SHADMOCKS & SHIVERS

  NEW TALES INSPIRED BY THE STORIES OF

  R. CHETWYND-HAYES

  All characters, situations and underlying themes created by R. Chetwynd-Hayes remain copyright © The Estate of R. Chetwynd-Hayes 2019

  Special thanks to Stephen Jones as advisor/consultant

  Special thanks to John Linwood Grant for editorial assist

  This edition © Shadow Publishing 2019

  Cover artwork © Jim Pitts 2019

  Foreword © Dave Brzeski 2019

  ‘The Gibbering Ghoul of Gomershal’

  © The estate of R. Chetwynd-Hayes 2019

  (first published in The Fantastic World of Kamtellar, 1980)

  ‘Monster Rights’ © Cardinal Cox 2019

  ‘An Episode in the Life’ © Tina Rath 2019

  ‘Murder Machines’ © Simon Clark 2019

  ‘Shadmocks Only Whistle’ © Adrian Cole 2019

  ‘A Day with the Professor’ © Marion Pitman 2019

  ‘Madame Orloff’s Last Stand’ © John Llewellyn Probert 2019

  ‘Family Plot’ © Fred Adams, Jr 2019

  ‘The Creeping Crawlers of Clavering’ © Josh Reynolds 2019

  ‘Mr Begot’s Bespoke Mantles’ © I. A. Watson 2019

  ‘Temptations Unlimited’ © William Meikle 2019

  ‘Single and Sparkly Dot Com’ © Theresa Derwin 2019

  ‘Fetch!’ © Pauline Dungate 2019

  ‘Marjorie Learns to Fly’ © John Linwood Grant 2019

  ‘Fire Damage’ © Stephen Laws 2019

  ‘My Necromance with Chetwynd-Hayes’s

  Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories’ © Robert Pohle 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, rebound or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the editor and publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Shadow Publishing, Apt 19 Awdry Court, 15 St Nicolas Gardens,

  Kings Norton, Birmingham, B38 8BH, UK

  david.sutton986@btinternet.com

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated with great affection to Bryn Fortey, another of those ‘nicest old gentlemen one could ever hope to meet’. Bryn was published in The Fontana Book of Great Horror Stories series at around the same time as R. Chetwynd-Hayes was editing The Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories series. One of my deepest regrets is that Bryn was unable to contribute to this volume.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  FRONT MATTER

  FOREWORD by Dave Brzeski

  MONSTER RIGHTS by Cardinal Cox

  THE GIBBERING GHOUL OF GOMERSHAL by R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE… by Tina Rath

  THE MURDER MACHINES by Simon Clark

  SHADMOCKS ONLY WHISTLE by Adrian Cole

  A DAY WITH THE PROFESSOR by Marion Pitman

  MADAME ORLOFF’S LAST STAND by John Llewellyn Probert

  FAMILY PLOT by Fred Adams, Jr

  THE CREEPING CRAWLERS OF CLAVERING by Josh Reynolds

  MR BEGOT’S BESPOKE MANTLES by I. A. Watson

  TEMPTATIONS UNLIMITED by William Meikle

  SINGLE AND SPARKLY DOT COM by Theresa Derwin

  FETCH! by Pauline Dungate

  MARJORIE LEARNS TO FLY by John Linwood Grant

  FIRE DAMAGE by Stephen Laws

  MY NECROMANCE WITH CHETWYND-HAYES’ FONTANA BOOK OF GREAT GHOST STORIES by Robert Pohle

  CONTRIBUTORS

  FOREWORD

  MUCH OF WHAT you need to know about Ronald Chetwynd-Hayes is summed up in the epithet which British fandom bestowed upon him – the Prince of Chill. Neither master nor king, but prince, a worthy enough position to make him of note. His domain was indeed the chill, not the utter terror or visceral horror of some of his contemporaries (though he had his darker moments). Chetwynd-Hayes was in many ways that most underappreciated of horror writers – one of those who satisfied his many readers with everything from tales with neat little twists to the occasional true gem. In almost two hundred short stories – and ten novels – he delivered the goods.

  Such a legacy is not always honoured, though it’s gratifying that he did receive the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement in 1988, and the British Fantasy Society Special Award in 1989. He deserved those awards, not only because of his long-standing service to the field, but because he was, basically, himself. Not a self-announcing, self-congratulatory celebrity of the genre, but the sort of writer who everyone said was one of the nicest people you would want to meet.

  It had bothered me ever since Ron passed in 2001 that his industry and talent might be forgotten by many readers, and that we might never see more stories of some of his more memorable creations – in particular the Shadmock, from his Monster Club stories. I’d long wondered if anyone else might be allowed to add to this mythos. And then, by sheer chance I realised that 2019 would have been Ron’s 100th birthday. ‘What better time for someone to put together a tribute anthology to R. Chetwynd-Hayes?’ I thought. At that point, I hadn’t seriously considered that I might edit it myself, so I mentioned it to the man I thought in the best position to put such a project in motion. A man who knew Ron well, had worked with him and edited collections of his work in the past – Stephen Jones.

  If you’ve ever wondered how Steve got to be as successful and well-respected an editor as he is, it’s at least partly because he’s a force of nature. I’d barely mentioned the idea before he’d offered to open negotiations with the estate of R. Chetwynd-Hayes on my behalf. It turned out that Steve was already working on a Chetwynd-Hayes collection for PS Publishing, so I found that I’d volunteered myself to helm this collection of new stories.

  I soon found a willing publisher in David Sutton at Shadow Publishing, an old friend of Steve’s and a man with whom I had worked before, so all that was needed was authors – people who felt they had a genuine connection to Ron. Steve Jones immediately suggested John Llewelyn Probert, who is a huge fan of Ron’s work, and I was soon overwhelmed by the number of well-known genre authors who wanted to be involved with the book.

  The stories in this volume are split between those who directly used Ron’s characters and concepts and those who were simply inspired by his writing. There are, inevitably, several that reference Ron’s best known work, that being The Monster Club, which was also made into a film by Milton Subotsky in 1980, albeit Ron was reportedly not all that happy with the adaptation. From my personal point of view, the upside of this is we get more Shadmocks. As well as visiting the fabled Monster Club, it’s worth noting that we also get to spend some time in the infamous Clavering Grange, and reacquaint ourselves with the redoubtable Madame Orloff.

  The only characters the R. Chetwynd-Hayes estate denied us permission to use were Francis St Clare and Frederica Masters, his psychic investigators. There has apparently been periodic interest from television and film companies over the years (In fact the first edition of the St Clare novel, The Psychic Detective, actually states that it’s “Soon to be a Hammer film” on the cover. Sadly that deal evidently fell through) and they thought it best not to muddy the waters with new stories by other authors at this time. To make up for this disappointment, we were given permission to reprint one of the original St Clare and Fred stories, so we open with Ron’s own ‘The Gibbering Ghoul of Gomershal’.

  It seems rather apt that the first of the new stories in this anthology should be ‘An Episode of Life...’ by Tina Rath. One of Tina’s earliest story sales was to Ron for ‘The Fetch’ which appeared in The Nineteenth Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories (1983). Since her story here features a fictionalised version of a young Ron Chetwynd-Hayes, during his early days as a film extra, and an older version of Ron turns up in Stephen Laws’ ‘Fire Damage’, I decided it would be very fitting for them to bookend the original fiction in this volume.

  I like to think that Ron would have relished the opportunity to be a character, in stories, written by other authors. He was, after all, in the acting business in his youth. As for the rest of the stories herein, they may vary in length, subject matter and style, yet each one clearly shows the genuine affection the authors hold for Ron and the influence he had on their own work. And each is offered as their tribute to our very own ‘Prince of Chill’.

  Dave Brzeski

  MONSTER RIGHTS

  By

  Cardinal Cox

  Lit by the sodium glare above there’s

  A soapbox on the corner of a street

  A strange figure clambers up, starts to speak

  This demagogue has cloven hooves for feet

  He has done this a hundred times before

  His voice is raised to be heard by the throng

  He knows how to capture their attention

  He has aims to correct a perceived wrong

  “Did that Percy Edwards impersonate

  A shadmock’s notable, glorio

us whistle?

  Would that brave slave Androcles have pulled from

  A werewolf’s paw a thorn from a thistle?”

  Equal rights for monsters the strange throng say

  They march through the town centre at midnight

  They shuffle with placards and banners

  Shambling, drooling, they are a frightful sight

  There’s a boozy party making badges

  And another group printing up t-shirts

  Though it’s whispered in the ink they’ve mixed

  A little pinch of cursed black graveyard dirt

  A single vamgoo holds a petition

  And asks everyone who passes to sign

  The ignorant humans though bustle passed

  No, not one of them is forming a line

  A small committee has been working hard

  Drawing up a list of all their demands

  And first at the top of the page is that

  Every silver bullet is to be banned

  Holy crucifixes to be locked up

  Restaurants to open where they can sup

  Creations to get donated organs

  Mirror-free zones declared for the Gorgon

  Sea-monsters included in whaling bans

  Recognition for all the sundry clans

  Heating allowance for shivering mummies

  Baby vampires to get stronger dummies

  Cute hellish hounds to be allowed off leads

  And everything to have freedom to breed

  THE GIBBERING GHOUL OF GOMERSHAL

  From the casebook of the world’s only practising psychic detective

  By

  R. Chetwynd-Hayes

  MR REGINALD HAINES was a bald, ponderous man of some fifty-five years, who made a great business of smoking a pipe. He first rammed dark-brown tobacco into the bowl, then very slowly raised the stem to his mouth and inserted it between his large, white teeth. A few well-planned puffs, followed by three perfectly formed smoke rings, apparently informed him that the operation was proceeding satisfactorily and he could now – after due thought and consideration – turn his attention to more pressing concerns.

  ‘It gibbers,’ he said.

  Francis St Clare, the world’s only practising psychic detective, leaned back in his chair and creased his handsome face into a thoughtful smile.

  ‘Sounds interesting. Comes out of a graveyard, you say!’

  Mr Haines examined his pipe, cleared his throat, then nodded slowly.

  ‘You must understand, Mr St Clare, when I retired last year I bought an old cottage that stands on the edge of Gomershal Burying Ground. No one’s been buried there since 1854 and the place is a proper mess. Anyroad, a week or two back when I was digging ’tator patch, I hears a sort of rustling and a scraping come from the old burial ground and I says to meself – hullo, a bit of hanky-panky going on in there. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I can guess,’ Francis nodded. ‘Misbehaves among the graves. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, I climbs over the bit of wall, creeps through the trees – then I saw it. Down a pit – gibbering and when I tell you…’

  St Clare raised an elegant hand. ‘Don’t. You’ve told me more than enough. It’s a firm rule that I know nothing of the phenomenon, until I experience it for myself. Eye-witnesses rarely give an accurate account, and I prefer to take on a case with an open mind. Will it be possible for you to put us up?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes, my assistant and myself. I never go anywhere without Fred. She combs my hair.’

  The pipe had called it a day and gone out. Mr Haines sighed deeply and thrust it into his pocket.

  ‘Daresay, Jean – that’s me daughter – could spend a few nights in the attic, then your assistant could have her room and you the spare. Yes, that’ll be all right. I’ll speak to the missus.’

  Francis stared thoughtfully at his blotting pad.

  ‘There’s just one little matter. My fee. I usually charge a hundred a day, plus expenses. The first hundred in advance.’

  Mr Haines said, ‘Strewth!’ and followed it up with an equally expressive, ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘However,’ Francis went on, ‘when a case promises to be of special interest, I have been known to ask for far less. Let’s leave the question of my fee in abeyance for a while. Will it be convenient if we arrive at six o’clock precisely tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Can’t be too soon for me,’ his new client replied. ‘Anything particular you fancy for ’igh tea? A nice piece of smoked ’addock, maybe?’

  ‘Great. And don’t worry about Fred. She eats anything. Let me see if I’ve got your address right – Woodbine Cottage, Copse Lane, Gomershal.’

  Both men rose as Mr Haines said, ‘That’s right. Turn off the M6 just after you pass through Clavering. My place is on the left. You can’t miss it. Three parts surrounded by tombstones.’

  ‘Right. See you tomorrow evening then. Would you mind seeing yourself out? It’s the housekeeper’s day off.’

  The psychic detective waited until his new client had left the room, before sitting down and calling out:

  ‘OK, Fred – let’s hear from you.’

  The thick blue curtains that masked the French windows, parted and Frederica Masters stepped into the room. She was an extremely beautiful girl with ash-blonde hair and white skin, who wore a cynical expression as though her blue eyes had seen too much and forgotten too little in her short life. She wore a colourful costume that bordered on the bizarre. The bright red blouse had a dangerous split down the centre that revealed the valley between her breasts; the green mini-skirt was the stunted offspring of a broad belt, and her splendid nylon-clad legs would make any man’s eyes widen with appreciation. Her voice was low and husky.

  ‘Don’t you think that one will be a complete waste of time? I ask you – a gibbering something!’

  Francis fitted a cigarette into a long holder and lit it with a gold lighter.

  ‘What about his atmosphere? Were you able to sort it out?’

  Fred sank into a chair and crossed her legs,

  ‘Suet pudding on the hoof. Not a spark of psychic awareness in his entire body. He wouldn’t see a nasty if it came and sat on his lap. Don’t I get a cigarette then?’

  Francis pushed the box across the desk.

  ‘That’s why I think there’s something ’orrible taking place down in darkest Gomershal. He’s not the type to imagine a gibbering something.’

  ‘Oh, very bright. But you underestimate the effect of late night horror films on TV. Everybody gets a free education these days.’

  Francis St Clare nodded. ‘The child may be stupid, but she has moments of inspiration. Well, as the eunuch said to the actress – we shall have to wait and see.’

  Francis turned the car into Copse Lane and drove some hundred yards or more until he came within view of a picturesque cottage that was three-quarters surrounded by reeling tombstones and numerous skeletal trees. The psychic detective braked to a halt and after switching off the engine, examined the scene with a professional eye.

  Beyond the cottage rolling hills sloped down to open moorland, that reached out green and russet clad arms to embrace the low-wall surrounded burying ground. To the extreme right stood a ruined building that had probably been a memorial chapel, but was now only two jagged walls, rearing up from a mass of weed-infested masonry.

  Francis asked: ‘Well?’

  Fred sank back and stared thoughtfully out over the desolate countryside.

  ‘There’s the usual personality debris. I just had a glimpse of an earthbound waif. Over there by that ruined building. An old woman in a long, tattered dress. I’d say she came to a bad end some – oh, I don’t know – two hundred years ago? She’s no problem. Wait a sec – there’s a child – I think. The head is jutting up from that mound by the large broken tombstone. Probably buried alive. They often were a century or so ago. Poor thing’s trying to get out.’

  Francis nodded. ‘But can you see anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Not so far. But one rarely does in broad daylight. Hullo – there’s a nifty looking girl peering at us round the front doorway. Nothing ghostly about her. Don’t you think it’s about time we made ourselves known?’