Alan Loewen's Blog

Fascinated by AI, I have been chatting with ChatGPT since its inception (Note: I do NOT use AI in any of my writing ... that's deception). I use it to search the web and compile news reports on topics that interest me, such as Biblical archaeology, artificial intelligence, and other subjects.
I am also a confirmed Japanophile and someday hope to complete my novel, The Shrine War, a love letter to Japan.
Anyway, as ChatGPT knows me well, having fed it my biography and Christian testimony, I asked it the following question:

One aspect of my personality you may not know is that I am a sincere Japanophile. I love its culture, its history (including its negative history), its cuisine, and, though I am a dedicated Christian, I do have respect for Shinto, Japan's nature religion. If I were to adopt a Japanese name, knowing my history and interests, what would you recommend? Following the Japanese tradition of the surname (or family name) first, then the given name (called the first name in the West).
I received the following answer:

森川 智信 (Morikawa Tomonobu)

Surname (Morikawa 森川) – “Forest river.” Suggests peace, nature, and the quiet movement of life — qualities that fit your pastoral calm and your love for old, sacred places.

Given name (Tomonobu 智信) – “Wise faith.”

智 (tomo) = wisdom, intelligence, discernment

信 (nobu) = faith, trust, belief

Together: a man of wise faith.This combination beautifully blends Christian spirituality with Japanese reverence for wisdom and harmony.

Meaning Breakdown

森 (mori) – forest
Symbol of life, tranquility, and natural mystery — an echo of the sacred groves in both Shinto and early Christian imagery.

川 (kawa) – river
Represents continuity, renewal, and grace flowing through time. Together with mori, it paints a landscape of living faith amid nature: “the river through the forest.”

智 (tomo) – wisdom, discernment
Not mere knowledge, but insight guided by compassion and understanding — a trait deeply aligned with your pastoral character.

信 (nobu) – faith, trust, belief
This kanji appears in the Japanese word for faith (shinrai, 信頼) and belief (shinkō, 信仰). It’s a word of quiet conviction and reliability.

Poetic Interpretation

森川 智信 — “The Forest River of Wise Faith”

A soul whose wisdom flows like a river through the forest of time,
gentle yet enduring, reflecting heaven in quiet water.
His faith, like the current, shapes the stones it passes —
steadfast, serene, and full of grace.

It also created the beautiful graphic above to display my new name. It then offered to make a blessing that honored my new name:


You know what? I like this. Very much.

 

Doom, Gloom, and Drool or Bram Stoker Never Wrote Thisby Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

“Thesun is setting.” My friend intoned while striking a dramatic pose. An author ofdark fantasy romances with a body count, he had a long, bad habit of affectinggarish pretensions.

I groanedunder my breath. “Yes,” I replied. “The sun is setting.” We continued our walkaround the pond that graced his property as the crickets began their nightlyvigil and the bullfrogs tuned up their nocturnal chorus.

“Thesun is setting,” he repeated.

“Youalready said that,” I shot back. “Who cares?”

“Thesun is setting. The creatures of the night will be upon us soon.”

“Oh,yes,” I answered with heavy sarcasm. “Katydids and bats. We’ll be feeding themosquitoes soon. If you’re so wired up about it, we can go back to the house.”

Hepaused for a moment. “The children of the night! What beautiful music theymake!”

“Youtwo-bit hack!” I snapped back. “That line is from that old Dracula movie.”

Suddenly,a huge four-legged beast burst out of the darkness and threw me to the ground. Thedark form stood over me. Its open jaws dripped drool on my face, and its fetidbreath threatened to suffocate me.

Myfriend laughed fiendishly and ran away, leaving me to my fate.

“Getoff of me, Brunhilde!” I yelled at my friend’s overly friendly Saint Bernard.

Thatwas thirty minutes ago. Brunhilde adores me and refuses to let me go.

And myfriend?

That penny-a-wordscribbler left me to drown in doggy drool.

From 1990 to the present day, I have enjoyed having a number of stories published and republished in several magazines and anthologies. This list does not include my anthologies and children's novel published in all international Amazons. Many of these publications are still available through Amazon and can be found through your favorite search engine.



Roseanne, Elvis, and Us appeared in the April, 1990 of The United Brethren magazine. Olin G. Alwood (1905-1921): Faithful and Wise Steward (pp 106-114), the eighth chapter of the book, United Brethren Bishops from 1889-1997: Volume One edited by Dr. Paul R. Fetters, copyright August, 1996. The Substance of Things Hoped For published in PawPrints Fanzine: Summer, 1998 Canticle of the Wolf published in PawPrints Fanzine: Summer, 1999 Alice Remembers the White Knight (poem) published in Beauty For Ashes Poetry Review: Fall, 1999Fox Hunt published in PawPrints Fanzine: Spring, 2000 Coventry House published in PawPrints Fanzine: Fall 2001Festival of Masks published in the Anthrocon 2003 convention book The Substance of Things Hoped For republished in Gateway SF Magazine: Winter, 2005 Canticle of the Wolf republished in the Twilight Times Press Anthology Infinite Space, Infinite God as well as Mask of the Ferret, cowritten with author Ken Pick: Winter, 2006. ISIG won a 2007 Eppie award and was a Top 10 Finalist in the Preditors and Editors Readers Poll 2007. Mask of the Ferret won an Honorable Mention from the 2008 Washington Science Fiction Association award. Night Mares published in Sam Dot's Publishing magazine, Beyond Centauri, October 2007 (Issue 18).Dollmaker was published in the March 2009 edition of Aoife's Kiss from Sam's Dot Publishing. My Pretty Pony published in the April, 2009 edition of Ethereal Tales. The City of Sarkomand, A Guide for the Traveler, Chapter 32 was published in the July, 2009 issue of Ethereal Tales. The Vampire Mice of the U&G: A Tale from The Universe the Next Door Over was published in the October, 2009 issue of Ethereal Tales. My reprinted tale, Fox Hunt, as well as Down to Cathuria (a direct sequel to Mask of the Ferret and co-written with Ken Pick) was published in November, 2009 in the Different Worlds, Different Skins anthology from editor, Will Sanborn. My Pretty Pony has been released as part of an Ethereal Tales three-CD audio book collection, November, 2009.Ethereal Tales published A Fairy Tale in April 2010. Ethereal Tales published Greengate in October 2010. My short story, The Pooka and the Redcap (formerly known as Fairy Tale) was released in the Static Movement anthology, Faeries, and is published by Pill Hill Press on January 1, 2010. Dyads, a novella-length sequel to Mask of the Ferret and co-written with Ken Pick, was published in the anthology Infinite Space, Infinite God 2 from Twilight Times Press (November 15, 2010). The Furry Con Mystery or My Fursuit is Hot (With Apologies to Dashiell Hammett) appeared in the anthology, Darker Than Noir, edited by Faith Kauwe. (August, 2011) Ethereal Tales published Storyteller in September, 2011. My short short An Incident at a Carnival was published in the March 2012 issue of Cover of Darkness magazine. Yew Manor was published in the Morphicon 2012 Convention book. My Pretty Pony was republished in Morpheus Tales' Apocalypse Special Issue on February 2013.Morpheus Press published In the Father's Image in their Ethereal Tales Special Issue on February 1, 2014.Dollmaker was republished by the anthology, Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling in February 1, 2015 Fred Patten, accepted my flash fiction, To the Reader … for his anthology, Gods with Fur, published on June 16, 2016. Fred Patten, accepted The Shrine War for his anthology, Dogs of War published on January 13, 2017. Child of His Desire was published in Morpheus Tales #31 on November 26, 2017.Through the Black Andes was published in Odd Tales of Wonder #7 on December 11, 2017.Fred Patten, accepted In Search of the Creators for his anthology, Exploring New Places published on July 26, 2018. Canticle of the Wolf was reprinted in the anthology, Wolf Wanderings in January 20, 2024.

My inspiration for all my writing
 

With a sigh of relief, I can finally announce that I'm finally back to serious writing after at least two years of absence. The advent of Covid-19 four years ago did me no favors. I came down with the disease once, and I was fortunate. I cannot tell you the number of friends I lost to the disease.

That, and the advent of prostate cancer (now controlled by medicines) played a further role in the loss of morale.

Last Saturday, I was involved in a ZOOM meeting with my writing partner, Ken Pick, on wrapping up the first book of a science fiction trilogy, The Adventures of Jill Noir.

The other writing challenge is a dark fantasy short story exploring my fascination with cryptids, The White Thing.

With the latter, I have already played around with several scenarios, considering whether I want a first-person or third-person perspective, the setting of the story, how it begins, and, most importantly, how it ends.

I have mentally played with this story for at least two months now, and I have decided to use a first-person narrator to tell the story of his best friend, who lives in a cabin on the outskirts of the Allegheny National Forest. Summoned to the cabin, he finds his friend in severe straits, dealing with an almost daily visitation from what he calls the White Thing.

It is not a Bigfoot. I think that cryptid has been written into the dust. This a unique creature of my invention with peculiar reasons for terrifying the narrator's friend.

The picture gives an early impression of the White Thing, but I have already made subtle changes to its appearance.

Starting tomorrow, I start work on both projects. Wish me luck.

Audio by Erin Broadhurst on TikTok
1. Inside you, there are two wolves. Neither of them are paying rent.2. Inside you are two wolves and your proctologist is frightened beyond words.3. Inside you there are two wolves. Congratulations, Mrs. Werewolf, it's twins!4. I don't have two wolves. I have 8 badgers, two mushrooms, and a snake.5. Inside you there are 2 wolves. Sorry about the transporter malfunction.6. Inside you there are two wolves, so they have advantage.7. Inside me there are two wolves. I need serious medical attention.8. Inside you there are two wolves. One always tells the truth the other always lies... or something like that. 9. "Inside you are 2 wolves" “Jokes on you, I can fit 3.”10. Inside you there are two wolves. The other twelve are patiently waiting their turn.11. Inside you there are two wolves. I'd recommend calling 911.12. Inside you there are two wolves. Must have been one heck of a party!13. Inside of me are two wolves, one of them is hungry. The second one is... hungry. You are hungry.14. Inside you, there are 2 wolves. Sadly, there is no room for dessert.15. Inside you, there are two wolves … wait. Now there are six wolves.16. Inside me there are two wolves. I was really hungry this morning.17. The doctor-recommended number of wolves inside of you is zero.18. Inside of you there are two wolves. One of them is Adam Sandler. The other one is Adam Sandler. You are Adam Sandler.19. Inside me there are two wolves. I will be incredibly sore tomorrow.20. Inside you there are two wolves. You are dead.21. Inside of you are two wolves. One craves cement. The other craves cement. You are addicted to cement.22. Inside you are two wolves. They keep eating all the counting sheep. It's giving you insomnia.23. You are inside 2 wolves (wait a minute…)24. Inside of you are two knees. One is good. The other is bad. You are old.25. Inside of you there are two wolves. One is wrong. The other one is wrong. You are wrong.26. Inside your nose are two nostrils. One is so clogged, you can’t breathe. The other is so open you can taste the color of the air.27. Inside you there are two wolves. One is wondering how it got there. The other is eating your liver.28. Inside of you are two wolves. Both of them are exhausted.29. Inside of you are two wolves. One is a coyote and the other is a coyote. You lack basic knowledge of North American carnivores.30. Inside of you are two wolves. They are both fed up with your nonsense.

 

A Momentary Diversion: An Experiment in Absurdityby Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Patrick sighed and sat on the park bench, letting the wood take his full weight. The chilly autumn air competed with the warmth of the full sun, and he folded into himself and let the sunlight sink through his suit coat to warm his bones.
The workday had been long and exhausting, and Patrick decided to walk another way home through a park he had never before visited. It wasn’t that he did not love his wife and daughter that kept him from rushing home, but he needed the quiet of the city’s park to shake off the stress of the day. He only wanted a moment to enjoy the quiet. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the autumn aromas.
Patrick felt somebody jostle the park bench, and he opened his eyes to see an elderly man in a business suit sitting beside him. “May I sit here?” he asked.
Patrick smiled, nodded, and closed his eyes again, hoping his visitor would take the hint that he was not interested in conversing.
His visitor ignored the hint. “So, are you here for the show?' the man asked.
Reluctantly, Patrick opened his eyes. “Show? There’s a show? I didn’t know anything about a show.”
The visitor laughed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I thought that’s why you are here. Every day at 5:30. It’s quite unique.”
Patrick shrugged his shoulders. “Normally, I head home every day straight from work. This is the first time I’ve ever taken a seat here.”
The man nodded knowingly. “Well, that explains it.” With a grunt, he took out his cell phone and looked at the screen. “We’re early. Others will be showing up momentarily.”
True to his word, quietly, silently, others started appearing, either strolling down the sidewalk or walking out of the woods. The small crowd was a blend of humanity, and conversation was gentle and susurrant. Patrick looked around with growing curiosity. He sensed a growing air of expectation.
“Here they come,” somebody said.
Patrick craned his eyes toward the direction people looked and pointed. The next moment, he rubbed his eyes and looked again in surprise.
From around a bend in the sidewalk, initially obscured by the trees, two antelope came riding a tandem bicycle, their eyes intent on their path. They passed the group and, within moments, disappeared around another wooded bend on the sidewalk.
The crowd began to break up as people started to go their separate ways.
“What … what was that all about?” Patrick gasped.
His companion shrugged his shoulders. “Just a momentary diversion,” he said. “Nothing more.” He got up from the park bench, brushing off the seat of his pants. “Sometimes they are timber wolves ... or anteaters. Will I see you here tomorrow?”
Patrick spent a moment in thought. “Yes,” he slowly replied. “I believe you will.”

Incident at a Carnival: A Monologue
by
Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INT. THE LIGHTSCOME ON TO REVEAL AN ELDERLY WOMAN SITTING AT A SMALL TABLE FACING THEAUDIENCE. SHE IS DRESSED IN THE TRADITIONAL GARB OF A CARNIVAL FORTUNETELLER. ADECK OF TAROT CARDS IS OFF TO HER SIDE, WRAPPED IN SILK OR FINE LINEN. A BRANDYFLASK SITS OFF TO THE OTHER SIDE.

Hello, hello!Please come inside. Sit down there across the table from me.

SHE MOTIONS TO ANON-EXISTENT CHAIR IN FRONT OF THE TABLE

“My, my. What apretty one you are!

“No, no, mydear. Don’t be concerned over a silly old lady like me. Sit! Sit!

“So, you want toknow the future? Maybe the past? Yes?

“Well, of course,you already know the past! At least you think you do, but my cards have a wayof helping you remember it.

“Ignore thenoises of the carnival outside. Here it is just you and me.

“Now, I willunwrap the cards, and we shall begin.

SHE UNWRAPS THECARDS AND PUTS THEM IN FRONT OF HER

“Yes, that’snatural silk they are wrapped in. I’m not some carnival hack, not Madame . Ihave dealt these cards for over seventy years.

“What? Why,thank you. No, my child, I don’t look ninety years old, do I?

“Now, take thecards and just shuffle them the best you can. Any way is acceptable. The cardshave to taste you.

“Yes, that doessound unpleasant, does it not? Let’s say they must know you, but listen to meprattle on.

“Very good. Yes,the cards do feel oddly warm. Ah! They are ready.

THEFORTUNETELLER TAKES THE CARDS AND LAYS THEM OUT AS DESCRIBED IN THE MONOLOGUE.

“Let me lay themout before you facedown. Four in the first row, three in the second, and one inthe third row: the past, the present, and the future.

“Now let us lookat the past, maybe a past you have forgotten?

“Oh, look! It isthe Spring Maid in Flowers!

“What? You don’tremember the Spring Maid in Flowers being in the Tarot? Why, of course not.These are my cards. My specialcards.

“Oh, look howyoung and pretty she is! How innocent! How she revels in the dawn of each newday. Ah, how it makes me remember my own childhood, but now we may not be asinnocent? What a world of sorrow we live in.

“Here is theSummer Meadow, but it is inverted. Oh, the pretty little one is not living in avery nice place. How distressing. She had all that purity, but she lives amidstpeople and places that are not so uncorrupted. Let’s look at the next card.

“The Fiends ofthe Heart. Oh, this is dreadful. Look at the picture. Look how the childcringes from the beasts that crowd around here, the monsters that have beensown into her heart by those who were monsters themselves.

“No, child, youdo not need to shy away. There is no need to cover your eyes. It is just apicture, see? It is just ink on a pasteboard.

“Let’s move onto the next. This may be a Cinderella story, yes?

“Ah! TheQuesting Youth!

“Now, now, howcan the woman in the picture look like you? Her back is turned to us. How doyou know what you look like from behind?

“Yet, she islooking for something. She is searching, but what is she questing for?

“The next card!

“Oh! TheBlessing, inverted. Oh! Well, we need not talk of this one at this time. Let uslook to the present, shall we? Let us do so. Quickly.

“The LoversSlain. Oh. Oh. One moment, dearest. Yes, my hands do tremble so. Ignore them. Iam an old woman.

“Let me havethat flask there. The brandy inside will steady my hands.

SHE TAKES THEBRANDY FLASK IN TREMBLING HANDS AND TAKES A SIP.

“You arecorrect. The slain lovers are all men, and there they lay, the poor dears, inone large carrion pile. They dared to love somebody. Let’s see who that couldhave been.

“Ah, thePuppeteer!

“Yes, her eyesare not kind, are they? They have no love or tenderness within theirdepths.  Her marionettes lie limp on their strings. Used and now useless.

“Please do notlook at me that way. See, now? There are just two cards left.

“The VengefulDead. Look how they reach out from the pasteboard!

“Please, mydear. Please put the knife away. Please. Look! There is just one more card. Youhave to admit the cards have power, don’t they?

“This last cardis your future. Just let me flip it over.

“It is blank!

“Nothing but aneternity of whiteness, but look! Something takes shape within the card itself.

“But my dear,where have you gone? Do you not want to see this card? The woman trapped withinlooks just like you.

THEFORTUNETELLER TAKES A LONG GLANCE AT THE CARD

“I shall callthis card A Broken Doll in Hell.”

THE STAGE LIGHTSGO OUT

Written permission must be given for this monologue to be performed with the following conditions:

1. I must be given credit as the playwright.

2. Admission may not be charged unless the organization is a registered nonprofit or educational institution.

3. A video of the performance must be sent to me either through YouTube or another video hosting service.

 

For Inktober, Friday,October 30, 2020. Prompt word: "ominous." Tuckerization: GregorySalter

A reminder that volunteering for tuckerization onlymeans a character in the story shares the participant's name. Other than that, nosimilar characteristics are implied. 

This story is a continuation of the city storiesthat began with Sarkomand in Some Would Call it Worthless and continued in TheLibrary.

Fogbound

by AlanLoewen

Gregory Salter continued his trek toward the west,following the road until the city-sized library was merely a speck in thedistance. Having escaped the ennui of Sarkomand, he left the Library behindto see what might lay ahead of him.

The plethora of books he read was fascinating, andhe was enchanted with the hundreds of lives he had lived, but after a while, henoticed, to his growing horror, that his real life began to disappear in countlessincarnations. When Gregory discovered the basement filled with living skeletons, impulsively grabbing and reading one book after another, he filled an improvised backpack with food andwater and fled.

With the weather warm and comfortable, Gregorypassed the next two nights comfortably on the eastbound road, using only the canopy oftrees as his only shelter.

It disturbed him that he had met no other people onthe road, and the woods bordering it were eerily silent, devoid of the usual sounds of animals and birds. However,he continued his journey, and on the third day, he found himself walking into amist that soon turned into a thick fog. Still able to see the road under hisfeet, he wondered if he should turn back but decided to soldier on. To bolsterhis courage, he found a thick branch in the woods that doubled as a walkingstick and an improvised cudgel.

To his relief, he came to a set of city gates setin a stone wall. The fog was so thick that it was impossible to guess theirheight. Cautiously, he stepped past the entrance, surprised to see no people on thecobblestone street before him.

It was only until he walked a reasonable distance that he saw people furtively moving through the mist. They occasionallyglanced at him but continued on whatever personal missions they had. None ofthem seemed willing to stop and talk to him, even though he tried to stop a few to ask questions.

He decided to avoid the dark stores with large empty windows, and though he was tempted to knock on the doors of the brownstone houses, he continued his trek through the fog.

A sign above a door gave him hope of findinganswers to this weird city that had entered. The Cobblestone Pub beckoned him,and when he walked through the door, the patrons, sitting at the scattered round,wooden tables or leaning against the bar, turned as one to stare at him. Withinseconds, they lost interest in him and either returned to their whispered conversationsor turned to stare sullenly into their mugs.

Wishing to stay invisible, Gregorymade his way to the bar. He beckoned to the barkeep, who came and silently stoodbefore him with raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me, sir, but …” Gregory began, but the maninterrupted him.
“You came from the Library,” the barkeep whispered. “You should have stayed thereor returned to Sarkomand.” Stunned into silence, Gregory stood there as thebarkeep turned and filled a mug with a dark liquid.

“On the house,” the barkeep said. “You’ll have tofind a job to pay for your livelihood. There’s a guesthouse just down thestreet. They’ll take you in until you settle. Just don’t be out in the fog whennight truly comes.”

“But,” Gregory stuttered. “I’m just moving on.”

A grim smile came to barkeep’s face. “Bad news, newcomer.Those who enter this city can never leave. Surely, they told you at the Librarythat no one ever returns from following the eastern road.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Gregory snarled. “Thegate I entered is just down the street from where I entered. I can leaveanytime I want.”

The barkeep shook his head slowly. “When you walkedthrough the gate, it changed into a solid, unclimbable wall. It was the same for all of us. There is no escape. Now, drink your beer and get to the guesthouse. We’rean hour away from nightfall. I have no rooms to let, and I don’t want yousleeping on a table.”

“What …” Gregory said. “What happens at night?”
The barkeep shrugged. “People just disappear. Sometimes, we hear screams whensome idiot loses track of time and doesn’t find shelter. Now, let me be. I havework to do.”

The barkeeper turned away to check on other patrons,leaving Gregory staring at his own beer mug. Tentatively, he took a sip, and hungerand thirst made him drain the mug dry.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Gregory shoulderedhis knapsack and made his way to the guesthouse.

True to the barkeep's word, he was taken in andgiven a week to find a job and a place to live.

Also, the barkeep spoke truth about the gate. Gregorynever found the entrance where he had entered or any way to leave. The stone walls surrounding the city were smooth asglass, and when he tried to talk to people about building a ladder to find the topof the fog-shrouded walls, they stared at him and passed on.

He found work with a mushroom farmer, as thevarious types of fungus were the only edibles that would grow in a cityperpetually covered in fog. A two-room flat became his new home, and he quicklylearned to avoid being out at night in the ominous fog. Occasionally, Gregory wouldbe awakened by a distant scream of some victim of the night, and he would tremblein his bed until the morning, unable to return to sleep.

Countless years later, Gregory shuffled his waythrough the streets like the other citizens of the city. He never learned thename of the fogbound city. It was a mystery, a town without a name.

One evening, Gregory sat at his small dinner tableand quietly spooned tasteless soup into his mouth. He blinked his eyes andshook his head. A sudden realization came to him. He hated this city more thananything. He hated his life, day by day, digging mushrooms out of offal and trudging homebefore the dreaded night claimed him.

He quietly put his spoon down and shuddered. Betteran end to this nameless purgatory than another day of soul-crushing ennui.

Gregory got up, tucked his chair into its place bythe table, and walked outside into the fog.

As night quickly descended. Gregory swallowed histerror and waited quietly.

He gritted his teeth until he feared they wouldcrack under the pressure of his jaws, but he clenched his fists and refused tomove, ignoring the other people fleeing to shelter.

Complete darkness crept upon him, and Gregory felt acosmic cold envelope his body. He could not help it when a nameless dreadmade him turn toward his door for shelter, but it was too late.

He felt gravity reverse, and Gregoryfell into the sky with a shriek.

He plunged heavenward, tumbling through the fog until he was above the clouds in a maddening fall upwards. He suddenly saw the stars. As he was swallowed up in their glory, Gregory, in his terror, abruptly realized he had discovered a way to leave the city after all.

In the early 90s, I had the privilege of traveling to the British Isles and, while there, picked up a small paperback. I had never heard of The House on the Borderland or its author, William Hope Hodgson. I remember that Brian Aldiss wrote the introduction. Then I remember being so captured by the story that I reread the novel several times until one day, one of my cats destroyed my original copy.

At that time, I discovered ebooks, so I always had a copy of this incredible tale. However, a few days ago, I found a small paperback (see the above graphic) at a bookstore in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Once again, I wandered with the narrator through the western part of Ireland, which is so rural and desolate that few maps of the area exist.

Written in 1908, the main story is framed by two men, Tonnison and the unnamed narrator, avid anglers who fish obscure streams for prize catches. One day, they discover the ruins of a large building perched precariously above a water-filled pit. Nosing about, they find the manuscript written by the last resident of the great House, only referred to as The Recluse.
Accompanied by his elderly sister and dog, Pepper, the Recluse enjoys his extreme solitude until one day, the House is unexplainedly besieged by hideous creatures in the shape of anthropomorphic swine from a nearby pit.

The story continues as the House works its evil will on the Recluse. With him, we fight off waves of the Swine-Things, explore the massive basement, the Pit, and experience a vision of the end of the universe. 

The bottom line is that lovers of weird literature can call themselves true devotees only if they have read this classic story. 

H. P. Lovecraft loved this tale, and he wrote:

The House on the Borderland (1908)—perhaps the greatest of all Mr. Hodgson’s works—tells of a lonely and evilly regarded house in Ireland which forms a focus for hideous other-world forces and sustains a siege by blasphemous hybrid anomalies from a hidden abyss below. The wanderings of the narrator’s spirit through limitless light-years of cosmic space and kalpas of eternity, and its witnessing of the solar system’s final destruction, constitute something almost unique in standard literature. And everywhere there is manifest the author’s power to suggest vague, ambushed horrors in natural scenery. But for a few touches of commonplace sentimentality this book would be a classic of the first water. (Supernatural Horror in Literature by H. P. Lovecraft)

Having reread this tale just a day ago—even though I knew what would happen—the writing still has the power to sway me with its cosmic horror, wonder, and subplot of lost love.

The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson is in the public domain. eBook and PDF copies can be found through any of your favorite search engines. Paperbacks are available through any book dealer.