Ancient Sorceries and Other Weird Stories (Penguin Classics) by Algernon Blackwood

By Algernon Blackwood

Through turns extraordinary, unsettling, spooky, and elegant, old Sorceries and different bizarre tales showcases 9 incomparable tales from grasp magican Algernon Blackwood. Evoking the uncanny non secular forces of Nature, Blackwood's writings all tread the nebulous borderland among delusion, awe, ask yourself, and horror. right here Blackwood screens his most sensible and most annoying work-including "The Willows," which Lovecraft singled out as "the unmarried best bizarre story in literature"; "The Wendigo"; "The madness of Jones"; and "Sand."

"Of the standard of Mr Blackwood''s genius there should be no dispute; for not anyone has ever approached the ability, seriousness, and minute constancy whith which he documents the overtones of strangeness in traditional issues and experiences."—H.P. Lovecraft

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Extra resources for Ancient Sorceries and Other Weird Stories (Penguin Classics)

Example text

Now it is spring again, alas, and as predicted the yellow bird has returned. The Eternal Return, as they call it here. Thinking back from this day to that one nine months ago, I now imagine the bird to have been sounding a warning. But that is nonsense, of course, for who could have thought it was a bird of ill omen, that little creature? During the first long summer, its cheerful notes seemed to stand both as a mark of fulfillment and as a promise of profound happiness, signifying the achievement of our hearts’ desire.

And you’re having fruit cup, anyway. You know what the Widow said about sweets. ” “I have an idea-” “Like they have at Delphi, right? And it tells you things, right? ” I managed to suppress my smile by turning it into a yawn. “Don’t laugh. They really believe it. ” “Kate,” Beth put in, “that’s just a story; nobody believes it-” “Sure they do. They really do. ” Fred Minerva had been having a run of bad luck, all of which had stemmed, or so the villagers maintained, from his stumbling in the dance at Spring Festival.

Suddenly, as we came over a hill, we saw in the upper left-hand corner of a vacant prospect an old, swaybacked covered bridge spanning a narrow reach of the river. Though our side was still ghost-gray, the farther side was bathed in a pale yellow light, as though that land were in some way more special, more deserving of the benediction of sun, and as the clouds moved above the lowering expanse, I saw something that made me smile and wait for Kate’s cry. It came on cue. “Look, Daddy-Mummy! ” Faint, yet it was there, a wide bridge of colors above the one of wood, and it was only inevitable that we find the route to the bridge and cross over.

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