It's Halloween again my friends, the Funhouse has opened its doors. Jake Stone is all alone, except for the ghouls crawling beneath the floor.
So many scares, so many haunts, so many unearthed fears. No wonder there's no light on, no candy in the bowl this year. Stone's sick of the horrors, he's sick of the ghosts, he's tired of penning them all down. So what's left to do, when you hate Halloween? Why, you send in the clown!!!!
That's right Kiddos... in this final issue of the Funhouse of Horrors, the clown is sent in indeed. When Jake Stone "Ghost Writer" gets a mysterious letter (postmarked a lifetime ago) inviting our favorite paranormal investigator to look into strange happenings at a Carnival... suddenly a familiar painted face appears. You got it! Jexter and his entire Carnival of Souls make a surprise appearance!
Trick or Treat! Two spooky worlds are about to meet... in this Carnival Of Souls / Funhouse Of Horrors cross-over! Get your ticket and Enter if You Dare!!! You for sure will be in for a good scare!
Funhouse Of Horrors™
Bonus Rock Track - "DEAD MAN WALKING"
by SAMUEL R. DELANY
The green of beetles' wings ... the red of polished carbuncle ... a web of silver fire. Lightning tore his eyes apart, struck deep inside his body; and he felt his bones split. Before it became pain, it was gone. And he was falling through blue smoke. The smoke was inside him, cool as blown ice. It was getting darker.
He had heard something before, a ... voice: the Lord of the Flames.... Then:
Jon Koshar shook his head, staggered forward, and went down on his knees in white sand. He blinked. He looked up. There were two shadows in front of him.
To his left a tooth of rock jutted from the sand, also casting a double shadow. He felt unreal, light. But the backs of his hands had real dirt on them, his clothes were damp with real sweat, and they clung to his back and sides. He felt immense. But that was because the horizon was so close. Above it, the sky was turquoise—which was odd because the sand was too white for it to be evening. Then he saw the City.
It hit his eyes with a familiarity that made him start. The familiarity was a refuge, and violently his mind clawed at it, tried to find other familiar things. But the towers, the looped roadways, that was all there was—and one small line of metal ribbon that soared out across the desert, supported by strut-work pylons. The transit ribbon! He followed it with his eyes, praying it would lead to something more familiar. The thirteenth pylon—he had counted them as he ran his eye along the silver length—was crumpled, as though a fist had smashed it. The transit ribbon snarled in mid-air and ceased. The abrupt end again sent his mind clawing back toward familiarity: I am Jon Koshar (followed by the meaningless number that had been part of his name for five years). I want to be free (and for a moment he saw again the dank, creosoted walls of the cabins of the penal camp, and heard the clinking chains of the cutter teeth as he had heard them for so many days walking to the mine entrance while the yard-high ferns brushed his thighs and forearms ... but that was in his mind).
The only other things his scrambling brain could reach were facts of negation. He was some place he had never been before. He did not know how he had gotten there. He did not know how to get back. And the close horizon, the double shadows ... now he realized that this was not Earth (Earth of the Thirty-fifth Century, although he gave it another name, Fifteenth Century G.F.).
But the City.... It was on earth, and he was on earth, and he was—had been—in it. Again the negations: the City was not on a desert, nor could its dead, deserted towers cast double shadows, nor was the transit ribbon broken.
The transit ribbon!
When the Martians shot themselves off their planet in cylinders towards earth, landing near a town in England, an astronomer saw the strange shooting light in the sky and went in the direction of where the cylinder seemed to have landed, hoping to find it. When he found the crash site, the news soon spread. A crowd started to gather around the crater the cylinder had made, expecting to see men much like themselves crawl out of the opening that was slowly unscrewing itself. The Martians emerged and their appearance was like anything but men, with their head-like bodies and many tentacles. They had a weapon that shot heat-rays, setting aflame anything in its path. Many people were shot by it, while the others fled for their life.
The narrator ran back home and told his wife everything that had happened. He realized that it was no longer safe for them there. The next day they packed up and headed to Leatherhead where his wife's cousins were. Shortly after they arrived the narrator had to go back to return a cart that he had borrowed from an innkeeper and had promised to return. In the town he found dead bodies along the streets including the innkeepers. He encountered a big metal machine on a tall tripod with a Martian inside controlling it.
Back at his house, he met an artilleryman and the next day they traveled on together. After many hours walking down the road they came to a town. As they were walking through the Martians made an attack. The narrator jumped into the river out of sight of the martians and out of reach of the Heat-Ray. Military guns shot at a Martian, destroying it. It fell into the river, causing the water to boil, and burning the narrator. He was able to escape to a boat and down the river. Further down he landed exhausted on shore. After resting he found a curate from the church of the nearby town who was confused by all the destruction and started to follow the narrator around.
By that time the Martians had started to destroy London where the narrator's brother lived. That was when the Martians had changed their weapon from the Heat-Ray to the Black Smoke that they spread across the land. Luckily the narrator's brother had escaped in time before they spread it through the streets of London.
The narrator and the curate had broken into an abandoned house to get food when the fifth cylinder landed right next to them, destroying part of the house and trapping them inside. For many weeks they stayed in the house during which the curate's death was caused by his loud talking that attracted the attention of a Martian. Eventually the narrator realized that no more Martians were in sight. It was finally safe to come out. He walked on down the road towards Leatherhead hoping his wife was still alive.
Everywhere, the trees, the ground, were covered in a red weed from Mars. He felt like he was walking through a different world. Further down the road he met the artillery man again. They stayed together for a few days but the narrator wanted to see London so he left the artillery man and went alone.
In London he wandered the destroyed and deserted streets. There he found a pit the Martians had created, where the Martians were all lying dead. They had died from the bacteria on the earth that humans had become immune to.
When the narrator returned to his home, believing his wife to be among the dead, he found her there and the two were reunited. Miraculously, the war was over and soon England was returned back to normal. Now and then the narrator was still haunted by the past and knew that the world should be prepared for the possibility of the Martians' return.
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The alphabets illustrated, while primarily intended to exhibit the letter shapes, have in most cases been so arranged as to show also how the letters compose into words, except in those instances where they are intended to be used only as initials. The application of classic and medieval letters to modern usages has been, as far as possible, suggested by showing modern designs in which similar forms are employed.
In view of the practical aim of this treatise it has been deemed advisable to include a larger number of illustrative examples rather than to devote space to the historical evolution of the letter forms.
To the artists, American and European, who have so kindly furnished him with drawings of their characteristic letters—and without whose cordial assistance this book would hardly have been possible—to the master-printers who have allowed him to show types specially designed for them, and to the publishers who have given him permission to borrow from their books and magazines, the author wishes to express his sincere obligations.
I have divided the matter into centuries and reigns, as far as possible, in this small work, besides separating male and female attire, thus simplifying reference. A special feature has also been made, of supplying the maker or designer of dress with actual proportions and patterns, gleaned from antique dresses, as far back as they could be obtained; and I am much indebted to the authorities at the Victoria and Albert Museum for the permission given me to examine and measure their unique specimens; also to Mr. Wade, Mr. G. G. Kilburne, Mr. Duffield, Mr. Box Kingham, Mr. Hill, Mr. Breakespeare, and others, for their valuable assistance with interesting specimens. I have used outline drawings in the text, as being more clear for purposes of explanation. The dates given to the illustrations are to be taken as approximate to the time in which the style was worn. Many of the photographs have been arranged from my own costume collection, which has made so much of my research simple, reliable, and pleasant. I am also happy to state that before the final revision of this book I have heard that my collection of historical costumes and accessories will, after a preliminary exhibition at Messrs. Harrod's, be presented to the Victoria and Albert Museum as a gift to the nation by the Directors of that firm. Thus the actual dresses shown in these plates will find a permanent home in London, and become valuable examples to students of costume. The coiffures in the collotype plates are not to be judged as examples, for it would have consumed far too much time to set up these figures more perfectly, but all the bonnets, caps, and accessories given are genuine examples.
As I am taught by my muse, carefully sort them in plots:
Fertile branches, whose product is golden fruit of my lifetime,
Set here in happier years, tended with pleasure today.
You, stand here at my side, good Priapus—albeit from thieves I've
Nothing to fear. Freely pluck, whosoever would eat.
—Hypocrites, those are the ones! If weakened with shame and bad conscience
One of those criminals comes, squinting out over my garden,
Bridling at nature's pure fruit, punish the knave in his hindparts,
Using the stake which so red rises there at your loins.
“This careful summary of English History is intended for pupils in the middle forms of public and private schools; it is well adapted for this purpose.”—Educational Times.