I know to many he's the Occurence at Owl Creek guy and that's it, but he wrote some exquisite pieces of straight horror like The Death of Halphin Frayser and The Moonlit Road and some still grimly funny horror comedies like Oil of Dog. Since he's the kind of writer who described a novel as "a short story padded" he definitely doesn't demand too much of the reader's time.

Ahead of his time? Or am I just not versed enough in the horror content of the time period? I’m endlessly fascinated by him and his stories. “An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge” is a banger, not to mention his exploration of Carcosa and its modern influence on True Detective and such.

I’d love to hear y’all’s thoughts!

A BEFALLING AT ULE STREAM BRICG

By Ambrose Bierce

Ƿent by Cascadia

1

A ƿere stood on an ironƿay bricg in norþern Alabama, looking dune into þe sƿift ƿater tƿenty feet beneaþ. Þe ƿeres hands ƿere behind his back, þe ƿrists bund ƿiþ a ƿiþe. A rope clised nigely abute his neck. It ƿas tied to a þick beam abuf his head and þe slack fell to þe higþ of his knees. Sum free boards laid on þe ties holding up þe ironƿay itself geafe footing for him and his hangmen—tƿo harmen of þe Norþern heer, led by an underheadman hƿo in eferyday life may haf been an undersceriff. At a scort span on þe ilc makescift footing ƿas a þane in þe cloþing of his rung, ƿeaponed. He ƿas a headman. A lookute at eac end of þe bricg stood ƿiþ his longgun in þe bearing of “uphold,” þat is to say, uprigt afore þe left scolder, þe hammer resting on þe forearm þroƿn straigt þƿares þe breast—A stiff and unkindly standing, making an uprigt holding of þe body. It looked not to be þe ƿicken of þese tƿo men to knoƿ hƿat ƿas befalling at þe middel of þe bricg; hy only ƿiþset þe tƿo ends of þe foot boarding þat oferfared it.

Begeond one of þe lookutes nobody ƿas in sigt; þe ironƿay ran straigt aƿay into a ƿold for a hundred geards, þen, bending, ƿas lost to sigt. Tƿeenless þere ƿas an atstall farþer along. Þe oþer bank of þe stream ƿas open grund—a mild liþ topped ƿiþ a scideƿall of uprigt tree stocks, eyeholed for longguns, ƿiþ a lone greater hole þruge hƿic stuck ute þe muþe of a brass greatgun oferlooking þe bricg. Midƿay up þe liþ ƿere þe ƿaccers—a lone hoos of footmen in line, at “standing rest,” þe ends of her longguns on þe grund, þe pipes leaning a littel backƿard agenst þe rigt scolder, þe hands þƿared on þe stock. An underhartoƿ stood at þe rigt of þe line, þe tip of his sƿord on þe grund, his left hand resting on his rigt. But for þe foƿrsum at þe middel of þe bricg, not a man scroþe. Þe hoos looked to þe bricg, staring stonily, still. Þe lookutes, ƿaccing þe banks of þe stream, migt haf been grafts to higtel þe bricg. Þe headman stood ƿiþ folded arms, still, ƿaccing þe ƿork of his underlings, but making no token. Deaþ is an oferling hƿo hƿen he cums foreboded is to be met ƿiþ stiff ateƿings of manscip, efen by þose most cooþ ƿiþ him. In þe sids of þe heer stillness is þe scape of ƿorþmind.

Þe ƿere hƿo ƿas being hanged looked to be abute þirtyfife years old. He ƿas not a harman, if man migt deem from his look, hƿic ƿas þat of a planter. His marks ƿere good—a straigt nose, fast muþe, broad forehead, from hƿic his long, dark hair ƿas combed straigt back, falling behind his ears to þe neckbend of his ƿell fitting long hackel. He ƿore a grane and a scarp beard, hƿic ƿere ƿell cared for; his eyes ƿere great and dark gray, and had a kindly look hƿic man ƿuld hardly haf ƿeened in man hƿose neck ƿas in þe hemp. Suttelly þis ƿas no fule hackster. Þe broad hareƿs see to þe hanging of many kinds of folk, and þe higeborn sind not left ute.

Þe readyings being made, þe tƿo harmen stepped aside and eac dreƿ aƿay þe board on hƿic he had been standing. Þe underheadman ƿent to þe headman, halsed and put himself rigt behind his oferling, hƿo þen ƿent aside one step. Þese scriþings left þe doomed ƿere and þe underheadman standing on tƿo ends of þe ilc board, hƿic spanned þree of þe ties of þe bricg. Þe end on hƿic þe ƿere stood almost, but not fully, raugt a foƿrþ. Þis board had been held fast by þe ƿeigt of þe headman; it ƿas nu held by þat of þe underheadman. At a token from þe former þe latter ƿuld step aside, þe board ƿuld tilt and þe doomed ƿere go dune betƿeen tƿo ties. Þe digting sooþed itself to his deeming as onefold and speedful. His anlet had not been scruded nor his eyes bund. He looked an eyeblink at his “unsteadfast footing,” þen let his eyes ƿander to þe cirning ƿater of þe stream reasing madly beneaþ his feet. A deal of tumbing driftƿood fanged his heed and his eyes folloƿed it dune þe flood. Hu sloƿly it looked to float! Hƿat a slack stream!

He scut his eyes so to put his last þougts on his ƿife and cildren. Þe ƿater, rined to gold by þe early sun, þe brooding mists under þe banks at sum lengþ dune þe stream, þe aƿork, þe harmen, þe driftƿood—all had draƿn him. And nu he became ƿitting of a neƿ ƿooring. Striking þruge þe þougt of þose he held dear ƿas lude hƿic he culd neiþer unheed nor understand, a scarp, sundry, steely beating lic þe stroke of a blacksmiþs hammer on þe anfil; it had þe ilc ringing pic. He ƿundered hƿat it ƿas, and hƿeþer unmetenly firlen or near by—it felt bo. Its timing ƿas efen, but as sloƿ as þe ringing of a deaþ knell. He abided eac neƿ stroke ƿiþ unlongmoodness and—he kneƿ not hƿy—misgeafing. As it ƿent on, þe betƿixtfacks of stillness greƿ longer; þe stalls became maddening. Ƿiþ her greater seldomness þe ludes greƿ in strengþ and scarpness. Hy smarted his ear lic þe steet of a sax; he feared he ƿuld scree. Hƿat he heard ƿas þe ticking of his ƿac.

He opened his eyes and saƿ agen þe ƿater beneaþ him. “If I culd free my hands,” he þougt, “I migt þroƿ off þe grin and spring into þe stream. By difing I culd hide from þe flones and, sƿimming heartily, reac þe bank, run to þe ƿoods, and get aƿay home. My home, þank God, is as get uteside her lines; my ƿife and cildren sind still begeond þe foes farþest infare.”

As þese þougts, hƿic haf here to be set dune in ƿords, ƿere þroƿn into þe doomed mans brain raþer þan groƿn from it þe headman nodded to þe underheadman. Þe underheadman stepped aside.

2

Peyton Farquhar ƿas a ƿell to do planter, of an old and higely held Alabama hird. Being a þeƿ oƿner and lic oþer þeƿ oƿners a ƿeeldcrafter, he ƿas þusly a breakleafer and blasingly geafen to þe Suþern sake. Þroƿs of a heady kind, hƿic it is unneedful to tell here, had stopped him from infaring þeenest ƿiþ þat dugty heer hƿic had fougt þe doomed badoƿs ending ƿiþ þe fall of Corinþ, and he nettelled under þe scameful binding, longing for þe leesing of his ellen, þe greater life of þe harman, þe bire for meed. Þat bire, he felt, ƿuld cum, as it cums to all in guþetime. All þe hƿile he did hƿat he culd. No þeenest ƿas too noug in filst of þe Suþe, no rosing too pligtful for him to upnim if fitting ƿiþ þe hoad of a man hƿo ƿas at heart a harman, and hƿo in good troþ and ƿiþute too muc fitness þƿeared ƿiþ at least a deal of þe treƿly ƿicked saƿ þat all is fair in luf and ƿye.

One efening hƿile Farquhar and his ƿife ƿere sitting on a ruge benc near þe infare to his grunds, a grayclad harman rode up to þe gate and asked for a drink of ƿater. Goodƿife Farquhar ƿas only too glad to þeƿ him ƿiþ her oƿn hƿite hands. Hƿile sce ƿas feccing þe ƿater her ƿere dreƿ up to þe dusty horsman and asked keenly for tidings from þe line.

“Þe Geanks sind fettelling þe ironƿays,” said þe harman, “and sind getting ready for anoþer drife. Hy haf raugt þe Ule Stream bricg, beeted it and bilt a scideƿall on þe norþ bank. Þe oferman has put ute a behest, hƿic is posted eferyhƿere, boding þat any man fanged hindering þe ironƿay, its bricges, undergangs, or tugƿains ƿill be hanged at ones. I saƿ þe behest.”

“Hu far is it to þe Ule Stream bricg?” Farquhar asked.

“Abute þirty miles.”

“Sind þere no harmen on þis side of þe stream?”

“Only a small atstall half a mile ute, on þe ironƿay, and a lone lookute at þis end of þe bricg.”

“Faþom a man—a learner of hanging, raþer þan a harman—sculd get by þe atstall and maybe get þe better of þe lookute,” said Farquhar, smirking, “hƿat culd he fulfill?”

Þe harman þougt. “I ƿas þere a monþ ago,” he ansƿered. “I saƿ þat þe flood of last ƿinter had stuck a great deal of driftƿood agenst þe ƿooden foot of þe bricg. It is nu dry and ƿuld burn lic tinder.”

Þe lady had nu brougt þe ƿater, hƿic þe harman drank. He þanked her hendly, bued to her ƿere and rode aƿay. A stund later, after nigtfall, he ƿent by þe pen agen, going norþƿard in þe ƿay from hƿic he had cum. He ƿas a Norþern foreƿard.

3

As Peyton Farquhar fell straigt duneƿard þruge þe bricg he lost his ƿits and ƿas as man already dead. From þis hoad he ƿas aƿakened—elds later, it felt to him—by þe trey of a scarp ƿeigt on his þroat, folloƿed by an anget of ceoking. Keen, scarp sussels scot from his neck duneƿard þruge efery þeƿ of his body and limbs. Þese treys felt as if hy ƿere þrobbing along ƿell marked lines of ligtning and beating unfaþomenly cƿickly. Hy felt lic streams of þrobbing fire ƿarming him to an unbearenly heat. As to his head, he ƿas ƿitting of noþing but a feeling of fullness—of cruding. Þese feelings ƿere unlasted by þougt. Þe mindful deal of his kind ƿas already ƿiped; he had migt only to feel, and feeling ƿas tintrey. He ƿas ƿitting of scriþing. Bescruded in a gloƿing clude, of hƿic he ƿas nu but þe firy heart, ƿiþute rinenly anƿork, he sƿung þruge unþinkenly ƿafings, lic a great ƿanrest. Þen all at ones, ƿiþ eyful sƿiftness, þe ligt abute him scot upƿard ƿiþe þe din of a lude splasc; a frigtful roaring ƿas in his hears, and all ƿas cold and dark. Þe migt of þougt came back; he kneƿ þat þe rope had broken and he had fallen into þe stream. Þere ƿas no eked þrottelling; þe grin abute his neck ƿas already ceoking him and kept þe ƿater from his lungs. To sƿelt of hanging at þe bottom of an ea!—þe þougt felt to him laugƿorþy. He opened his eyes in þe darkness and saƿ abuf him a gleam of ligt, but hu firlen, hu unreacenly. He ƿas still sinking, for þe ligt became dimmer and dimmer hent it ƿas but a glimmer. Þen it began to groƿ and brigten, and he kneƿ þat he ƿas rising toƿard þe bred—kneƿ it loaþly, for he ƿas nu raþer cƿeem. “To be hanged and druned,” he þougt, “þat is not so bad; but I ƿisc not to be scot. No; I ƿill not be scot; þat is not fair.”

He ƿas unƿitting of þe sƿink, but a scarp trey in his ƿrist told him þat he ƿas fanding to free his hands. He geafe þe figt his heed, as an ideller migt ƿac þe craft of a scoƿman, ƿiþute grip in þe utecum. Hƿat ƿunderful ƿork!—hƿat ƿild, hƿat ofermanly strengþ! Ah, þat ƿas a good fand! Ƿell done! Þe ƿiþe fell aƿay; his arms sundered and floated upƿard, þe hands dimly seen on eac side in þe groƿing ligt. He ƿacced hem ƿiþ a neƿ grip as first one and þen þe oþer leapt to þe grin on his neck. Hy tore it aƿay and þreƿ it reeþly aside, its ƿafings alic to þose of a ƿater snake. “Put it back, put it back!” He þougt he gelled þese ƿords to his hands, for þe undoing of þe grin had been folloƿed by þe ƿorst þroe þat he had get felt. His neck aked eyfully; his brain ƿas on fire, his heart, hƿic had been fluttering ƿanly, geafe a great leap, fanding to þroƿ itself ute at his muþe. His hƿole body ƿas treyed and ƿrenced ƿiþ an unbearenly sussel! But his unhearsum hands geafe no heed to þe behest. Hy beat þe ƿater earnestly ƿiþ cƿick, duneƿard strokes, þringing him to þe bred. He felt his head arise; his eyes ƿere blinded by þe sunligt; his cest ƿidened madly, and ƿiþ a great and hige sussel his lungs sƿalloƿed a great draugt of lift, hƿic at ones he bleƿ ute in a scree!

He ƿas nu fully ƿitting of his bodily angets. Hy ƿere, indeed, ferly scarp and keen. Sumþing in þe eyful upset of his body had so higþened and honed hem þat hy marked þings nefer before beheld. He felt þe lippers on his anlet and heard her sundry ludes as hy struck. He looked at þe ƿold on þe bank of þe stream, saƿ eac tree, þe leafs and þe edders of eac leaf—he saƿ þe littel ƿigs on hem: þe grassteppers, þe scining bodied flies, þe gray spiders streccing her ƿebs from tƿig to tƿig. He marked þe rainboƿ heƿs in all þe deƿdrops on a þusand blades of grass. Þe humming of þe gnats þat tumbed abuf þe eddies of þe stream, þe beating of þe adderbolts fiþers, þe strokes of þe ƿater striders scanks, lic rudders hƿic had lifted her boat—all þese made hearenly glee. A fisc slid along beneaþ his eyes and he heard þe rease of its body sundering þe ƿater.

He had cum to þe bred looking dune þe stream; in an eyeblink þe seenly ƿorld hƿeeled sloƿly abute, himself þe axtree, and he saƿ þe bricg, þe aƿork, þe headman, þe underheadman, þe tƿo harmen, his hangmen. Hy ƿere scadoƿed agenst þe heƿn heafen. Hy gelled and minted her fingers at him. Þe headman had draƿn his handgun, but did not fire; þe oþers ƿere unƿeaponed. Her scriþings ƿere ferly and eyful, her scapes ettinisc.

All at ones he heard a scarp crack and sumþing struck þe ƿater smartly ƿiþin a feƿ inces of his head, splascing his anlet ƿiþ þe mist. He heard anoþer crack, and saƿ one of þe lookutes ƿiþ his longgun at his scolder, a ligt clude of heƿn smoke rising from þe muþe. Þe man in þe ƿater saƿ þe eye of þe man on þe bricg staring into his oƿn þruge þe sigts of þe longgun. He saƿ þat it ƿas a gray eye and mimmered hafing read þat gray eyes ƿere keenest, and þat all meer marksmen had hem. Neferþeless, þis one had missed.

An eddy had fanged Farquhar and ƿent him half abute; he ƿas agen looking at þe ƿold on þe bank ƿiþer þe aƿork. Þe lude of a hoder, hige stefen in a dull singsong nu rang ute behind him and came þƿares þe ƿater ƿiþ a suttelness þat bored and berried all oþer ludes, efen þe beating of þe lippers in his ears. Alþaug no harman, he had been at atstalls often enuge to knoƿ þe dread ƿeigt of þat sloƿ, draƿn ute, breaþy speec; þe underhartoƿ on score ƿas helping in þe mornings ƿork. Hu coldly and reƿþlessly—ƿiþ hƿat an efen, smilt pic, forescadoƿing, and making smiltness in þe men—ƿiþ hƿat rigtly meted betƿixtfacks fell þose reeþ ƿords:

“Hoos!... Heed!... Scolder guns!... Ready!... Mint!... Fire!”

Farquhar dofe, dofe as deeply as he culd. Þe ƿater roared in his ears lic þe reard of Niagara, get he heard þe dull þunder of þe burst and, rising agen toƿard þe bred, met scining bits of bloom, markedly smasced, reeling sloƿly duneƿard. Sum of hem rined him on þe anlet and hands, hy fell aƿay, going on ƿiþ her fall. One stuck betƿeen his neck and neckbend; it ƿas teenfully ƿarm and he pulled it ute.

As he rose to þe bred, orþing for breaþ, he saƿ þat he had been a long time underƿater; he ƿas markedly farþer dunestream—nearer to sickerhood. Þe harmen ƿere almost done eftloading; þe bloom ramrods gleamed all at ones in þe sunscine as hy ƿere draƿn from þe pipes, ƿent in þe lift, and scufed into her holders. Þe tƿo lookutes fired agen, alone and bootlessly. Þe hunted ƿere saƿ all þis ofer his scolder; he ƿas nu sƿimming sƿiftly ƿiþ þe stream. His brain ƿas as lifely as his arms and scanks; he þougt ƿiþ þe speed of ligtning.

“Þe underhartoƿ,” he reckoned, “ƿill not make þat sunduners misstep agen. It is as eaþ to atƿind a burst as a lone scot. He has licly already geafen þe behest to fire at ƿill. God help me, I cannot duck hem all.

An atel splasc ƿiþin tƿo geards of him ƿas folloƿed by a lude, reasing din, hƿic sƿeyed to fare back þruge þe lift to þe aƿork and sƿelted in a blast hƿic scook þe ea itself to its deeps! A rising sceet of ƿater sƿelled ofer him, fell dune on him, blinded him, druned him! Þe greatgun had taken a hand in þe game. As he scook his head free from þe uproar of þe smitten ƿater he heard þe put by scot humming þruge þe lift ahead, and in an eyeblink it ƿas cracking and smascing þe buges in þe ƿold begeond. “Hy ƿill not do þat agen,” he þougt; “þe next time hy ƿill note berryscot. I must keep my eye on þe gun; þe smoke ƿill ƿarn me—þe crack cums too late; it folloƿs behind þe stone. Þat is a good gun.”

All at ones he felt himself spun umb and umb—spinning lic a top. Þe ƿater, þe banks, þe ƿolds, þe noƿ firlen bricg, aƿork and men, all ƿere minged and blurred. Þings ƿere tokened by her heƿs only; straigt, sinƿelt streaks of heƿ—þat ƿas all he saƿ. He had been fanged in an eddy and ƿas being spun on ƿiþ a speed of forƿard and abute þat made him giddy and sick. In a feƿ brigtoms he ƿas þroƿn onto þe cisel at þe foot of þe left bank of þe stream—þe suþern bank—and behind an uteboƿed deal of þe bank hƿic hid him from his foes. Þe sƿift end to his fare, þe scraping of one of his hands on þe cisel, brougt him back to himself, and he ƿept ƿiþ ƿin. He delfed his fingers into þe sand, þreƿ it ofer himself in handfuls and blessed it alude. It looked lic so many gimstones and ƿorþy sink; he culd þink of noþing lic hƿic it looked not lic. Þe trees on þe bank ƿere great leigton ƿurts; he marked a suttel plot in her steads, breaþed in þe smell of her blossoms. A ferly roosy ligt scone þruge þe openings among her stocks and þe ƿind made in her buges þe glee of Eolisc harps. He had no ƿisc to end his atƿinding—he ƿas eaþheeld to belife in þat beƿiccing spot hent he ƿas fanged agen.

A hƿis and a rattel of berryscot among þe buges hige abuf his head ƿoke him from his sƿefen. Þe beƿildered greatgunman had fired him a mintless fareƿell. He sprang to his feet, reased up þe hƿemming bank, and dofe into þe ƿold. All þat day he fared, laying his ƿay by þe eferscriþing sun. Þe ƿold felt unending; nohƿere fund he a break in it, not efen a ƿoodmans road. He had not knoƿn þat he lifed in so ƿild a land. Þere ƿas sumþing uncanny in þat finding. By nigtfall he ƿas ƿeary, footsore, starfing. Þe þougt of his ƿife and cildren scied him on. At last he fund a road hƿic led him in hƿat he kneƿ to be þe rigt ƿay. It ƿas as ƿide and straigt as a boroug street, get it looked untrodden. No feelds hemmed it, no dƿelling anyhƿere. Not so muc as þe barking of a dog hinted at ƿunning by men. Þe black bodies of þe trees made a straigt ƿall on bo sides, ending on þe sigtline in an ord, lic a bisen in a teacing on utelook. Oferhead, as he looked up þruge þis cleft in þe ƿood, scone great golden stars looking uncooþ and clustered in ferly scapes. He ƿas ƿiss hy ƿere set in sum ƿay hƿic had a dern and efil meaning. Þe ƿood on eiþer side ƿas full of ferly ludes, among hƿic—ones, tƿise, and agen—he suttelly heard hƿispers in an unknoƿn tung.

His neck ƿas in great trey and lifting his hand to it he fund it atelly sƿollen. He kneƿ þat it had a ring of black hƿere þe rope had brised it. His eyes felt cruded; he culd no longer scut hem. His tung ƿas sƿollen ƿiþ þirst; he alaid his riþ by scufing it forƿard from betƿeen his teeþ into þe cold lift. Hu softly þe turf had sƿaþed þe untrodden street—he culd no longer feel þe roadƿay beneaþ his feet!

Tƿeenless, his trey notƿiþstanding, he had fallen asleep hƿile ƿalking, for nu he sees anoþer sigt—maybe he has but bootened from a madness. He stands at þe gate of his oƿn home. All is as he left it, and all brigt and liteful in þe morning sunscine. He must haf fared þe hƿole nigt. As he þrings open þe gate and goes up þe ƿide hƿite ƿalk, he sees a flutter of ƿifely cloþing; his ƿife, looking fresc and cool and sƿeet, steps dune from þe portick to meet him. At þe bottom of þe steps sce stands biding, ƿiþ a smirk of heafenly ƿin, a mood of macless eest and ƿorþness. Ah, hu liteful sce is! He springs forƿards ƿiþ utestraugt arms. As he is abute to hold her he feels a stunning bloƿ on þe back of þe neck; a blinding hƿite ligt blases all abute him ƿiþ a din lic þe scot of a greatgun—þen all is dark and still!

Peyton Farquhar ƿas dead; his body, ƿiþ a broken neck, sƿung ligtly from side to side beneaþ þe timbers of þe Ule Stream bricg.

I've been revisiting Bierce's stories and reading a few I haven't previously. Some of his lesser known war stories are just brutal in terms of outlook. Of course, he has some pointless clunkers, but there's a really eerie quality to some of them. The odd story a Jug of Syrup has me wondering if he had some dim premonition of our Black Friday melees. Others are puzzles you simply can't solve and I find them as interesting as the very best of Poe, maybe more so.

I think he is a very underrated writer, and his deft ironic prose touches just add to the proceedings.

Ambrose Bierce

Oil of Dog

My name is Boffer Bings. I was born of honest parents in one of the humbler walks of life, my father being a manufacturer of dog-oil and my mother having a small studio in the shadow of the village church, where she disposed of unwelcome babes. In my boyhood I was trained to habits of industry; I not only assisted my father in procuring dogs for his vats, but was frequently employed by my mother to carry away the debris of her work in the studio. In performance of this duty I sometimes had need of all my natural intelligence for all the law officers of the vicinity were opposed to my mother’s business. They were not elected on an opposition ticket, and the matter had never been made a political issue; it just happened so. My father’s business of making dog-oil was, naturally, less unpopular, though the owners of missing dogs sometimes regarded him with suspicion, which was reflected, to some extent, upon me. My father had, as silent partners, all the physicians of the town, who seldom wrote a prescription which did not contain what they were pleased to designate as Ol. can. It is really the most valuable medicine ever discovered. But most persons are unwilling to make personal sacrifices for the afflicted, and it was evident that many of the fattest dogs in town had been forbidden to play with me — a fact which pained my young sensibilities, and at one time came near driving me to become a pirate.

Looking back upon those days, I cannot but regret, at times, that by indirectly bringing my beloved parents to their death I was the author of misfortunes profoundly affecting my future.

One evening while passing my father’s oil factory with the body of a foundling from my mother’s studio I saw a constable who seemed to be closely watching my movements. Young as I was, I had learned that a constable’s acts, of whatever apparent character, are prompted by the most reprehensible motives, and I avoided him by dodging into the oilery by a side door which happened to stand ajar. I locked it at once and was alone with my dead. My father had retired for the night. The only light in the place came from the furnace, which glowed a deep, rich crimson under one of the vats, casting ruddy reflections on the walls. Within the cauldron the oil still rolled in indolent ebullition, occasionally pushing to the surface a piece of dog. Seating myself to wait for the constable to go away, I held the naked body of the foundling in my lap and tenderly stroked its short, silken hair. Ah, how beautiful it was! Even at that early age I was passionately fond of children, and as I looked upon this cherub I could almost find it in my heart to wish that the small, red wound upon its breast—the work of my dear mother—had not been mortal.

It had been my custom to throw the babes into the river which nature had thoughtfully provided for the purpose, but that night I did not dare to leave the oilery for fear of the constable. “After all,” I said to myself, “it cannot greatly matter if I put it into this cauldron. My father will never know the bones from those of a puppy, and the few deaths which may result from administering another kind of oil for the incomparable ol. can. are not important in a population which increases so rapidly.” In short, I took the first step in crime and brought myself untold sorrow by casting the babe into the cauldron.

The next day, somewhat to my surprise, my father, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, informed me and my mother that he had obtained the finest quality of oil that was ever seen; that the physicians to whom he had shown samples had so pronounced it. He added that he had no knowledge as to how the result was obtained; the dogs had been treated in all respects as usual, and were of an ordinary breed. I deemed it my duty to explain—which I did, though palsied would have been my tongue if I could have foreseen the consequences. Bewailing their previous ignorance of the advantages of combining their industries, my parents at once took measures to repair the error. My mother removed her studio to a wing of the factory building and my duties in connection with the business ceased; I was no longer required to dispose of the bodies of the small superfluous, and there was no need of alluring dogs to their doom, for my father discarded them altogether, though they still had an honorable place in the name of the oil. So suddenly thrown into idleness, I might naturally have been expected to become vicious and dissolute, but I did not. The holy influence of my dear mother was ever about me to protect me from the temptations which beset youth, and my father was a deacon in a church. Alas, that through my fault these estimable persons should have come to so bad an end!

Finding a double profit in her business, my mother now devoted herself to it with a new assiduity. She removed not only superfluous and unwelcome babes to order, but went out into the highways and byways, gathering in children of a larger growth, and even such adults as she could entice to the oilery. My father, too, enamored of the superior quality of oil produced, purveyed for his vats with diligence and zeal. The conversion of their neighbors into dog-oil became, in short, the one passion of their lives—an absorbing and overwhelming greed took possession of their souls and served them in place of a hope in Heaven—by which, also, they were inspired.

So enterprising had they now become that a public meeting was held and resolutions passed severely censuring them. It was intimated by the chairman that any further raids upon the population would be met in a spirit of hostility. My poor parents left the meeting broken-hearted, desperate and, I believe, not altogether sane. Anyhow, I deemed it prudent not to enter the oilery with them that night, but slept outside in a stable.

At about midnight some mysterious impulse caused me to rise and peer through a window into the furnace-room, where I knew my father now slept. The fires were burning as brightly as if the following day’s harvest had been expected to be abundant. One of the large cauldrons was slowly “walloping” with a mysterious appearance of self-restraint, as if it bided its time to put forth its full energy. My father was not in bed; he had risen in his night clothes and was preparing a noose in a strong cord. From the looks which he cast at the door of my mother’s bedroom I knew too well the purpose that he had in mind. Speechless and motionless with terror, I could do nothing in prevention or warning. Suddenly the door of my mother’s apartment was opened, noiselessly, and the two confronted each other, both apparently surprised. The lady, also, was in her night clothes, and she held in her right hand the tool of her trade, a long, narrow-bladed dagger.

She, too, had been unable to deny herself the last profit which the unfriendly action of the citizens and my absence had left her. For one instant they looked into each other’s blazing eyes and then sprang together with indescribable fury. Round and round, the room they struggled, the man cursing, the woman shrieking, both fighting like demons—she to strike him with the dagger, he to strangle her with his great bare hands. I know not how long I had the unhappiness to observe this disagreeable instance of domestic infelicity, but at last, after a more than usually vigorous struggle, the combatants suddenly moved apart.

My father’s breast and my mother’s weapon showed evidences of contact. For another instant they glared at each other in the most unamiable way; then my poor, wounded father, feeling the hand of death upon him, leaped forward, unmindful of resistance, grasped my dear mother in his arms, dragged her to the side of the boiling cauldron, collected all his failing energies, and sprang in with her! In a moment, both had disappeared and were adding their oil to that of the committee of citizens who had called the day before with an invitation to the public meeting.

Convinced that these unhappy events closed to me every avenue to an honorable career in that town, I removed to the famous city of Otumwee, where these memoirs are written with a heart full of remorse for a heedless act entailing so dismal a commercial disaster.

On June 24th 1842 was born. He is best known for writing An Occurance at Owl Creek Bridge.

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Ambrose Bierce (1842 - 1914) was an American writer, journalist, and Civil War veteran. Bierce's works often highlight the inscrutability of the universe and the absurdity of death, making him an avid pioneer of the cosmic horror genre.

In his essay "Supernatural Horror in Literature", H. P. Lovecraft characterizes Bierce's fictional work as "grim and savage." Lovecraft goes on to say that nearly all of Bierce's stories are of the horror genre and some shine as great examples of weird fiction.

“Bierce seldom realises the atmospheric possibilities of his themes as vividly as Poe; and much of his work contains a certain touch of naivete, prosaic angularity, or early-American provincialism which contrasts somewhat with the efforts of later horror-masters. Nevertheless the genuineness and artistry of his dark intimations are always unmistakable, so that his greatness is in no danger of eclipse.” (Supernatural Horror in Literature, 408)

Bierce is said to have inspired H.P. Lovecraft through Rober W. Chambers' "The King in Yellow" and his concoction of the fictional Book "Denneker’s Meditations", which serves a similar purpose as "The Necronomicon".

Feel free to join to discuss Ambrose Bierce and the influence he had on other proponents of cosmic horror, namely Robert Chambers and H.P. Lovecraft.

Ambrose Bierce, an author who was known for incindiary temperment and was famously referred to as Fierce Bierce. And then one day in 1913, he disappeared and ever since then he has presumed dead.

His greatest achievement was the satirical dictionary called, well, "The Devil Dictionary". And no, I have not read that yet, but I would formally be introduced through a collection of his short stories.

The collection I'm talking about is titled "Ghost and Horror Stories of Ambrose Bierce" published by Dover in 1964. I came across a hard cover copy of it in the library of the high school I went to. While not long the 24 stories in it were quite enjoyable. I think my favorites would be "The Death of Halpin Frayser" and "The Damned Thing".

Bierce was influenced by Poe, the Gothic novel and Romantic short stories and it shows in his own tales. And he was even an influence for H.P. Lovecraft as well!

anybody here recommend any of his work for first time readers? thank you!

I was reading about author Ambrose Bierce and learned that he was one of 13 children, all of whom had A names. In order of birth, they were:

• Abigail

• Amelia

• Ann

• Addison

• Aurelius

• Augustus

• Almeda

• Andrew

• Albert

• Ambrose

• Arthur

• Adelia

• Aurelia

Thoughts? If Aurelius stands out, it’s because their father’s name was Marcus Aurelius Bierce! I also found it interesting that Ambrose Bierce married a woman named Mary Ellen "Mollie" Day, and they named their first son Day.

On June 24th 1842 was born. He is best known for writing An Occurance at Owl Creek Bridge.

If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message . The full birthday list can be found

For any folks who are unfamiliar, ’s narrator finds himself wandering through a desolate landscape with no memory of arriving there. Slowly he comes first to the realization that he can’t communicate with another barbaric-looking human he sees who doesn’t even notice him, let alone speak his language, and secondly that he’s been walking through the site where his city - Carcosa - used to be located, but such an unimaginably long time has passed that pretty much the whole city has been worn away. In the final paragraph we learn that what we’ve been reading is part of account that was given to a medium by the spirit of a dead person.

The story has horror elements with the ghostly protagonist contacted by the medium. It also has science fiction elements - the author attempts to create a realistic version of what the far future would look like as imagined by the scientists of his day, with a night so full of starlight as to resemble day (at the time it was assumed that, as the universe was believed to be infinite, eventually an infinite amount of light would reach the Earth from distant stars). Nowadays people often classify it as “weird fiction”.

But I think that those genres are more modern categories, right? What would people have classified this story as when it came out? Was Bierce writing in an established tradition at the time, and if so what are some other examples of it from the same time?

On June 24th 1842 was born. He is best known for writing An Occurance at Owl Creek Bridge.

If there is an author you'd like to see added to the Happy Birthday! Posts please message . The full birthday list can be found