 Having become familiar with Lex Jones via his work and on a personal level in recent months, I've learned a little regarding the influences that inform the state of his imagination, ranging from written fiction to cinema; from childhood toys and cartoons to comic books and video games. That context has lent my reading of Whistling Past the Graveyard a certain frisson, as not only can I hear Lex's voice in the writing, but I also see where those influences manifest (often chimerically, Lex taking various different tropes and traditions and weaving them together in a post-modern fashion to produce something idiosyncratic). Even were it not for that context, readers of Whistling Past the Graveyard will no doubt notice the incredible variety of stories here; the variations in tone and style, language and rhythm. In many respects, the collection serves as a roadmap of Lex's fascinations: Take, for example, the opening piece: The Shape Off The Bow, a story that marries elements of Bram Stoker's Dracula with M.R. James foreboding and mystery (if there is a constant touchstone throughout these stories, it is most definitely James, direct homages to whose work can be found throughout). Here, Lex plays with familiar gothic tropes, adopting a voice that is distinctly Victorian in its journalistic nature, but that also incorporates elements of the classically mythological: recounting an oceanic salvage operation whose high stakes are compounded by seemingly phantasmal visitations, the tale becomes one of escalating mystery, creeping unknowns; a format familiar to any that have read a Victorian ghost story (or one of the many more recent tales inspired by them). This might initially lead the reader to assume the consistent nature of the collection (given the title, they'd certainly be forgiven for it). However, Lex pulls the rug from under us by shifting to a far more post-modern tale, set in the present day and whose tone, subject and structure couldn't be more different from The Shape Off the Bow: Lodge 328 wouldn't be out of place in horror anthologies published in the 1980s/1990s; the tale of a perfectly ordinary man who, having sought some solace from a recently failed relationship in a camping retreat, finds himself hunted by some extra-dimensional predator that intrudes into our reality via the incongruous steel gate that stands in the woods outside of his lodge, and that he foolishly ignores the warnings to keep closed. Again, M.R. James's influence here is clear; the image of the gate itself (a superb horror and fantastical trope, familiar not only to those who have read stories including such but also those who have encountered similar in their own wanderings) highly redolent of subjects that the man's writings have become infamous for. Here, Lex takes that image and, rather than leading the reader down the familiar, more gothic path, opts for an approach more akin to Stephen King or Ramsey Campbell; the tale of a present-day man encountering situations of archaic and mythological significance that he is eminently ill-equipped to deal with. Whereas the former tale is an exercise in pure atmosphere, this story is one of action and intensity, almost every moment kinetically charged and leant a certain energy that contrasts beautifully with The Shape Off The Bow's more sedate, slow-burning dread. A Partridge In A Pear Tree flips back to the Victorian in both style and setting, but in a noticably different manner than The Shape Off The Bow: whereas that tale drawers its inspirations from the gothicism of Stoker et al, this is more Dickensian in flavour, subtly echoing the likes of A Christmas Carol but with none of the sentiment or redemption of that tale: instead, Lex marries that influence to something redolent of Edgar Allen Poe's The Telltale Heart, painting the portrait of a man whose mind is slowly dissolving into mania as a result of past sins, whose guilt is slowly eroding sanity, leading to some of the most disturbingly surreal imagery in the collection (the image of a tree whose split-open interior reveals human bone structure and internal organs is a lingering and persistent one). At this point, Lex's penchant for the gothic and certain enshrined traditions of horror fiction are clear. However, once again, “variety” is the watchword: The next story, delightfully entitled AC43RON, for those who enjoy their ancient Greek mythological references, is informed not only by tales involving that particular metaphysical river, but also numerous urban legends, horror films and folktales: Involving a man caught in a never-ending loop as he attempts to outrun a seemingly-spectral pursuer, the story recalls ancient punishments for the damned; the endless cycles of pain and confusion to which they are subjected, the true nature of the situation only ever hinted at, and even then ambiguously, leaving the reader in as much uncertainty as the protagonist as he scrabbles to save himself from his metaphysical plight. The peculiarly desolate nature of this story is tonally removed from even the bleakest of those that has come before; here, Lex indulges in a degree of nihilism that horror stories are peculiarly well-suited to expressing: whether a genuine species of Tartarus-like after-life or a psychological delusion, the endlessly repeating roads, empty gas stations, encroaching mists and the endless, threatening pursuit of the unknown is sincerely nightmarish, to a degree that the collection has only skirted thus far. Here, we also have a clearer portrait of the metaphysics that informs and coheres much of the collection: Even in those stories where there is a sincere metaphysical or supernatural dimension, those dimensions are generally beyond the comprehension or control of humanity, often resulting in phenomena they spectacularly fail to predict or make contingency for. In this, another abiding influence becomes apparent: that of H. P. Lovecraft. Seance exemplifies this whilst also introducing something entirely unexpected: physical humour. Whilst the subject of the story might be ostensibly horrific -a routine séance goes terribly awry when unexpected influences result in the conjuration of a flesh-dissolving, slug-like extra-dimensional abomination-, there is a quality to the frenetic, physical nature of the atrocities that occur that is almost slapstick, culminating in a half-dissolved woman clutching at a seated medium's skirts, pitching her from her chair and thus allowing the entity to devour her wholesale. A gallows sense of humour pervades the story, lending even the most grizzly elements a certain level of Evil Dead exaggeration, which escalates and escalates to the inevitable climax. In The Hangman's Sojourn, we see how Lex has composed the collection so as to maintain a certain rhythm from one story to the next; just as Seance is a lurid, absurdist carnival of the gory and ghastly, this tale is far more sedate and traditional in nature; one that could easily derive from the pages of Neil Gaiman or a writer similarly immersed in the folkloric: A strangely light-hearted yarn, the plot follows a carriage driver who happens to be waylaid by a gentlemanly -albeit desperate- highwayman. Pursued across the British countryside by demonic hounds, the pair strike up an unusual friendship in which the carriage driver becomes the highwayman's confessor and the fulcrum of his salvation. In contrast to the Lovecraftian metaphysics that have predominated thus far, this story is more traditional in its spirituality and even includes a note of salvation that is absent in most of the others (serving to leaven the otherwise dark and foreboding mood of the collection). This tale also evinces Lex's penchant for the mythological; the pursuing entities are barghests, creatures of Saxon folklore that harass sinners and wicked souls and drag them to whatever damnation awaits. As previously noted, variety is the collection's great strength; not only does it incorporate tales informed by a whole host of traditions, it also varies greatly in tone, setting, era and subject. This may be a source of contention for some, who prefer their collections more streamlined or consistently themed, whereas readers such as myself will undoubtedly luxuriate in the “box of assorted chocolates” quality Lex provides. Part of the joy here is not only discovering where each tale will take the reader, but also in the contrast of flavours between each one. Stories such as The Wreaths of Wellbridge, for example (my personal favourite from the collection), serve as palate-cleansers from the more gothic or mythological fare, presenting instead a Dennis Wheatley-esque tale of buried and forgotten histories; of more ancient, eldritch cultures waiting to be unearthed beneath our feet, and which post-modern society is profoundly ill-equipped to cope with. Echoing not only Dennis Wheatley's work but also iconic artefacts of cinema such as The Wicker Man, The Wreaths of Wellbridge is a story of blithe and unwitting outsiders trespassing in places and upon phenomena they have no business disturbing. In terms of imagery, this story contains perhaps some of the most disturbing and gruesome, if only because much of it is committed not by monsters or ghosts or elder-things, but by every day people. Like much of Wheatley's work, it is a commentary on the capacity for madness and violence that lurks beneath our purportedly-civilised veneers; that behind every welcoming smile is a snarling animal, waiting to be fed. Likewise, the next story in the collection, The Nighttrain, shifts states completely, providing a dreary and despairing glimpse of post-modern disparity and despair; a setting that any of us operating in the present-day UK will recognise in the form of grim and foetid sink-estates, barely-fit-for-habitation council flats; a dog-eat-dog state of abjection in which the most abused and neglected of society turn on one another rather than the systems that are the source of their despair. Part of the irony Lex drawers here is that: when something supernatural and uncanny does occur, the horror it represents is eminently preferable to that being lived by the protagonist in his day to day existence. At least it is evidence of some magic; some other sphere of operation, beyond that of filth and concrete and abandonment in which he subsists. From grotesque kineticism to quiet foreboding, from the folkloric to the post-modern, there are so many styles and flavours of story collated here, there is almost certainly something to suit any taste. If nothing else, Whistling Past The Graveyard serves as a manifesto of how various and expansive horror can be, far beyond the assumptions and parameters that are too often proscribed of the genre. Furthermore, it serves as a more personal expression of Lex's own obsessions and influences; what he preconceives of the genre and where he wishes to take it in his own work, suggesting possibilities to come. By George Daniel Lea  A hilltop cemetery where the dead just won’t stay sleeping. An ill-fated voyage to an uncharted region off the coast of Iceland. An English village reminded of its heritage through the discovery of ancient bones.These tales and more can be found within the first short story collection from author Lex H Jones. Light the fire, make yourself a comforting drink, make sure the doors and windows are lined with salt, and settle in to enjoy this gathering of haunts and horrors.   Comments are closed.
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