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Elsie's New Relations by Martha Finley

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"No, sir; leave him here in my care. To-morrow he will probably be quite
recovered, and I will drive him over in my gig."

"Would you like me to stay with you, Max?" Violet asked, laying her cool
hand on his forehead.

"Or me?" asked her mother.

"No, thank you, Grandma Elsie and Mamma Vi," he said. "You are both very
kind, but Walter and Gracie wouldn't know what to do without you; and I
shall do very well."

"Yes," said Ralph, "I'll help Art take care of him. I ought to, as I gave
him the cigar that sickened him so."

Mr. Dinsmore and the ladies then bade good-by and went down-stairs, the
doctor accompanying them, leaving the two boys alone together.

"Do you begin to get over it, old fellow?" asked Ralph.

"No; I'm wretchedly sick," said Max. "I think I've had enough tobacco to
last me all my days."

"O pshaw! it won't be half so bad next time, and pretty soon won't sicken
you at all."

"But what should I gain to pay me for all the suffering?"

"Well, it seems sort o' babyish not to smoke."

"Does it? I've never seen Grandpa Dinsmore smoke, and I don't believe he
ever does, nor Uncle Edward, nor Uncle Horace either."

"No, they don't, and Art doesn't, but they're all sort o' pious old
fogies," Ralph said, with a coarse laugh.

"I wouldn't talk so about my own relations, if I were you," returned Max,
in a tone of disgust.

"Of course I shouldn't let anybody else say a word against them," said
Ralph.

Arthur's entrance put an end to the conversation. He inquired of Max if
the sickness were abating; then sitting down beside him, "Boys," he said,
"I want to talk to you a little about this silly business of smoking and
chewing."

"I've never chewed," said Max.

"I'm glad to hear it, and I hope you never will, or smoke again either.
How would you like, Max, to have a cancer on your lip?"

"Cancer, sir? I wouldn't choose to have one for anything in the world."

"Then don't smoke, especially a short pipe, for it often causes cancer of
the lip. I cut one out of a man's lip the other day; and not long ago saw
a man die from one after months of agonizing pain. Tobacco contains a
great deal of virulent poison, and though some persons use it for many
years without much apparent injury, it costs many others loss of health
and even of life. It weakens the nerves and the action of the heart, and
is a fruitful source of dyspepsia."

"Pooh! I don't believe it will ever hurt me," said Ralph.

"I think it will," said Arthur; "you have not yet attained your growth,
and therefore are the more certain to be injured by its use.

"Max, my boy, I admire your father greatly, particularly his magnificent
physique."

Max flushed with pleasure.

"Do you not wish to be like him in that? as tall and finely developed?"

"Yes, sir; yes, indeed! I want to be like papa in everything!"

"Then eschew tobacco, for it will stunt your growth!"

"But papa smokes," repeated Max.

"Now, but probably he did not until grown," said Arthur. "And very likely
he sometimes wishes he had never contracted the habit. Now I must leave
you for a time, as I have some other patients to visit."

"I told you he was an old fogy," said Ralph, as the door closed on his
brother, adding with an oath, "I believe he wouldn't allow a fellow a bit
of pleasure if he could help it."

Max started, and looked at Ralph with troubled eyes. "I didn't think you
would swear," he said. "If you do, I--I can't be intimate with you,
because my father won't allow it."

"I don't often," said Ralph, looking ashamed, "I won't again in your
company."




CHAPTER XIV.

"Be sure your sin will find you out."
--_Num._ 32:33.


Gracie and Walter were in the play-room. They had been building
block-houses for an hour or more, when Gracie, saying, "I'm tired, Walter,
I'm going in yonder to see the things Max and Lulu are making," rose and
sauntered into the work-room.

She watched the busy carvers for some minutes, then went down to Violet's
apartments in search of her.

She found no one there but Agnes busied in putting away some clean
clothes, fresh from the iron.

"Where's mamma?" asked the little girl.

"In de drawin'-room, Miss Gracie. Comp'ny dar."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Gracie, "I just wanted her to talk to me."

"'Spect you hab to wait till de comp'ny am gone," returned Agnes, picking
up her empty clothes-basket and leaving the room.

Gracie wandered disconsolately about the rooms, wishing that the callers
would go and mamma come up. Presently she paused before the bureau in
Violet's dressing-room, and began fingering the pretty things on it.

She was not usually a meddlesome child, but just now was tempted to
mischief from the lack of something else to interest and employ her.

She handled the articles carefully, however, and did them no damage till
she came to a beautiful cut-glass bottle filled with a costly perfume of
which she was extravagantly fond.

Violet had frequently given her a few drops on her handkerchief without
being asked, and never refused a request for it.

Gracie, seized with a desire for it, took a clean handkerchief from a
drawer and helped herself, saying half aloud, by way of quieting her
conscience, "Mamma would give it to me if she was here, she always does,
and I'll be careful not to break the bottle."

She was pouring from it as she spoke. Just at that instant she heard a
step in the hall without, and a sound as if a hand was laid on the
door-knob.

It so startled her that the bottle slipped from her fingers, and striking
the bureau as it fell, lay in fragments at her feet; its contents were
spilled upon the carpet, and the air of the room was redolent of the
delicious perfume.

Gracie, naturally a timid child, shrinking from everything like reproof or
punishment, stood aghast at the mischief she had wrought.

"What will mamma say?" was her first thought. "Oh, I'm afraid she will be
so vexed with me that she'll never love me any more!" And the tears came
thick and fast, for mamma's love was very sweet to the little feeble
child, who had been so long without a mother's care and tenderness.

Then arose the wish to hide her fault. Oh, if she could only replace the
bottle! but that was quite impossible. Perhaps, though, there might be a
way found to conceal the fact that she was the author of the mishap; she
did not want to have any one else blamed for her fault, but she would like
not to be suspected of it herself.

A bright thought struck her. She had seen the cat jump on that bureau a
few days before and walk back and forth over it. If she (pussy) had been
left in the room alone there that afternoon she might have done the same
thing again, and knocked the bottle off upon the floor.

It would be no great harm, the little girl reasoned, trying to stifle the
warnings and reproaches of conscience, if she should let pussy take the
blame.

Mamma was kind, and wouldn't have pussy beaten, and pussy's feelings
wouldn't be hurt, either, by the suspicion.

She hurried out in search of the cat, found her in the hall, pounced on
her, carried her into the dressing-room, and left her there with all the
doors shut, so that she could not escape, till some one going in would
find the bottle broken, and think the cat had done it.

This accomplished, Gracie went back to the play-room and tried to forget
her wrong-doing in the interesting employment of dressing her dolls.

Lulu presently left her carving and joined her. Max had gone for a ride.

While chasing the cat Gracie had not perceived a little woolly head thrust
out of a door at the farther end of the hall, its keen black eyes closely
watching her movements.

"He, he, he!" giggled the owner of the head, as Gracie secured pussy and
hurried into the dressing-room with her, "wondah what she done dat fer!"

"What you talkin' 'bout, you sassy niggah?" asked Agnes, coming up behind
her on her way to Mrs. Raymond's apartments with another basket of clean
clothes, just as Gracie reappeared and hurried up the stairs to the story
above."

"Why, Miss Gracie done come pounce on ole Tab while she paradin' down de
hall, and ketch her up an' tote her off into Miss Wilet's dressin'-room,
an's lef her dar wid de do' shut on her. What for you s'pose she done do
dat?"

"Oh, go 'long! I don' b'lieve Miss Gracie didn't do no sich ting!"
returned Agnes.

"She did den, I seed her," asserted the little maid positively. "Mebbe she
heerd de mices runnin' 'round an want ole Tab for to ketch 'em."

"You go 'long and 'tend to yo' wuk. Bet, you lazy niggah," responded
Agnes, pushing past her. "Miss Wilet an Miss Gracie dey'll min' dere own
consarns widout none o' yo' help."

The child made no reply, but stole on tiptoe after Agnes.

Violet was coming up the front stairway, and reached the door of her
dressing-room, just in advance of the girl. Opening it she exclaimed at
the powerful perfume which greeted her nostrils, then catching sight of
the bottle lying in fragments on the floor.

"Who can have done this?" she asked in a tone of surprise not wholly free
from displeasure.

"De cat, mos' likely, Miss Wilet," said Agnes, setting down her basket and
glancing at puss who was stretched comfortably on the rug before the fire.
"I s'pect she's been running ober de bureau, like I see her do, mor'n
once 'fo' dis."

"She looks very quiet now," remarked Violet, "and if she did the mischief
it was certainly not intentional. But don't leave her shut up here again,
Agnes."

"She didn't do it, Agnes didn't," volunteered Betty, who had stolen in
after them; "it was Miss Gracie, Miss Wilet, I seed her ketch ole Tab out
in de hall dere, and put her in hyar, an' shut de do onto her, an' go off
up-stairs."

A suspicion of the truth flashed into Violet's mind; but she put it
resolutely from her; she would not believe Gracie capable of slyness and
deceit.

But she wanted the little girl, and sent Betty up with a message to that
effect, bidding her make haste, and as soon as she had attended to that
errand, brush up the broken glass and put it in the fire.

Betty ran nimbly up to the play-room, and putting her head in at the door,
said with a grin, "Miss Gracie, yo' ma wants you down in de
dressin'-room."

"What for?" asked Gracie, with a frightened look.

"Dunno, s'pect you fin' out when you gits dar."

"Betty, you're a saucy thing," said Lulu.

"S'pect mebbe I is, Miss Lu," returned the little maid with a broader grin
than before, apparently considering the remark quite complimentary, while
she held the door open for Gracie to pass out.

"Miss Gracie," she asked, as she followed Grace down the stairs, "what fo'
you shut ole Tab up in de dressin'-room? She's done gone an' broke Miss
Wilet's bottle what hab de stuff dat smell so nice, an' cose Miss Wilet
she don' like dat ar."

"What makes you say I put her in there, Betty?" said Gracie.

"Kase I seed you, he, he, he!"

"Did you?" asked Gracie, looking still more alarmed than at the summons to
the dressing-room. "Don't tell mamma, Betty. I'll give you a penny and
help you make a frock for your doll if you won't."

Betty's only answer was a broad grin and a chuckle as she sprang past
Gracie and opened the door for her.

Violet, seated on the farther side of the room, looked up with her usual
sweet smile. "See, Gracie dear, I am making a lace collar for you, and I
want to try it on to see if it fits."

"Now, Betty, get a dust-pan and brush and sweep up that glass. Don't leave
the least bit of it on the carpet, lest some one should tramp on it and
cut her foot."

"Some one has broken that cut-glass perfume bottle you have always admired
so much, Gracie. Aren't you sorry?"

"Yes, I am, mamma. I never touch your things when you're not here."

The words were out almost before Grace knew she meant to speak them, and
she was terribly frightened and ashamed. She had never thought she would
be guilty of telling a lie. She hung her head, her cheeks aflame.

Violet noted the child's confusion with a sorely troubled heart.

"No, dear," she said very gently, "I did not suspect you, but if ever you
should meet with an accident, or yield to temptation to do some mischief,
I hope you will come and tell me about it at once. You need not fear that
I will be severe with you, for I love you very dearly, little Gracie."

"Perhaps it was the cat knocked it off the bureau, mamma," said the child,
speaking low and hesitatingly. "I've seen her jump up there several
times."

"Yes; so have I, and she must not be left alone in here any more."

Betty had finished her work and was sent away. Agnes, too, had left the
room, so that Violet and Gracie were quite alone.

"Come, dear, I am quite ready to try this on." Violet said, holding up the
collar. "There, it fits very nicely," as she put it on the child and
gently smoothed it down over her shoulders. "But what is the matter, my
darling?" for tears were trembling on the long silken lashes that swept
Gracie's flushed cheeks.

At the question they began to fall in streams, while the little bosom
heaved with sobs. She pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe
her eyes, and a strong whiff of perfume greeted Violet's nostrils, telling
a tale that sent a pang to her heart.

Gracie was instantly conscious of it, as she, too, smelled the tell-tale
perfume, and stole a glance at her young stepmother's face.

"O mamma!" she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, "I did pour a
little on my handkerchief 'cause I knew you always let me have it, but I
didn't mean to break the bottle; it just slipped out o' my hands and fell
and broke."

Violet clasped her in her arms and wept bitterly over her.

"Mamma, don't cry," sobbed the child, "I'll save up all my money till I
can buy you another bottle, just like that."

"O Gracie, Gracie, it is not that!" Violet said, when emotion would let
her speak. "I valued the bottle as the gift of my dear dead father, but I
would rather have lost it a hundred times over than have my darling tell a
lie. It is so wicked, so wicked! God hates lying. He says, 'All liars
shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.'
'He that speaketh lies shall not escape.' He says that Satan is the father
of lies, and that those who are guilty of lying are the children of that
wicked one.

"Have you forgotten how God punished Gehazi for lying by making him a
leper, and struck Ananias and Sapphira dead for the same sin? O my
darling, my darling, it breaks my heart to think you have both acted and
spoken a falsehood!" she cried, clasping the child still closer to her
bosom and weeping over her afresh.

Gracie, too, cried bitterly. "Mamma, mamma," she said, "will God never
forgive me? will He send me to that dreadful place?"

"He will forgive you if you are truly sorry for your sin because it is
dishonoring and displeasing to Him, and if you ask Him to pardon you for
Jesus' sake; and He will take away the evil nature that leads you to
commit sin, giving you a new and good heart, and take you to heaven when
you die.

"But no one can go to heaven who is not first made holy. The Bible bids us
follow 'holiness without which no man shall see the Lord.' And Jesus is a
Saviour from sin. 'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His
people from their sins.' Shall we kneel down now and ask Him to save you
from yours?"

"Yes, mamma," sobbed the child.

Violet's prayer was short and to the point. Then she held Gracie for some
time in her arms, while they mingled their tears together.

At length, "Gracie dear," she said, "I believe God has heard our prayer
and forgiven you. I am sure He has if you are truly sorry in your heart
and asked with it, and not only with your lips, for forgiveness; but I
want you to stay here alone for an hour and think it all over quietly, I
mean about your wrongdoing and God's willingness to forgive for Jesus'
sake, and that we could not have been forgiven and saved from sin and hell
if the dear Saviour had not died for us the cruel death of the cross.

"Oh, think what a dreadful thing sin must be that it could not be blotted
out except by Jesus suffering and dying in our stead! And think how great
was His love for us, when He was willing to lay down His own life that we
might live!"

Then with a kiss of tender motherly love, she went out and left the child
alone.

Gracie was sincerely penitent. She had always been taught that lying was a
dreadful sin, and had never before told a direct falsehood; but while in
her former home, Mrs. Scrimp's faulty management, joined to her own
natural timidity, had tempted her to occasional slyness and deceit, and
from these the descent to positive untruth was easy.

Violet's faithful dealing, and even more her evident deep distress because
of the sin against God of which her darling had been guilty, had so
convinced the child of the heinousness of her conduct that she was sorely
distressed because of it, and on being left alone, knelt down again and
pleaded for pardon with many bitter tears and sobs.

She had risen from her knees and was lying on a couch, still weeping, when
Lulu came into the room.

"Why, Gracie, what is the matter?" she asked, running to the couch and
bending over her little sister in tender concern.

"Don't ask me, Lulu, I don't want to tell you," sobbed Gracie, turning
away her blushing, tear-stained face.

"Mamma Vi has been scolding or punishing you for some little naughtiness,
I suppose," said Lulu, frowning.

"No, she hasn't!" cried Gracie indignantly; then hastily correcting
herself, "except that she said she wanted me to stay here alone for a
while. So you must go and leave me."

"I won't till you tell me what it was all about. What did you do? or was
it something you didn't do?"

"I don't want to tell you, 'cause you wouldn't ever do such a wicked
thing, and you--you'd despise me if you knew I'd done it," sobbed Gracie.

"No, I wouldn't. You are better than I am. Papa said I was worse than you
and Max both put together. So you needn't mind my knowing."

"I meddled and broke mamma's pretty bottle that her dead father gave her;
but she didn't scold me for that; not a bit; but--but 'cause I tried to
put the blame on puss, and--and said I--I never touched her things when
she wasn't here."

"O Gracie, that _was_ wicked! to say what wasn't true! I think papa would
have whipped you, for I've heard him say if there was anything he would
punish severely in one of his children, it was falsehood. But don't cry
so. I'm sure you're sorry and won't ever do it again."

"No, no! never, never! Mamma hugged me up in her arms and cried hard
'cause I'd been so wicked. And she asked Jesus to forgive me and make me
good, so I shouldn't have to go to that dreadful place. Now go away, Lu,
'cause she said I must stay alone."

"Yes, I will; but stop crying or you'll be sick," Lulu said, kissing
Gracie, then left the room and went to her own to make herself neat before
going down to join the family at tea.

Her thoughts were busy with Gracie and her trouble while she brushed her
hair, washed her hands, and changed her dress. "Poor, little weak thing,
she was frightened into it, of course, for it's the very first time she
ever told an untruth. I suppose Mamma Vi must have looked very cross about
the broken bottle; and she needn't, I'm sure, for she has plenty of money
to buy more. Such a shame! but I just knew she wouldn't always be kind to
us."

Thus Lulu worked herself up into a passion, quite forgetting, in her
unreasonable anger, how very mild was the punishment Violet had decreed to
Gracie (if indeed it was meant as such at all); so much less severe than
the one she herself had said their father would have been likely to
administer.

Max was riding without companion or attendant. He had taken the direction
of the village, but not with any thought of going there until, as he
reached its outskirts, it occurred to him that he was nearly out of wood
for carving, and that this would be a good opportunity for laying in a
supply.

The only difficulty was that he had not asked leave before starting, and
it was well understood that he was not at liberty to go
anywhere--visiting or shopping--without permission.

"How provoking!" he exclaimed half aloud. "I haven't time to go back and
ask leave, and a long storm may set in before to-morrow, and so my work be
stopped for two or three days. I'll just go on, for what's the difference,
anyhow? I'm almost there, and I know I'd have got leave if I'd only
thought of asking."

So on he went, made his purchase, and set off home with it.

He was rather late: a storm seemed brewing, and as he rode up the avenue
Violet was at the window looking out a little anxiously for him.

Mr. Dinsmore, hearing her relieved exclamation, "Ah, there he is!" came to
her side as Max was in the act of dismounting.

"The boy has evidently been into the town making a purchase," he said.
"Had he permission from you or any one, Violet?"

"Not from me, grandpa," she answered with reluctance.

"Did you give him leave, Elsie?" he asked, turning to his daughter. "Or
you, wife?"

Both answered in the negative, and with a very stern countenance Mr.
Dinsmore went out to the hall to meet the delinquent.

"Where have you been, Max?" he asked, in no honeyed accents.

"For a ride, sir," returned the lad respectfully.

"Not merely for a ride," Mr. Dinsmore said, pointing to the package in the
boy's hand; "you did not pick that up by the roadside. Where have you
been?"

"I stopped at Turner's just long enough to buy this wood that I shall need
for carving to-morrow. I should have asked leave, but forgot to do so."

"Then you should have come home and left the errand for another day. You
were well aware that in going without permission you were breaking rules.
You will go immediately to your room and stay there until this time
to-morrow."

"I think you're very hard on a fellow," muttered Max, flushing with
mortification and anger as he turned to obey.

Lulu, coming down the stairs, had heard and seen it all. She stood still
for a moment at the foot of the stairway, giving Mr. Dinsmore a look that,
had it been a dagger, would have stabbed him to the heart, but which he
did not see; then, just as the tea-bell rang, turned and began the ascent
again.

"Why are you going back, Lulu? did you not hear the supper bell?" asked
Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yes, sir," she answered, facing him again with flashing eyes, "but if my
brother is not to go to the table neither will I."

"Oh, very well," he said; "you certainly do not deserve a seat there after
such a speech as that. Go to your own room and stay there until you find
yourself in a more amiable and respectful mood."

It was exactly what she had intended to do, but because he ordered it, it
instantly became the thing she did not want to do.

However, she went into her room, and closing the door after her, not too
gently, said aloud with a stamp of her foot, "Hateful old tyrant!" then
walked on into Violet's dressing-room, where her sister still was.

Gracie had lain down upon a sofa and wept herself to sleep, but the supper
bell had waked her, and she was crying again. Catching sight of Lulu's
flushed, angry face, she asked what was the matter.

"I wish we could go away from these people and never, never come back
again!" cried Lulu in her vehement way.

"I don't," said Gracie. "I love mamma and Grandma Elsie, and Grandma Rose,
and Grandpa Dinsmore, too, and----"

"I hate him! I'd like to beat him! the old tyrant!" interrupted Lulu, in a
burst of passion.

"O Lu! I'm sure he's been kind to us; they're all kind to us when we're
good," expostulated Grace. "But what has happened to make you so angry,
and why aren't you eating your supper with the rest?"

"Do you think I'd go and sit at the table with them when they won't have
you and Max there, too?"

"What about Max? did he do something wrong, too?"

"No; it wasn't anything wicked; he just bought some wood for his carving
with some of his own money."

"But maybe he went without leave?" Gracie said, half inquiringly.

"Yes, that was it; he forgot to ask. A very little thing to punish him
for, I'm sure; but Mr. Dinsmore (I sha'n't call him grandpa) says he must
stay in his own room till this time to-morrow."

"Why," said Gracie, "that's worse than mamma's punishment to me for--for
doing such a wicked, wicked thing!"

"Yes, she's not such a cruel tyrant. He'd have beaten you black and blue.
I hope she won't tell him about it."

A terrified look came into Gracie's eyes, and she burst out crying again.

"O Gracie, don't!" Lulu entreated, kneeling down beside the sofa and
clasping her arms about her. "I didn't mean to frighten you so. Of
course, Mamma Vi won't; if she meant to she'd have done it before now, and
you'd have heard from him, too."

A step came along the hall, the door opened, and Agnes appeared bearing a
large silver waiter.

"Ise brung yo' suppah, chillens," she said, setting it down on a table.

Then lifting a stand and placing it near Gracie's couch, she presently had
it covered with a snowy cloth and a dainty little meal arranged upon it:
broiled chicken, stewed oysters, delicate rolls, hot buttered muffins and
waffles, canned peaches with sugar and rich cream, sponge cake, nice and
fresh, and abundance of rich sweet milk.

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Top scarers
Latest news and features from guardian.co.uk, the world's leading liberal voice

Call off the hounds: the Not the Booker prize vote stands

From Jim Thompson to Daphne du Maurier, the author and comedian singles out stories that live up to their genre and genuinely do give readers sleepless nights

As well as making becoming a household name for his work as a writer and actor in comedy shows such as The Fast Show, Charlie Higson has had a parallel and these days just as stellar career as a writer. After winning acclaim for early, blackly comic crime novels including his debut King of the Ants (1992) and Getting Rid of Mister Kitchen (1996), he moved on to writing for children in 2005 with the Young Bond series. These books have now sold more than 1m copies in the UK alone, and have been translated into 24 different languages.

The Enemy, published last year, marked a new departure for Higson into horror writing for teenagers, with a tale of teenagers defending themselves against a zombified adult world. The first in a series, it was this week shortlisted for the Booktrust teenage prize, with volume two, The Dead, due out next week.

Buy The Dead by Charlie Higson at the Guardian bookshop

"What constitutes a horror book? A black and red cover? A primary objective to scare the shit out of the reader? A plug from Stephen King on the back? Most of the books on my list would probably be categorised in other genres first, but then – is Alien a sci-fi film or a horror film, or both? Is Wuthering Heights a ghost story? Is Jane Eyre the mother of all psycho-in-the-attic stories? And Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca is in many ways a haunted house story. I might well have put it in here if I'd ever actually read it.

"You can have a lot of fun mixing genres up. Personally I'm not the world's biggest fan of pure horror novels – ghosts and demons and man-eating slugs leave me slightly unmoved. With no belief in the supernatural, supernatural stories usually have little effect on me. Of the big horror names only Stephen King, with his concentration on character, really works for me. I've enjoyed other horror writers but wouldn't put them in any top 10 lists. HP Lovecraft, for instance, is fun but his books aren't exactly scary. I'm not going to lose any sleep over the possibility of Cthulhu and the ancient gods crossing over into our domain.

"And there are other glaring omissions from my list. Why no Dracula or Frankenstein or Edgar Allan Poe I hear you cry. It's sacrilege to leave them out of a horror list, I know. But Poe only really wrote a couple of scary horror stories (The Tell Tale Heart is brilliant) and I find Dracula and Frankenstein rather heavy going and 19th century. Of course they're where it all began as far as the undead are concerned and must be read, I'm just not sure that they still have the power to frighten us. And, let's face it, that's what a horror book should do.

"I've always been interested in the mechanics of frightening people. I like the idea of disturbing my readers, giving them sleepless nights and stamping images in their imaginations that will stay there for a very long time. That way they will always remember your book, and after all, us novelists are like Dracula, all we want is immortality. The first two of my adult novels (King Of The Ants and Happy Now) could easily be categorised as horror books and my new series for younger readers, The Enemy, is most definitely horror as it concerns kids vs adult zombies, but it is also an action adventure series, which seems to be my default mode. I'm always open to suggestions, though, so if anyone wants to champion some pure horror books that I absolutely must read, then fire away. I'm all severed ears."

1. The Watcher by Charles Maclean (out of print but Amazon and Abebooks have copies)

An extraordinary book, unlike anything else I've ever read, which had a big effect on me when I first read it. The narrator, Martin Gregory, starts out by telling us that he was perfectly normal and happy and that there was no reason for the terrible thing he has done … The sense of impending horror is enormous, and the book, like the narrator, soon spirals into madness. We have to try and work out what is really going on as we see everything through Gregory's distorted perspective. One thing we can be sure of, though, is that everyone around him is in very great danger.

2. The Shining by Stephen King

You can't have a horror list without having Stephen King in there somewhere. It's the law. But the thing is, when he was at his peak his books were brilliant (he hasn't quite been able to sustain it – you can't help but start repeating yourself if you write as many books as he has). Engrossing, tragic and, yes, frightening, which you can't always say about horror books. He's a great writer and for me the greatest horror writer. If you've only seen the film of The Shining then read the book – it's better (first half of the film amazing, second a bit silly).

3. The Drive-In by Joe R Lansdale

The Drive In, by Texan titan Joe R Lansdale is a great, knowingly trashy nod to the 50s and 60s craze for teen drive-in schlock sci-fi/horror flicks. A bunch of kids at an all-night horror showing at their local drive-in get mysteriously trapped there by some malign force and begin to behave like ants under a glass. Surviving on junk food and fizzy drinks they go crazy and set up a savage and weird alterative society full of great characters like the Popcorn King. Book Two spins off into yet wilder shores.

4. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

A hugely influential horror book, written in 1957. The last human survivor in a Californian suburb ventures forth every day with a supply of stakes to try and wipe out the vampires that have taken over. Matheson was great at mixing horror and science fiction, and rooting the fantastical in everyday reality. This book is a brilliant study in loneliness and obsession, and when the story twists towards the end Matheson very cleverly makes us question all that has gone before.

5. The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

There has been a lot of fuss recently about the film of this book. But the book – which is every bit as extreme and upsetting as the film – has been around since as long ago as 1952. Amazing how you can get away with so much more in books without people really noticing. "Oh, it's a book, it must be good for you." Well, this book is certainly not good for you. I remember reading it and thinking – should I be reading this, should anyone read this? It is a horrific trip inside the mind of a cold-blooded psychopathic sadist, who is nevertheless good company and at times unnervingly funny. Not in a flip, post-Tarantino way; this is very disturbing and upsetting stuff. There is never any question as to where Thompson stands – the narrator is a monster. We watch his destructive relations unfold and discover the reasons for his condition from the reading equivalent of "behind the sofa". Unlike a lot of modern writers who go into this area in a sort of gleefully voyeuristic adolescent way that is entirely fake (stand up Brett Easton Ellis). Jim Thompson lived the life. He understood these people and fought many demons of his own. He is my favourite author by a long chalk, and this is an extraordinary book, but it's also certainly one of the most extreme (and extremely upsetting) things I've ever read.

6. Pan Books Of Horror

If any horror collections can be described as seminal it is these. When I was a teenager they were everywhere. Passed around from hand to hand, they had a forbidden, naughty allure, like video nasties. With their classy but trashy covers the stories they contained were gory, nasty, sometimes sexy, often badly written, sometimes brilliant. The collections were a mix of old classics and more modern material, increasingly the latter as the supply of classics ran dry. You'd find Stephen King alongside Algernon Blackwood and some blood-soaked fillers from writers you'd never heard of before and never hear would again. A superfan is currently working with Pan to get the series relaunched, starting with a facsimile reprint of volume one later in the year. Look out for it. And check out his website.

7. Uncle Montague's Tales Of Terror by Chris Priestley

This one's for the kids. Written in an accessible, cod Victorian style it has a neat framing device. Edgar goes to stay with his uncle in the woods who proceeds to tell him a series of terrifying stories – all the while hinting at some dark secrets of his own. Rest assured, the stories, which all feature a child in some way, are genuinely scary and unsettling and really do get under your skin. They certainly frightened my 10-year-old when I read them to him.

8. The Silence Of The Lambs by Thomas Harris

Is this crime or horror? It certainly has a classic horror set up – basically it's Beauty And The Beast. A naïve and innocent, yet ultimately resilient, young girl enters the monster's lair and he falls in love with her. Then together they sort put each other's problems. The secondary villain – Buffalo Bill - is certainly a monster from a horror story, making clothes out if his victims' skin and keeping his latest victim in a pit. The film played like a horror film, and Anthony Hopkins certainly seemed to think he was in one. The book, as usual, is even better than the film. It's weird and engrossing and seductive and scary with some nice gothic touches. A great, great read.

9. Ghost stories by MR James

Apologies to Bram Stoker, Mary Shelley and Edgar Allen Poe, but of the old classics I've gone for James. And not really for the original stories but just so I can bang on about Jonathan Miller's extraordinary BBC film of "Whistle And I'll Come To You". MR James was the king of the unsettling ghost story where not very much happens and it's all about atmosphere and dread. Miller's film still has the power to be very, very disturbing. Give yourself a treat and buy it. There are other James BBC adaptations you should look out for as well (A Warning to the Curious is another favourite), they used to show them at Christmas in the good old days, and all still work.

10. Don't Look Now/The Birds by Daphne du Maurier

All right, I'll admit it, I'm cheating a bit here. I don't think these 2 stories actually appear together in a Du Maurier collection except on audiobook. And like MR James, my interest in du Maurier is primarily in the films made of her stories (nearly all of her output was filmed – she was the Stephen King of her day). I couldn't leave her out because to have come up with the story for not one but two all-time classic horror films is a feat to be applauded. And as Don't Look Now is my favourite horror film I had to get a mention of it in here somewhere. The original stories are still good reads and its fascinating to see how two great directors teased complete films out of them.


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A life in books: Tim Waterstone

After polling disarray to rival the coming of the ConDems, the collective has opted to stick with the original shortlist. Time to actually do some reading!

Well, that was bracing! Calling our own voting system and the legitimacy of our competition into question was always going to be risky. And, as many have you have pointed out, selecting a second list was, on the whole, an unsatisfactory suggestion. Not least because (as some of the better counters among you realised) it was pretty clumsily compiled.

All the same, I actually found the whole process quite energising. I am, as beaten boxers like to say, happy to take positives. One of the intentions of the Not The Booker prize has always been to foster discussion about the legitimacy of various forms of literary competition and we've certainly had that. It was fascinating. Plenty of eloquent and strong arguments were made on both sides. I personally feel like I've emerged wiser as well as older. Hopefully, we've also been able to clear the air about what may be called tactfully "the social media question". The argument that would inevitably have emerged in later rounds has taken place – in spades – and now we can get back to books.

Or, we almost can, after a quick breakdown of the voting.

Totals:

"List one" (the shortlist that gained the most votes in the first round of voting): 114
"List two" (the shortlist we put together of books that seemed to be doing well without social media input): 48
Confused people turned still wondering how to vote for The Cuckoo Boy, Deloume Road and The Canal: more than 10
Alternative lists: about seven
Abandon the whole thing: four or five
Abandon me: three or four
Abandon everything and hide in the darkweb: one

(There were also a number of commentators quite legitimately asking why Stewart Home's Blood Rites Of The Bourgeousie was left off the longlist, to whom I can only say: sorry. I made a simple mistake and didn't spot it. Hopefully mentioning here how interesting it looks will go some way towards making amends.)

What all that means is that we now have an official, beyond-dispute shortlist, which is as follows:

The Cuckoo Boy by Grant Gillespie
Pictures of Lily by Matthew Yorke
Deloume Road by Matthew Hooton
The Canal by Lee Rourke
Advice for Strays by Justine Kilkerr

That's listed in order of votes received. It's going to be very interesting to see if we end up changing that around in later rounds. In the meantime, I'm going to be reading through the books in alphabetical order, by author's surname. That means The Cuckoo Boy by Grant Gillespie is first up. I can't wait to see what it's like.


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