Monster Books # 3: 1st Armada Monster Book edited by R. Chetwynd-Hayes (Armada, 1975)

A lighter, more family-friendly take on the ‘monster book’ concept here, from children’s imprint Armada, cover artwork by hands unknown.

As you will note, this one has the distinction of being edited by R. Chetwynd-Hayes, the West London-based author of light-hearted horror tales whose work formed the basis for the Amicus anthology films ‘From Beyond The Grave’ (1974) and The Monster Club (1980) (and who of course enjoyed the privilege of being played by John Carradine in the latter).

Not much to add here, beyond noting that, even accounting for the fact he was writing for children, Mr Chetwynd-Hayes’ introduction establishes him as quite possibly the most jovial fellow ever to have turned his attention to vampires and ghouls.

Also on an Armada ‘monster book’ tip meanwhile, check out this one, which I posted here - cough - nearly a decade ago.

Monster Books # 2: Family Ghosts by Elliot O’Donnell (Consul, 1965)

In contrast to the horror/monster-related expectations raised by the eye-catching cover, Elliot O’Donnell’s subject here is, quite literally, ‘family ghosts’, and, without providing a contents page or index, he simply ploughs his way, Charles Fort style, through an interminable recitation of unsourced paranormal anecdotes, loosely categorised under such generic chapter headings as ‘Phantom Birds’, ‘White Ladies, ‘Scottish Family Ghosts’ and so forth.

Elsewhere in the text however, things do at least get pretty peculiar, which is good enough for me. One chapter for instance concerns ‘Haunted Welsh Bridges and Ghosts That Follow Families’, whilst, intriguingly, ‘Fish, Bat and Tree Ghosts’ are considered in Chapter II, beginning with the case of Nottinghamshire’s infamous(?) death-predicting sturgeon;

If this were an original work produced for Consul Books in 1965, I’d be inclined to suggest that O’Donnell had singularly failed to get with the programme re: producing a good ‘monster book’. Although Consul’s edition contains no record prior publication however, it is immediately obvious that ‘Family Ghosts’ was penned considerably prior to the swinging sixties. O’Donnell’s prose has a stodgy, Victorian feel to it, he speaks of receiving letters in 1910 clarifying points he had previously made in print, and in fact he rarely seems to mention anything subsequent to the First World War.

Indeed, a brief glance at Elliot O’Donnell’s Wikipedia page confirms that, born in 1872, he actually died in 1965. ‘Family Ghosts’ was first published in 1934.

Although best remembered for ghost books - of which he wrote dozens, beginning as early as 1908 - in turns out that O’Donnell was actually also an exponent of weird fiction, beginning his literary career with a thriller entitled ‘For Satan’s Sake’ in 1904 and following it up with ‘The Sorcery Club’ in 1912. He subsequently made the cover of ‘Weird Tales’ with ‘The Ghost Table’ in February 1928.

Given that Consul include no copyright notice at the front of this book, I can only assume the they simply dug up the printing plates for ‘Family Ghosts’ from god knows where and slapped them onto new pages to fill a hole in their release schedule, perhaps without even informing the recently deceased author’s estate. The cover illustration and tag line certainly seem more suggestive of an anthology of horror stories than a compendium of hoary old blather about spectral hounds and phantom fish… but who knows?

And speaking of the cover painting - it really is a corker isn’t it? I’ve got no idea who did it, but it’s absolutely great. I’d suggest it might have been better attached to a reprint of some of O’Donnell’s fiction, which I’d probably much rather read too to be honest, but so it goes.

Monster Books # 1: Monsters Galore ‘resurrected’ by Bernhardt J. Hurwood (Fawcett/Gold Medal, 1965)

One curious phenomenon birthed by the commercial imperatives of mid 20th century paperback publishing is that of what I like to call MONSTER BOOKS; hastily thrown together compendiums of public domain short stories and folkloric / paranormal blather, no doubt intended to capture the attention of ghoulish, impressionable young boys and girls left alone in supermarkets and corner shops whilst their parents took care of hum-drum grown-up business.

Ranging across decades and continents, these rarely acknowledged books remain pretty ubiquitous on the second hand market, and, naturally enough, I generally can’t resist ’em. Despite the haste and cheapness of their production, they’re often actually pretty great reads too, assembled with admirable care and attention by their editors/compilers.

I mean, just imagine you’re a struggling writer with a taste for the stranger side of life, and some editor from Gold Medal calls you up out of the blue and says, “hey Bernie, can you get us about two hundred pages of copyright-free stuff about MONSTERS by a week on Thursday?” Boy, can you EVER. Dream gig, right?

That, presumably, is the call that the venerable Bernhardt J. Hurwood received sometime in 1965, and, as you can see from the scans below, he really went to town on it. Not only do we get M.R. James, Lafcadio Hearn, Sir Walter Scott and Ambrose Bierce, but also original retellings by the editor (sorry, ‘resurrector’) of tales sourced from China, Japan, Arabia, Greece and Siberia… amazing stuff. Whilst I haven’t managed to scan them, the text is also interspersed with blurry reproductions of images from Goya, Kuniyoshi, Hokusai, Brueghel, medieval wood carving, and an etching of “two Mongolian demons”.

Just imagine the impact this “United Nations of virulence,” as Hurwood dubs it in his introduction, could have had on some culturally deprived child out in the boondocks somewhere. Mr Hurwood, we salute you!

As you will note, things take a darker turn toward the end of the book, as Hurwood goes off on a bit of a “of course man is the only true monter” tip, throwing in some historical accounts of serial killers, cannibals and the like alongside such borderline supernatural cases as that of Elisabeth Báthory, not to mention the unfortunately named Johannes Cuntius, a medieval ‘vampyre’ whose unsavoury antics are reported here, sans context, in what appears to be an English translation of a contemporary(?) eye witness account.

Needless to say, it is this stuff, more-so than the were-bears and vampire cats, which would probably have given me nightmares had I stumbled across this book in my youth.

Finally, a quick word on the cover design. Incorporating a rough sketch from legendary illustrator Harry Bennett, nothing here is terribly remarkable from a technical POV, but it just looks really great, with that big, blobby lettering and the bright colours and everything. I often leave this one out on display in the living room, and I never get tired of looking at it.