Spinster Travelogue: Sleepy Hollow

This weekend I took a spur-of-the-moment visit up to Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow. Incredibly, I'd never been before -- which, for a Washington Irving fan and ghost tour guide, is somewhat shocking. I was so excited to finally, finally see Tarrytown (!) that, on the train, I clutched my ticket like a child until the Metro-North conductor looked and me and kindly inquired if I got out of the city much.
Other than one minor disappointment (there was no lantern-light cemetery tour offered on Saturday night; I soothed my sorrow at a nearby tavern), the trip was awesome.

The Old Dutch Church in Sleepy Hollow

Hymns were wafting out of the Old Dutch Church when I arrived at ten o'clock on Sunday morning. The church itself is beautiful; you can easily imagine the secrets and sights absorbed into its worn stones.

A grammatically baffling yet nonetheless soul-stirring sign.

Afraid of disrupting the service, I was too timid to actually go inside the church. But the adjacent burial ground was rich enough with delights.

"Here Lied Begraven"

I'm pretty sure the first three words carved onto this stone are "Here Lied Begraven." The text is in Dutch, which is thrilling enough (they spell Jesus with Z!) but I have to say the word "begraven" is kind of amazing. I'd like to start using this word all the time. I'm fairly sure the grave belongs to a woman ("huisvrouw," if I've been reading my Knickerbocker correctly, means "housewife" or "wife") but the only name that appears is that of a man (John Emers). Is it possible this goodly vrouw is identified only by her husband's name? Dutch people, help me out on this one. The good woman died in 1769, and her headstone is wonderfully representative of the preferred colonial style: its shoulder arches and tympanum are classic colonial, and the winged death's-head reflects the cheerier, more cherubic design used at the time, which supplanted the grim, skeletal carvings preferred in the earlier part of the century. A lovely headstone.

Washington Irving's Grave

A few steps away, I found the grave of our man himself: Washington Irving. I paused before it to pay my respects to the legacy of the first genius of American letters, and left a rock atop it. Irving wrote a number of wonderful spectral tales in addition to the two everybody knows, as well as history, biography and satire, plus he pretty much single-handedly saved Christmas. And, he was a marketing genius. Prior to publishing his History of New-York, which he released under the pseudonym "Diedrich Knickerbocker," Irving plastered New York City with posters declaiming the august historian Knickerbocker "missing," and asking all citizens to come forward with any news of him, should they find him. Irving even took out ad space in various newspapers. Naturally, the city was astir with curiosity, and when "Knickerbocker's" book finally came out a few weeks later, New Yorkers beat down the doors to get their hands on a copy. A bestseller was born, and Washington Irving accidentally invented viral marketing two centuries before such a thing existed.

Headless Horseman Bridge

But of course Irving's masterwork was his Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and as thrilled as I was to find the author's grave, I have to admit the biggest frisson of the day came when we drove over the bridge supposedly referenced in the story. The bridge is just outside the churchyard gates, and on the day we visited, two volunteers had set up merchandise tables there. As I seriously pondered buying a pewter Headless Horseman Christmas tree ornament, the older gentleman volunteer began speaking passionately about how much he loved the churchyard, and Irving, and the stories. He quoted some lines from Sleepy Hollow to us:

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken... “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.”

He looked at us intently and said, "That line always makes my hair stand up."

A re-creation of the bridge, inside Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

It was amazing. This guy was an even bigger Washington Irving fan than I was. I thanked him warmly and, brimming with inspiration, set off to visit Sunnyside.

Sunnyside was designed by Irving himself, and the cottage reflects the writer's expansive and wide-ranging interests. It has all the architectural cohesion of a minor explosion, and is curiously charming.

Sunnyside

Irving of course had to throw in a few inauthentic faux-Dutch touches, like this date, affixed to the western wall of the cottage:

This house was actually built in the 1830s.

The funny thing is, no one is really sure what the "1656" refers to. Obviously it doesn't reflect the date Sunnyside was built, since Irving bought the land in 1835. Nor does it refer to the original tenant farmer's cottage that was previously on the site (it was built in the 1690s). I asked the guide and he surmised Irving just wanted to add an old-timey touch to the place. It seems the great writer left us one last mystery. Or, knowing the author's whimsical sense of humor, one last joke.

Terry McGarry to read M.R. James and Heads Will Explode

Mainly, my head.

Next week I will be co-hosting Ghost Stories for the Weary Urbanite, a fun show with a poncey title that will feature one new and one classic ghost story. The new story will come courtesy of Jack Ketchum, and the classic story will be read by the lovely Terry McGarry.

Here's where the head-exploding part comes in: this stellar SF author will be reading one of my favorite ghost stories of all time: Lost Hearts, by M.R. James.

My love for M.R. James is a tired old subject I won't bang on about any more, but let me just say for the record that this is a very thrilling announcement for me to make.

If you haven't read it yet -- don't! Come out on Wednesday April 3rd to hear Terry read it to you! Unless you live nowhere near New York City, in which case I'd recommend the next best thing: the M.R. James Podcast to the Curious. Or, you can do it the old fashioned way.

Hope to see those of you who can make it at this event. We plan to make it an ongoing thing, and the thought of contemporary horror authors gathering 'round to read the classic tales that inspired them, well, it makes me glow like some sort of very hot glowy thing.

Love,

SA

Ghost Stories for the Weary Urbanite

Next Wednesday, April 3rd, I’ll be co-hosting (along with Gordon Linzner) a night of readings of classical and contemporary ghost stories, with special guests Jack Ketchum and Terry McGarry. Ketchum and McGarry are renowned horror/SF writers, and this is an amazing chance to see them together! So, to paraphrase Lord Dunsany, come with me ladies and gentlemen who are in any wise weary of New York,  “Come with me, and those that tire at all of the world we know: for we have new worlds here.”

Readings will take place at the SoHo Gallery for Digital Art. Doors open 6:30pm. $5 donation requested. For more information, check out our Facebook page.

Brooklyn Ghosts: Cobble Hill

Found this great post over at the Bowery Boys, telling a Brooklyn ghost story I’d never heard before. And it’s thoroughly awesome.


According to Henry Reed Stiles’ 1869 history of Brooklyn, the following event transpired one night in the 1820s, in a rowdy little tavern on Red Hook Lane:

“One evening at around 11 p.m., the men at the converted tavern discovered they had run out of brandy.  To replenish their supply, somebody needed only to run down Red Hook Lane to the Brooklyn ferry and retrieve more. 

Less than a half-mile walk, of course, but one that passed by an old ruined fort (Cobbleshill Fort), approximately near the intersection of today’s Court and Pacific streets.  Sitting near to the fort was “a ghost-haunted spot,” a frightening, decrepit place well-known to locals, ‘about which dreadful stories are whispered, which lent wings to the feet of such unwary village urchins as chanced to pass it after dark.’

Nobody wanted to admit they were frightened to venture out alone, and yet despite their incredible thirst, nobody volunteered for the task.  Finally, a man named Boerum, thirsty and bold, declared he would head to the ferry and retrieve the brandy.”

Two hours later, when Boerum still had not returned, his friends ventured forth into the night, all a-tremble with terror and trepidation:

“Mounting, not in hot haste, they turned their horses’ heads towards the village and on approaching the haunted ground, they found Boerum’s horse standing against the fence not far from the house, and when they reach the spot itself, their companion was discovered lying senseless on the road, with features horribly distorted.”

Boerum died a few days later, still speechless, and to this day nobody knows how he perished. Did he see the ghost and die of fright? Or did he come across something still more sinister?
We cannot say. But you can still visit Red Hook Lane, a tiny alley in Cobble Hill, just off Fulton Street, and see if the spirits will tell you anything.

Read the rest of the Bowery Boys blog post here.

Well, this is a whole lotta crap: Detox Diary

I recently decided to go on a beer detox, just to see what would happen. Part of me was simply experimenting, setting a pointless challenge for myself, which is a thing I do sometimes for some reason. Another part of me realized that the heroic amounts of beer I consume on a regular basis might make me an educated consumer, passionate beer enthusiast, and generally happy and satisfied person, but it was also making my tummy start to hurt. Now, I'm no scientician. I'm not even sure where in the human body the liver is located. But I knew that my liver was politely asking me for a little break.

And so I decided it was time for the Homer Challenge: No Deer For A Month.

Naturally I assumed that everything about my mind and body would immediately become awesome right away. I'd bound out bed in the mornings, a monster of clarity, efficiently performing tasks and activities with ease and grace. I'd remember things like names and faces, my IQ would jump ten points, I'd drop a ton of weight without trying, and my skin would look fresh and hydrated!


Nope!

Here's what's really happening:

1. Cognitive function not improved

By any measurable standards, I'm just as dumb as I was a week ago. I have signed up for Lumosity, so I'll be tracking this on a quantifiable level. But, anecdotally, I can say I'm not finding it any easier to learn or retain new information, nor am I finding my reaction time, speed, attention, or any other function significantly improved. In fact, due to the extreme stress of staying sober, I am actually doing worse at certain activities. Case Study #1: Total crap at pub quiz last night. My hypothesis? When you're relaxed, you perform better at everything. When you're drinking soda water with lime, you are not relaxed, therefore you arse up the pub quiz and forget things like the fact that Alfred Nobel invented dynamite.

Beer: 1
Temperance: 0

2. Still fat

Actually, I'm exercising less now than I did when I enjoyed a beer or two with dinner. Back then (a whole long week ago!) I'd try so hard to exercise those calories away that I'd end up doing lots of cardio. These days... meh.

Beer: 1
Temperance: 0

3. ANGRY

Man, am I irritable! I want to slap everyone I see. I'm constantly twitchy, impatient, and annoyed. Everyone's enjoying themselves but me! I even got into a fight at the aforementioned pub last night over a question on the quiz. I was right, and no one else could see that except me! Because everyone is drunk and stupid and doesn't care about the really important things like FACTS and RULES! God damn it!

Beer: 1
Temperance: 0

4. Insomnia!

Fact, hops make you sleep. A nice IPA in the evening was just the thing to cure my insomnia. I slept the sleep of the just. These days I toss and turn until three in the morning. Ironically, sleep deprivation results in the cognitive equivalent of consuming three to four drinks, so therefore this morning I am about as alert and refreshed as a very hung over person. It's all punishment, no fun, up here in the big ole sober house.

Beer: 1
Temperance: 0

In conclusion, this is bullshit.*

However, I'm determined to stick it out for the full month and, who knows, maybe everything will become amazing in, like, a week or so. But I'm pretty much ready to conclude at this point that beer really is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy (I know Benjamin Franklin didn't actually say that, but who cares, because facts are totally fungible and open to interpretation, according to the stupid moron who runs the stupid trivia pub quiz) and that teetotaling is for the weak.

The one good thing I have to say about all this is I think it's making me a better taster. I did have some Fruet this weekend, because when someone opens a bottle of that shit, all bets are off, and I think I was more sensitized and attuned to flavor nuances after my brief drinking break. In three weeks, when I return rested and refreshed from my beer exile, I think I'll notice and taste things in ways I never picked up on before. All of which will make me a better drinker... so nothing is wasted, really. So to speak.

* Just want to go on record and say that I intend this all from a personal standpoint, and of course if you have an actual substance abuse problem then Beer = minus a million points and Temperance = plus one billion. 

Mama (2013) Mini-review

In the midst of January's cinematic dumping-ground comes a solid and well-crafted ghost story, marred only by a few strange aesthetic choices: Mama (2013). Exec produced by Guillermo del Toro, the film was based on Barbara Muschietti 's 2008 Spanish language horror film of the same name in a bit of a dream-come-true scenario ("Hey, del Toro likes your short and wants to finance a feature. Sound cool to you?"). It's a satisfying film overall but with a few flaws that marred the final product.

The set up is fundamentally brilliant: two little girls, aged three and one, are abandoned by their psychotic father in a cabin in the woods. Their daddy's gone crazy and killed their mother, and he's about to shoot the oldest girl when a mysterious, ghostly entity snatches him up, takes him away, and saves the children. The two girls grow up feral and alone, watched over only by the ghostly presence who they call "Mama." When their uncle finally finds them five years later, the older girl is willing to become part of the society of the living, but the younger daughter, who never really learned to speak and is far more savage than her sister, remains attached to her death-mommy. If you happen to be a Freudian, you'll find their ages quite significant. But even if you're not, the dark fairy-tale evocations of the cabin in the woods, mixed in with some of horror's most effective, if well-worn, tropes (the uncanny child, gruesome motherhood) combine to create one unsettling experience.

While the story, lead performances and characterization, are all great, the ghost itself was a bit problematic for me. The apparition was just so badly rendered, the worst of the worst CGI. In the course of the film, certain photographs are used to illustrate Mama's origin story; these look a bit like Victorian spirit photos or death portraits, and are far scarier than the final CGI specter. Visually, a little less-is-more might've saved that ghost. 

Otherwise, Mama was a solid film, with a surprisingly -- and refreshingly -- bleak ending. It was certainly effective enough to give me nightmares: I awoke at 3am with a vague sense of terror over the idea of two little children lost in the woods, but not alone.

Poe Tour This Weekend

Join me this Saturday January 19th to celebrate Edgar Allan Poe’s 204th “birthday” with a walking tour of Greenwich Village. I’m running two tours, one at 2:30pm and one at 7:30pm. Tours are 90 minutes long, and you can buy tickets here.

Poe belongs to New York. He was a literatus, not a loner, and New York has long been the home of the literati. Greenwich Village was his hometown. In this walk, we will take the opportunity to explore biographical, literary, and supernatural details of his life, how Greenwich Village influenced him, and how he saw Greenwich Village.

Meeting Point: 85 West Third Street, one block south of Washington Square Park between Thompson and Sullivan Streets, in Manhattan. Subway trains A B C D E F M stop at the West 4th Street Station.

Tour covers approximately one mile. Please wear comfortable shoes and dress warmly!