"The Space Eaters"

 by Frank Belknap Long  

originally published Weird Tales, July 1928

Howard (a thinly-disguised - well, actually I hope in a lot of ways he's a thickly-disguised) HPL is buds with Frank, Our Narrator who, for a change, has a friggin' name!  Howard apparently writes supernatural stories - real good ones, per Frank.  But he's having a bad night.  He's frustrated because he can't articulate or describe what he wants to articulate and describe (he then goes on to articulate and describe them - which is basically icky monsters from outer space who have colors and shapes and appearances that don't correspond to anything on our world.  Obviously you can't say something looks kinda like a cross between a lobster and a wallaby if, in fact, it not only doesn't look anything like a lobster or a wallaby - in fact it looks like some other planets equivalent to lobsters and wallabies - except said other planet doesn't have anything equivalent to lobsters and wallabies or anything equivalent to anything we've ever seen before so ... fuck this is even making my head hurt so I kinda don't blame Howard for being a little pissy.  A little pissy mind you - he's being such an ass about Frank's "prosaic" brain that I'm left wondering a little bit why Frank even pals around with the guy.  At least now we know the original inspirations for Titus Crow/Henri De Marigny.

Anyway, there's a knock on the door and its Frank's neighbor/friend Henry Wells, who drives a delivery carriage and ain't too bright, I guess.  But he's had a weird night.  He was out on the road in this terrible fog (did I mention its a really foggy, damp night? Well it is so keep track!) riding through some woods he's always thought were kinda creepy, when something fell in his lap and then jumped in his face - something wet and spongy and gross.  And then he saw something slither rapidly down a tree ... long and white and kind of like a snake - or an arm!  With a hand!  Or maybe not.  He's not sure.  Then he felt a terrible cold or pain (or both) in his head which lasted about 10 minutes.  When he got home, he looked at his temple and he had this nice clean hole there, the size of a bullet hole, going all the way into his brain!

Howard, as if he weren't enough of an asshole, starts shouting at Henry (whom he considers a "yokel") that he's obviously been shot, he's drunk, stupid, voted for Bush twice, etc.  Henry doesn't take too well to this and besides, he's got another headache, so he runs out of the house.  Next thing you know Frank and Howard can hear him screaming in terror or agony.  Frank and Howard proceed to do the natural thing: have a big argument and debate while they change into rain gear - and then go see if they can help him!  OH I forgot to mention there's now a loud droning sound in the woods...

They find him and get him back to the house, where he goes nuts and attacks Howard (which may not be a symptom of insanity, when you get down to it).  A Dr. Smith (oh the pain!) is called.  He operates on Henry while babbling a lot of flowery weirdness (actually Jonathan Harris would have fit the part well) before saying there's nothing more he can do and running away.  He seems to know something ("they have laid there mark on him"), too.  

Frank and Howard flee on Frank's launch, noting a huge shape forming in the sky over the woods, which are now aflame, which they dare not get a good look at.  They make the sign of the cross at it a bunch of times with some burning cotton waste, and it loses definition and vanishes.  Yay!

Back in Brooklyn, Howard gets to writing about the experience, and now he's got what he was looking for - a way to describe "cosmic" horrors beyond the ken of "prosaic" brains (mind you - his big "cosmic" horror is basically semi-visible brain-eating gloop monsters from outer space, as seen in many a 50's sci-fi movie [inevitably starring John Agar], but let's not pop Howie's balloon just yet - he had a rough week).

Frank reads his MS and thinks its brilliant but too horrible for words, and tells him to knock off his seeking after untold horrors.  They have a big philosophical argument until and Frank stomps off, finally tired of Howard's assholery.

That night Howard calls him - the droning's started again!  Frank rushes over (idiot).  He finds Howard writhing on floor yelling about "crawling chaos" while a dark shape beams brilliant lights into Howard's head and pages of his story fly around the room.

Frank manages to make the sign of the cross again, while covering his eyes in horror, and the dark thing bails.  Too late to save ol' Howie though.

Now let me tell you, I've been really looking forward to re-reading "The Space Eaters" for a long time, because I remembered it as being one of the best of the best.  I also remembered F.B. Long as being a genuine literary talent, having been entranced by his collection The Early Long, wherein I first read this at 14 or so, being at that time strung out on all things Lovecraft and desperately trying to find more works by his "circle".  

Well more recent encounters have learnt me that Long was no literary genius (his ideas were imaginative and his prose could be striking, but other times...).  Still I expected great things from "The Space Eaters".

Well...

Okay, let's establish this - "Space Eaters" isn't bad ... just taken down to bare plot, its not so removed from a lot of much-maligned Derleth things.  I won't go into the whole business of the cross (vs. the Elder Sign) because it seems reasonable that a powerful mystic symbol might work against some cosmic beasties even if it isn't the mystic symbol.  Its more imaginative than Derleth would have been (grosser, too).  And at times its just plain hysterical.  Howard is such a complete asshole that either Long was going over the top or he'd had a hatful of HPL at the time he wrote it ... or HPL was really that insufferable (I hope not!).  I'll say again: his concept of an indescribable cosmic horror is the plot of a movie that would now be pure MST3K fodder.  I had to snicker.  Brain-eating monsters from space??? The dialogue gets so portentous and corny that even Stan Lee wouldn't have put his name on it, especially the doctor's monologue while operating.  And the "Omigod!  Henry's screaming! He must be in trouble!  Let's go help him after we finish arguing and change clothes!" belongs in a Monty Python sketch.

But ... but ... I like Long.  I like him because at his best, his writing is really potent and evocative even if it is pulpy.  This tale begins:

"The horror came to Partridgeville in the fog."

Simple, unadorned, unquestionably pulpy and yet it works, it resonates.  To a pulp horror fan, it sets you up that something special is going to come.  Later, Henry's monologue about what he sees in the woods,  a white, snaky ... arm?  With a hand?  Or not?  may be way too poetic for a yoke, but it also recalls the unrealistic but poetic dialogue characters in Ray Bradbury stories often utter.  Long is no Bradury, but it does appear they sipped from the same cup a time or two.

All in all, not near the classic I remembered it as being, but still a fun spooky read.