Almost Forgotten Lords of the Paperback Pt. 1
This isn’t meant to be a serious in-depth slap-yer-bum essay on the subject at hand. It’s just a bit of fun I wrote whilst on furlough and maybe if you haven’t read any of these author’s works hopefully I’ll inspire you to go digging ‘round in charity ‘n’ second hand book shops, car boot sales (flea markets), and eBay.
Once upon a time, before the internet absorbed almost everything in its path, an era existed when video stores swamped the landscape and kids collected paperback horrors as much as they did comics.
I can only speak from a UK perspective because I do remember (as do others) the vast number of bookshops that hung around the cities. In all honesty there were only a handful of us going cover to cover.
These days there still stands Waterstones, WHSmiths, and others selling hard and paperback novels plus volumes of nonfiction. There’s one huge difference (well, many if we take into consideration the watered-down subjects) in the landscape – where did all the dusty dirty book shops go? From time to time I spot a genuine survivor, its windows adorned with sun bleached curly edged tomes. Within sits a world weary middle aged to elderly person who reads a book then eyeballs you with their dishcloth looking leather face maybe breaking into a smile once in a while.
Some authors state that in their school playground days, James Herbert and Stephen King did the rounds, as was the case at my school – in fact, the books helped many kids read better. Look, we must drop the image that huge gangs of children were huddling in far corners exchanging grubby paperbacks and arguing over who is the hardest for completing their collections first. Naaah, these weren’t something like collecting stickers, but then again think of the boom that Harry Potter created but that shows the state of affairs wherein many moons ago, boys and girls happily curled up with a book night after night and no one raised an eyebrow.
Horror fiction was huge business, I mean bigger than it is now. The arrival of Stephen King truly changed the landscape, akin to George Lucas dropping Star Wars on the public. The world changed for better and for worse at the same time because, like the movies, the game of chance and daring vacated. Then it was all eyes on the blockbusters. It wasn’t overnight like the domain of movies, however horror fiction gradually had to lose a lot of the old school atmosphere building and creepy quickies to become longer and more complex beasts.
In the UK, James Herbert successfully changed, yet still kept some of his edge. Shaun Hutson increased the page sizes of his works, dropped a hell of a lot of his gore (to be honest, each time I’ve read an interview with Shaun he’s heavily critical of the horror scene in general so I doubt he was bothered), then Clive Barker arrived.
Clive Barker is not a horror author, just as Sam Raimi is not a horror director. A couple of horror hits at the start before wiping your shoes on the genre then heading off elsewhere does not make you horror. And guess what? Neither Clive nor Sam want to be such people! Clive and his offspring, Neil Gaiman belong in a very skilled and talented castle of fantasy writers but without dragons and such.
Anyhow, this isn’t about Clive and Stevie King. It’s not about the huge behemoth recognisable names. It’s not even about the magnificent James Herbert who in fact paved the way for more would be building their confidence authors throughout his early years. This is about the almost forgotten scribblers and traditionalists who still beavered nonstop for a niche audience. I cannot begin to list every single person in one sitting by the way. I’m only grabbing a few names out of the bag (who I have had the privilege of reading and owning many books of in my library).
Let’s take it back, I mean way back and there’s one name whom if I wrote it now, I reckon 80% of folks would frown, then jump on Google to check. It’s not a stab or an insult, by the way, he is rarely mentioned anymore. His minor core audience stroke their beloved collections (as do I) and this is because he could write with such power, such wily humour, and deliver so many knockout twist endings which unfortunately rarely transferred well onto the big screen (or TV). His name? R. Chetwynd-Hayes.
Like Guy N. Smith (who we’ll chat about soon), he either refused to change entirely, or at least if he tried it fell to pieces in later years. Back in the day, you’d go into a book shop and see maybe three or four well-thumbed paperbacks of either writer amongst hundreds of pulp fictions.
Ronald loved movies early on and appeared as an extra in a couple of films such as Goodbye Mister Chips and A Yank in Oxford before serving in WW2 and then as a Harrods salesman, amongst other jobs. Evenings were spent writing stories and in the late ‘50s his published work started to make the rounds. R. Chetwynd-Hayes turned more towards horror because, as he put it, anything supernatural and ghastly sold! Once unleashed in that field he turned out a huge amount of works, mainly short stories, whilst editing many anthology collections by numerous other authors.
In the ‘60s and ‘70s this guy was highly respected and the go-to person for monsters and ghosts. Monsters were his speciality. His well thought out tree of inbreeding creatures with names such as Weregoos (the mating of a werewolf and a ghoul) Vamgoos (vampires and ghouls) then there’s a Maddy (Weregoo and a vamgoo) and so on until we reach the bottom of the tree with a Shadmock. It’s all hilarious and so addictive, these can be found in his collection, The Monster Club. Keep in mind each hybrid has a way of killing or hurting so as comical as a Shaddy or a Fly-by-Night sounds, they aren’t. Of course, the film adaptation starring Vincent Price, John Carradine, and Donald Pleasence was a centrally disastrous thing to watch. Not really the fault of the three stories presented (though The Shadmock was nothing like its novel version, which to be fair as a new story is quite heartfelt and to me, stands out in the movie) but there were far better examples to adapt in the book. Then the toe-curling rushed and humiliating wrap-a-round story probably destroyed a lot of Chetwynd’s reputation with new readers (but at least he could usually be found in the latest Fontana book of ghost stories or whatever). I however found it fun and camp.
That cannot be said of From Beyond the Grave, released about six years before by Amicus. That stands as one of the companies best ever anthologies, as stated by many fans and boasts some strong stories and of course performances by Peter Cushing, David Warner, etcetera. The stories were snatched from various R. Chetwynd-Hayes source materials so if The Monster Club had been as sturdy then you never know, more big screens may have beckoned. Nice though that a handful of TV series deemed to use his works over the years but so much richness has been missed. The Jumpity-Jim, The Fly-by-Night, The Changeling, and especially my ultimate favourite which floored me with it’s obvious but still unexpected twist, The Resurrectionist (from his Tales of Fear and Fantasy book)
As the landscape changed before him, R. Chetwynd-Hayes kept working yet, in my mind, his output was patchy. The ‘80s & ’90s collections were weaker, either bordering on the way too obvious, the humorous, or the just mean spirited sexist (I think it was 1987’s The House of Dracula which really put females in their place!) and I have to bring up Kepple, his 1992 novel. I read it in the mid-’90s and haven’t recovered from the racism on show. I mean, it was so funny, an old man including black characters only to have one lad called Sammy eat a watermelon, plus a general distaste for his creations throughout. To this day I still can’t figure out the conclusion either. In fairness I can reflect if it was an author attempting something different but failing. R. Chetwynd-Hayes passed away at age 81 in 2001, generally a forgotten man making a small living in his last years. In 2018, one of his short stories was adapted, Keep the Gaslight Burning, so at least a minority recall him. Anyhow, here’s a link to a wonderful lady reading aloud my fave story, The Resurrectionist:
December 2020, and one of horrors most prolific authors passed to little news other than his fans and some fleeting articles in newspapers. Guy N. Smith refused to change, I think. He was the man that comes to mind if you think over throwaway grim paperbacks with eye-popping covers. Well over 100 published works exist so if anybody fancies collecting the lot, build a bigger shelf.
Known primarily for his crabs books (from 1976 to 2019), Guy also penned the popular Sabat series (I read one back in the ‘80s and only recall the main characters dreams of masturbating nuns… indeed). The Deathbell books and so many more. Werewolves, zombies, ghouls, beasts, and monsters of all kinds, his books rarely outstayed their welcome, concentrating on more short sharp shocks than building characters. This is what made him popular for young readers in his hey days. Kids who couldn’t watch horror movies purged shelves for his books because the lurid covers and contents were just exciting material for them violence, sex, fast paced action, you know, that family entertainment trash and smut. C’mon, this was the ‘70s and early ‘80s! Shops were flowing with graphic tales of skinheads, bikers, German platoons, and much more.
Guy wasn’t just a one trick pony though. He wrote children’s books (under a different name) some pornography, and a lot of non-fiction, much of that around his favourite subject – pipes and tobacco, amongst countryside-based topics. After his big hit Crabs book amassed a lot of cash, he moved into the rural green pastures of Shropshire I suppose those surroundings are easier when you probably have the reputation of someone who shouldn’t be allowed out of the house by themselves least of all near any nuns.
Did you know that the term “Nasty” wasn’t originally coined for videos in the UK? It was aimed at the books of Guy N. Smith and other similar authors by a snobby publishing industry and critics. However, teenagers absorbed his incredibly prolific output with gusto and glee. Middle-aged male heroes taking on all kinds of monsters and freaks – oh plus going against vegans and hippies! Yes, those evil creatures get their just deserts.
Like him or loathe him, the fiction of Guy has a certain atmosphere that gives his readers what they want. Similar to the brutal war stories of Sven Hassel (he knew his crowd wanted bodies smashed by bullets and tanks in the trenches and desolate towns) folks after a quick one or two sittings read of a gory novel should look no further.
Speaking of atmosphere, in my lifetime, no one chilled me to the bone as much as the early writings of Graham Masterton. Once again, we have quick and slick paperbacks that take the reader on a journey, but with Graham there’s a difference, he makes his fiction sound so deeply researched it could be real.
Here’s how it all began for me. Waaaay back in the early to mid-‘80s, my Mother rented many horror tapes (as discussed here in Rewinding the Video Tape: Memories of the Video Store) which I also watched. She also bought and read many paperbacks so of course I started curiously reading. The Fog, by James Herbert was my cherry breaker, mutilation of a teacher, that kind of good ingredient, then I immersed myself in Graham Masterton’s, Charnel House. That was it! The money shot in my young mind. It was so believable and scary. Next, I borrowed The Devils of D-Day and The Djinn from my Mum’s room. This was amazing. And I must mention the covers on those early editions. They were so detailed. Back in the day the art captured you like the designs on a video tape cover.
So, what’s it all about then? The Manitou series is all about ancient Red Indian beliefs and the return of a powerful medicine man in modern day America. The Devils of D-Day has tanks in WW2 fuelled by demons from Hell whilst The Djinn is a really horrific retelling of Ali Baba and the forty thieves but again bringing ancient magic to the modern times. The ending is truly shocking. A character from the Manitou series appears as well. Then we have Charnel House. Seymour Willis can hear breathing within his house, almost like the edifice itself is making the noise (“. . . this breathing, could make your skin prickle with cold. It was the breathing of someone who could never wake up. It had more to do with death than with life . . .”). A small group of people who are roped into the nightmare find out the truth and what threat it entails.
Graham continued with novels like Tengu, Walkers, the Night Warriors series, Prey and The Pariah all have those essential parts of his style. The size of the books increased, which somehow took away a bit of the sharpness, but nevertheless, especially Prey, kept you hooked to the last page.
Like our man Guy, Graham hasn’t kept to the horror camp. He’s branched out into softcore (he used to be editor of Mayfair and Penthouse y’-know?), crime, thrillers, and some compelling historic dramas. His biggest series above everything (and sometimes under pseudonyms arrive on our plates as sex instructional books. How to do so much for your lover and your life under the sheets, or outside, or wherever.
Unlike Stevie or even James, Graham hasn’t been given a fair run on the screen. This is really one of those moments where I think about this fact and almost scream. He had so much raw energy and material just waiting to be mined. However, aside from a small handful of stories adapted for a TV series, The Manitou stands alone as his most remembered, shamefully. I won’t go into it here how the ending of the film became the way it was ‘cause I reckon it’s been well documented. However, for that anti-climactic damp squib, let’s not forget how bloody eerie the rest of the movie was. Keeping as close to the book as the budget would allow, performances were spot on, as were most of the FX (a sign of the times ‘70s style of course). I reviewed it a while back (read movie review of The Manitou here) cause the film stayed with me from early teenagerhood.
Graham Masterton still writes and is sometimes active on the convention circuit, though he had to unfortunately cancel an appearance at Horror Con a few years back due to ill health – I was gutted. I had a few of his old dusty paperbacks for him to sign and wanted a few pictures with my writing hero – yeah, I said it finally! He’s my literature idol!!
Anyhow that’s about all. I may do a part 2 one day. There are so many other names to cover and I’ll probably enter a few lesser mainstream USA writers from back in the ‘80s who appeared in UK bookshops such as Michael Slade (in fact a collective), John Skipp, and Craig Spector. Plus, whoever I can match against another UK legend, Ramsey Campbell.