Confessions of my Past, Present and Future
by
John McNee
The Past
“October Country . . . that country where it is always
turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers
are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and mid-night’s
stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins,
closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose
people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing
at night on the empty walks sound like rain. . . .”
The above passage is from The October Country by Ray Bradbury. Odds are you may well have
heard it before. But if you heard it any other way than read aloud by lamplight
on a hill, somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, with the night wind howling just
beyond the thin walls of your tent... you heard it wrong.
As a child, when my father took me camping, The October Country was the book he
brought to read from. It's an interesting choice for children's bedtime reading.
It's not Clive Barker or Richard Laymon, but nor is it Goosebumps. I can't imagine his intention was to lull me into a
sound, peaceful sleep with its unnerving tales of skeleton-sucking surgeons,
murderous infants and things in jars. I'm sure he was hoping to creep me
out. What he may not have expected was that this would be the foundation of my
ongoing obsession with horror stories.
The
October Country is a beautiful book. Setting aside the
actual content, the book itself – our edition, at least – was a hardback
marvel, filled with extraordinary illustrations by Joseph Mugnaini (who also
painted the cover) that I studied at least as much as the words. The stories
themselves are expertly crafted and wildly varied, but a world away from
standard monster fare.
