Read Online The Howling Man by Charles Beaumont - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Beaumont
Tags: Literary Criticism, Fiction.Horror, Collection.Single Author, Short Stories & Novellas, Acclaimed.S K Recommends, Acclaimed.Bram Stoker Award
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time Lila Shaffer--a gifted young woman with an unerring ability to separate the occasional grain of wheat from all that chaff--was associate editor of both Amazing Stories and Fantastic Adventures .
As I recall, she plunked the Beaumont story on the desk in front of me, said something like, "This is the best thing I've come across in I don't know how long. You've got to read it. Right now!", and sat down.
I said, "Since you put it that way," and began reading.
After the first four or five pages, 1 looked up at her, said, "You know damned well I don't like stories that open with someone saying 'Let me tell you what happened to me a while back.' Lacks immediacy."
"Read," she said.
I read the rest of it, handed her the pages, said, "Who is this guy?"
She said, "I don't know. I never heard of him before."
"Send a check," I said. "And a letter saying we want first crack at anything else he Writes,"
Unfortunately nothing came of it. Playboy and Rogue paid better rates than we did.
A few years later I was brought to Hollywood to write for motion pictures and television. Shortly after I got there, I met Charles Beaumont and told him the whole story. I'm not sure he believed me, but he laughed and bought me a drink. And we raised our glasses in a toast. To Lila Shaffer.
----
THE DEVIL, YOU SAY?
----
It was two o'clock in the morning when I decided that my attendance at a meeting of the International Newspapermen's Society for the Prevention of Thirst was a matter of moral necessity. This noble Brotherhood, steeped in tradition and by now as immortal as the institution of the public press, has always been a haven, a refuge and an inspiration to weary souls in the newspaper profession. Its gatherings at Ada's Bar & Grill--Open 24 Hours A Day--have made more than a few dismiss their woes for a while.
I had just covered a terrifically drab story which depended nine tenths upon the typewriter for its effect, and both brain and throat had grown quite dry in consequence. The extra block and a half over to Ada's was a completely natural detour.
As usual at this time of day, the only customers were newspapermen.
Joe Barnes of the Herald was there, also Mary Kepner and Frank Monteverdi of the Express . Warren Jackson, the Globe's drama critic, sat musing over a cigar, and Mack Sargent, who got paid for being the New's sports man, seemed to be fascinated by improvising multiple beer rings on the table cloth.
The only one I was surprised to see was Dick Lewis, a featured columnist for the Express who'd lately hit the syndicates. He usually didn't drop in to Ada's more than two or three times a month, and then he never added much to the conversation.
Not that he wasn't likable. As a matter of fact, Dick always put a certain color into the get-togethers, by reason of being such a clam. It gave him a secretive or "MysteryMan" appearance, and that's always stimulating to gabfests which occasionally verge towards the monotonous.
He sat in one of the corner booths, looking as though he didn't give a damn about anything. A little different this time, a little lower at the mouth. Having looked into mirrors many times myself, I'd come to recognize the old half-closed eyelids that didn't result from mere tiredness. Dick sat there considering his half-empty stein and stifling only a small percentage of burps. Clearly he had been there some time and had considered a great many such half-empty stems.
I drew up a chair, tossed off an all-inclusive nod of greeting and listened for a few seconds to Frank's story of how he had scooped everybody in the city on the Lusitania disaster, only to get knocked senseless by an automobile ten seconds before he could get to a phone. The story died in the mid-section, and we all sat for a half hour or so quaffing cool ones, hiccoughing and apologizing.
One of the wonderful things about beer is that a little bit, sipped with the proper speed, can give one the courage to do and say things one would
As I recall, she plunked the Beaumont story on the desk in front of me, said something like, "This is the best thing I've come across in I don't know how long. You've got to read it. Right now!", and sat down.
I said, "Since you put it that way," and began reading.
After the first four or five pages, 1 looked up at her, said, "You know damned well I don't like stories that open with someone saying 'Let me tell you what happened to me a while back.' Lacks immediacy."
"Read," she said.
I read the rest of it, handed her the pages, said, "Who is this guy?"
She said, "I don't know. I never heard of him before."
"Send a check," I said. "And a letter saying we want first crack at anything else he Writes,"
Unfortunately nothing came of it. Playboy and Rogue paid better rates than we did.
A few years later I was brought to Hollywood to write for motion pictures and television. Shortly after I got there, I met Charles Beaumont and told him the whole story. I'm not sure he believed me, but he laughed and bought me a drink. And we raised our glasses in a toast. To Lila Shaffer.
----
THE DEVIL, YOU SAY?
----
It was two o'clock in the morning when I decided that my attendance at a meeting of the International Newspapermen's Society for the Prevention of Thirst was a matter of moral necessity. This noble Brotherhood, steeped in tradition and by now as immortal as the institution of the public press, has always been a haven, a refuge and an inspiration to weary souls in the newspaper profession. Its gatherings at Ada's Bar & Grill--Open 24 Hours A Day--have made more than a few dismiss their woes for a while.
I had just covered a terrifically drab story which depended nine tenths upon the typewriter for its effect, and both brain and throat had grown quite dry in consequence. The extra block and a half over to Ada's was a completely natural detour.
As usual at this time of day, the only customers were newspapermen.
Joe Barnes of the Herald was there, also Mary Kepner and Frank Monteverdi of the Express . Warren Jackson, the Globe's drama critic, sat musing over a cigar, and Mack Sargent, who got paid for being the New's sports man, seemed to be fascinated by improvising multiple beer rings on the table cloth.
The only one I was surprised to see was Dick Lewis, a featured columnist for the Express who'd lately hit the syndicates. He usually didn't drop in to Ada's more than two or three times a month, and then he never added much to the conversation.
Not that he wasn't likable. As a matter of fact, Dick always put a certain color into the get-togethers, by reason of being such a clam. It gave him a secretive or "MysteryMan" appearance, and that's always stimulating to gabfests which occasionally verge towards the monotonous.
He sat in one of the corner booths, looking as though he didn't give a damn about anything. A little different this time, a little lower at the mouth. Having looked into mirrors many times myself, I'd come to recognize the old half-closed eyelids that didn't result from mere tiredness. Dick sat there considering his half-empty stein and stifling only a small percentage of burps. Clearly he had been there some time and had considered a great many such half-empty stems.
I drew up a chair, tossed off an all-inclusive nod of greeting and listened for a few seconds to Frank's story of how he had scooped everybody in the city on the Lusitania disaster, only to get knocked senseless by an automobile ten seconds before he could get to a phone. The story died in the mid-section, and we all sat for a half hour or so quaffing cool ones, hiccoughing and apologizing.
One of the wonderful things about beer is that a little bit, sipped with the proper speed, can give one the courage to do and say things one would
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