WTF!

Ok so i just finished watching Stuart Gordons' latest film adaption of my FAVORITE H.P. Lovecraft story "Dreams in the Witch House" and here is my question.....Why do these stupid jerk off wannabe Hollywood types change and deviate so far from the original story? Ok so Lovecraft wrote in a tedious style and published the bulk of his stories in pulp magazines in the 20's and 30's but i still think that his stories are relevant and touch that dark place in all of us......and i'm fairly sure he has been given the credit for being the father of the modern gothic horror story so again WTF?

The only film adaption I have ever seen that even comes close is a film called "The Ressurected" that stars Chris Sarandon and is based on The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.

The Lurking Fear
The Unnameable
From Beyond
The Dunwich Horror

have all been adapted as well and all fall seriously short of the original source material

We as fans need to do something...i'm just not sure what exactly!

I myself have started a Lovecraftian story which I will eventually finish at some point (I hope) here is a tease (Now keep in mind this is only my sad attempt to emulate one of my heroes and it is still rough...be kind)


Francis Scott Kessler
4242 North Olive St., Apt. H
Dunwich, Massachusetts 64118

Dear Scott,

I count myself fortunate that I was able to obtain your new address from a mutual female acquaintance. First let me say that that I was sorry to hear about the sudden passing of your mother, I know the two of you were close. Second let me offer you my congratulations on your recent nuptials, I had figured you for a lifelong bachelor; however my reason for this letter is of a more serious tone, I have something most disturbing to relate to you and I feel certain that only a fellow kindred and devotee of the esoteric and the macabre would appreciate the following narrative and give it the seriousness that it deserves.
As you may or may not be aware recently, I obtained a contract with a small and obscure publishing company most noted for its forays into Horror and Science Fiction. My novel was to center around a character that you and I had discussed over many a pitcher of beer some years earlier when we were both living in California.
My Editor has a small vacation home in the State of Kentucky near the Mammoth Caves National Park and offered it to me as a place to write and do my research, he said that it was well secluded and would offer up very few distractions, having never been to that part of the country and me always being up for a new adventure took him up on his offer without much hesitation. My sister dropped me off that morning at the airport armed only with my laptop, a few weeks worth of clothes, a handful of books, and my twelve hundred dollar advance, I boarded the plane eager to get started. The stewardess that seated me was very attractive; do they still call them that? Or was that incredibly sexist of me? The flight itself was uneventful, although I was rather impressed with my accommodations my editor Jim had actually sent me to Louisville first class, it’s amazing how much larger the seats really are.
The plane landed a few hours later, a car had been arranged for my use and soon I was speeding east on a four-lane highway. The country side was actually quite remarkable, gentle rolling hills, blue green grass, and thick dense forests of eldritch old hickory and cedar trees that crowded closely in on the highway which in some places actually cut through solid limestone.
A mere two hours later I found myself in a town appropriately named Cave City, for it bordered Mammoth Cave National Park and several privately owned caves. I stopped at a convenience store to relieve my aching bladder and ask for directions. The girl behind the counter was very friendly and didn’t quite fit the mental image I had conjured, she was not; to my disappointment barefoot, pregnant, missing teeth, or wearing overalls, I’m told you will only see that on the extreme eastern part of the state. Another half hour finds me pulling up to a small log cabin set squarely on a hilltop overlooking the State Park; I immediately unpacked my belongings and put them neatly away. The cabin consisted mostly of one room of appropriate furnishings, with the bath independent and adjacent to the kitchen, the bedroom was nothing more than a loft obscured by a half wall. There was as I noted much to my dismay no television or radio to be found, no distractions indeed! After rummaging through the cabinets it was apparent the first order of business was to stock the larder, but I decided that this could wait until tomorrow as I was near to exhaustion from my trip. I got back in the car and made my way back down to a small diner that I had passed on my way to the cabin. I went inside and sat down it was only when I ordered a plate of Barbecue that I noticed everyone eying me intently, and it seemed to me that everyone was rather Batrachian and slightly Brachycephalic in aspect, although I suppose it may have been I was simply tired. When I asked my waitress about my observations she simply remarked that the diner was family owned and operated and that everyone present, aside from me was in some way or another related.
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I would really know the truth of my first observation of the local inhabitants. During my first week alone in the cabin I made considerable progress on my novel and a few short stories, however very early one morning in the pre-dawn hours I was awakened by a sound so utterly alien that at first I doubted as to my state of consciousness, but slowly blinking the hazy blur of sleep from my eyes I was sure that I was sure that hearing the low muffled chant of many voices coming from somewhere out in the darkness. My natural state being highly curious I hastily dressed in the dark and ran to the deck to throw open the sliding glass doors. The frigid starless night rushed in on me causing me to shiver, I looked out over the gentle slope with my flashlight trying to pinpoint the source of the music, but as suddenly as I had been awakened by the strange music, it abruptly stopped. I stayed awake for the next three hours hastily picking away at the keys on my laptop writing and listening for the strange haunting melody that had awakened me from a sound sleep, but to no avail.
The next few days were uneventful except that I found myself unable to concentrate on my work as my imagination had been captured by the strange and slightly mellifluous chanting voices in the night.
On the fourth day after hearing the music I decided to distract myself with a guided tour of the neighboring caves I reasoned that I could somehow work them into my current narrative or perhaps a future yarn. After paying my twelve dollars and once inside my consciousness was invaded with the feeling of such vast antiquity that it temporarily overwhelmed me. Our guide proceeded to slowly unveil the history of the caves; apparently they had been mined for salt-peter for the manufacture of gun powder during several wars, and used for a hospital for tuberculosis patients. But it wasn’t until our guide stopped at a peculiar shaped outcropping of rock that my interest was piqued. The formation was known simply as giants coffin and that according to local folklore it had been used by early native Americans and by a local church cult in recent history to perform hideous dark rituals of unspeakable horror (the guides words not mine). When I tried to inquire about his story in further detail he gave me a furtive look of extreme disdain and promptly moved the tour on to the next attraction. After crawling through a very narrow passage in the cave referred to as fat mans’ misery I tried to further press our guide in private about the coffin shaped rock; he said in a hushed low tone that it would be in my best interest being an outsider to leave the legend well enough alone. As I have said earlier and as you well know I am much to curious to be daunted by his obvious childish attempts to warn me away, I decided right then and there that I would track down the church in the legend and investigate the strange folklore in further detail.
My first stop was the local historical society. The woman who ran the local office, a Mrs. Feldman was remarkably unhelpful and actually asked me to leave immediately in no uncertain terms when I mentioned wanting to find out about the church in the guides story.


Ah maybe if i leave you hanging you'll come back (provided you come here to begin with)...lol

Later....