places than I probably should have and I did have to put the book down. When Belasco challenged them, I sat curled under my blanket fearing for them. No! Don’t go into the chapel, but really go so I can see you get destroyed. No! Don’t drink the brandy, but really drink it so we can see what an unencumbered lustful animal you really are.  But the nipples thing – just ew.

Now, why was I scared? I realized after reading this it is the loss of control that I fear.  Edith’s temptation by Florence, then Florence’s temptation by “Daniel,” it was all a play on how out of control people are when sexual desire is thrown into the mix. It is the tool Belasco used to torture others, and I think that he was tortured by it himself. How much of a giant could he be with those fake legs? And how into sex could he really have gotten without proper leverage, and more importantly, without revealing his secret. Side note. Why is it the women were driven to madness by lust? Why didn’t Matheson use the men in a similar way? Could they really control their desires? Are they stronger? I would argue not, because of Belasco’s perversity, and it is his desire for power that turned everyone into evil vessels. I just thought it was interesting that the women were the emotional and sexual characters and the men were more scientific or defended by their own logic.

I have to say, I was honestly surprised that anyone died. I guess it makes sense, but I thought given the lack of zombies and whatnot, that no one would really die. I was very happy to see the good Dr. die. He bored me. He bored poor, Edith too, but that is a discussion for later. I didn’t want to see Florence die, but it was fun to watch the utter loss of control, how Belasco dug in and played with her deepest emotions, touching on things in her past that still wounded her. I think his possession of her, and the sexual abuse was strangely compelling. I think Matheson made some good choices with it as well, putting some things off camera. My imagination filled in plenty more evil. 

I want to say I liked this. I think I did. It doesn’t sit well with my delicate sensibilities. And the head-hopping, enough to drive one crazy (was that his aim?), but overall the pacing was tight and the writing was compelling. I think I may read it again, now that I know what will happen so I can analyze it further. For now, I am going to read something light and fluffy with bunnies and fairy dust. I need to clear my head.



This will be the post where I actually defend Lovecraft, so please do not fall out of your chair with shock. I know, it’s crazy that I am defending him, but hear me out. I am approaching this story from a different angle. Instead of complaining about the limited use of character, and the lack of dialogue, and understanding that he wrote in a different time, I will focus on what I learned. The man can write a setting. I don’t think he writes “horror” per se, rather some darker kind of fiction (I think this is where my ignorance of this genre shows, my apologies) that requires amazingly detailed settings. He excels at writing about place and firmly rooting the reader within a believable space, and that is perhaps, the most interesting thing about this story.

The idea of Erich Zann, that he can tap into a darker universe through his demonic music, is an interesting idea, but less interesting than the world he inhabits. Lovecraft takes great pains to illustrate the differences between the mundane world an the world in which Erich Zann plays. And by using the setting, he reveals a world tightly compacted, with mortal men lost in midst of tumbling, oppressive structures. The labyrinth of a city is so complex that he never finds Zann’s house again (and yes, I know he may also never find it because it a fantasy, and the man is gone, but that is for another essay). My favorite passage describes the house on Rue d’Auseil:

I have never seen another street as narrow and steep as the Rue d’Auseil. It was almost a cliff, closed to all vehicles, consisting in several places of flights of steps, and ending at the top in a lofty ivied wall. Its paving was irregular, sometimes stone slabs, sometimes cobblestones, and sometimes bare earth with struggling greenish-grey vegetation. The houses were tall, peaked-roofed, incredibly old, and crazily leaning backward, forward, and sidewise. Occasionally an opposite pair, both leaning forward, almost met across the street like an arch; and certainly they kept most of the light from the ground below.

The people who live on the street are reflections of the setting. They too are unkempt, ghosts of a former life.  Age and degredation are reflected in both the people and the buildings. It is here that Lovecraft really succeeds. He goes into such great detail about the street that he does not need to concern the reader overly much with the residents themselves. If you want to know what kind of people they are then just look around. You will see the echoes of them in every window and every brick.

Lovecraft also uses the Zann’s room, the decrepit furniture and the “the abundance of dust and cobwebs” to paint a better picture of the man himself. The descriptions of Zann could be enough but Lovecraft reinforces his nature by putting him in the appropriate setting. It works beautifully.

Its size was very great, and seemed the greater because of its extraordinary bareness and neglect. Of furniture there was only a narrow iron bedstead, a dingy washstand, a small table, a large bookcase, an iron music-rack, and three old-fashioned chairs. Sheets of music were piled in disorder about the floor. The walls were of bare boards, and had probably never known plaster; whilst the abundance of dust and cobwebs made the place seem more deserted than inhabited.

Finally, it is the lack of the expected cityscape that really drives home the bizarre and demonic powers that Zann has (or is possessed by).  How frightful it must be to look out a window and expect to see the glimmering lights of a living city only to be greeted by infinite darkness. For me, that brought an actual sense of fear home. Not the man with the bulging eyes, nor his strange music, but the thought that outside my window there could be no life at all. It gave me chills.

I think, more than anything, this story really taught me how precise word choices can bring a small world to life. While I am still not an ardent fan of his work, I think I may understand why people revere him. Still, I wonder what kind of worlds he would have created if he wrote in modern times. I do think he would scare me, more than a little. It may be a good thing that his writing is dated. I need to sleep tonight.



Phantom of the Opera is one of those books I could have lived my entire life without reading. Having read it, I think it is a model for the modern writer of what not to do. The hero, Raoul, does not deserve to win in the end. Christine behaves like a confused, lovesick child and never develops as a character. And Erik, the Opera Ghost, is just a dark, disembodied voice, hiding behind his own legend. There is little character development, the plot is thin, and the dialogue is jarring and unrealistic. I won’t even begin to comment on the use of exclamation marks (a personal pet peeve) and ellipses. The book feels dated, out of touch with the modern world.  Is it still worth reading? Yes. Simply yes. Why? Gaston Leroux weaves as compelling fairy tale tone throughout the book. His setting, the dark opera house with its mysteries, helps set the tone. Some of the imagery also helps flesh out an otherwise wooden story. I think the fantastic elements are really this novel’s only saving grace.

Character development is not always the most important element of fairy tales. This can, of course, be argued. Usually there is some lesson learned that allows the protagonist to succeed. Phantom of the Opera reminded me of Beauty and the Beast. The stunning heroine is trapped (Christine by her desire to sing and her loyalty to Erik) and must sacrifice in order to save the one she loves. I think that Christine did love Erik, for what he could offer her in his tutelage and her future as a singer. There is no doubt that she also “loves” Raoul, but that relationship felt simple and convenient.  Of course there would be the hero who loves her in spite of her lesser circumstance, and their connection as childhood friends was Leroux’s attempt to show a history. I have plenty of childhood friends that I was fascinated with that I would never have dreamt of marrying if I met them as an adult. Perhaps I am jaded. Perhaps this is an element of the time period, the belief that this kind of love exists, but it falls flat for me.

I think the one thing that really sunk this novel for me is the dialogue. The punctuation distracted me from what the characters said, not that half of what they said meant anything. They tended to repeat each other, talk over each other. I understand this was probably an attempt to show panic and confusion, but it confused me and that is a bad thing. The following is one particularly brutal passage (with just dialogue tags and the dialogue itself):  

“Is Christine Daae here?

“Christine Daae here?” echoed Richard. “No. Why?”

“Why do you ask if Christine Daae is here, M. le commissaire?”

“Because she has to be found,” declared the commissary of the police solemnly.

“What do you mean she has to be found? Has she disappeared?”

“In the middle of the performance!”

“In the middle of the performance? This is extraordinary!”

“Isn’t it? And what is quite extraordinary is that you should first learn it from me!”

(Leroux, 230-231)

This is just brutal to read, and it is not the only instance. If all of the fluff in the dialogue was edited down, streamlining the story, then Leroux’s more interesting elements could be highlighted. As the dialogue reads now, and throughout the book, everyone sounds confused or overly whiny. Raoul, in particular, cannot seem to speak without sounding like someone I would like to kick. And Christine comes off as a plaintive, confused child. Even Erik, our deformed villain, sounds like a charicature of what a well developed villain.

I really wanted to like this book. Having never seen any of the shows or movies about it, I came in without very many preconceived notions. I think that helped me see some of what I liked, especially the fairy tale tone, but it is hard to get beyond the dated storytelling. Some books should just be left on the shelf.

Works Cited

Leroux, Gaston. The Phantom of the Opera. New York. Signet Classics, 2001.



What to Believe?

In all manner of communication, be it in storytelling through the written word or through conversation, I think people only tell part of the truth of their experiences.  That is not to say I think everyone is a liar, but as writers, aren’t we supposed to stretch the truth? And as readers, don’t we understand what is not said is just as important as what is said? When an author like Lovecraft comes at me with his narrator relating a story, with delightful realistic touches to make it more conversational, I yawn to myself and whisper liar. Then I think, and realize, the parts we do not hear, the tremors he doesn’t tell us about are the real story in “Pickman’s Model.” The narrator dances the reader into the darkness, and dances us back out again, without telling us the whole truth.

Human experience overwhelms, so writers edit down to the bones, giving the reader the properly placed skeleton.  We flesh the story out with the words we chose to understand, those that resound in our heads and make sense in our hearts. But what most compelled me is what Lovecraft left up to our imagination.  Beyond the obvious tricks, like keeping the creature he shot in the dark, there is much we can learn about the unsaid.  His use of the “conversation” furthers this technique. Little interjections of “you know” and “you remember” allow the reader to fill in spaces with their own experiences. What if I don’t know and I can’t remember? What then? Well Lovecraft lets the reader do that work, giving a personal connection where he initially only gave distance. 

I did not enjoy half of this short story, for I felt like I was being talked at. Then the something rose from the page. I felt uneasy. Lovecraft’s little puppet strings had me dancing about.  I looked into the corner to make sure the noise coming from it was not some freakish dog-monster. No, it was just my dog snoring, and I read on.  The tension I felt waffled throughout, because the monsters did not scare me, but what could have happened to both of them in that frightful studio did.

My confusion with this piece comes from the initial boredom I felt. Because of the 1^st person conversational tone, I did not immediately connect. Under pain of death, I forced myself to retread Lovecraft’s indulgent beginning.  Lovecraft’s treatment of the setting, easily the most important character in this piece, drew me in and kept me going until the obvious ending.  The setting tells us the things that the narrator will not, and frames the fear we should feel. Dark corners, the unseen, all wrapped in a decrepit setting that is just a half-step away from a slum. It is dangerous and it works.

Speaking of the ending. I am usually not the person that can see things coming, Suspending disbelief is one of my skills, or I am just gullible. Either way, the title gives the end away. I knew immediately that the monsters in Pickman’s paintings were real. Perhaps that lessened the tension somewhat, but the  possibility that the narrator could get eaten, or shot by Pickman (who did seem loony enough to shoot an admirer of his work) did keep me moving. I think Pickman was scarier than the monsters he painted. Why? We can’t trust him. He has things he is not telling us, even though he reveals the nature of his work. 

Lovecraft’s use of the unsaid makes this an okay short story for me.  The 1^st person point of view distracted me and immediately put me at a distance, but I think it worked. The setting was carefully executed, full of shadows and possibility. The creature(s) at the end, well I could have told you they were real.  If I should have felt real, palatable fear, Lovecraft failed. But, if nothing else, I was entertained.