‘The Haunting of Exham Priory’ Postmortem

It’s been just over a week since Rumpus Theatre‘s run of my play, ‘The Haunting of Exham Priory‘, came to an end. I think it’s safe to call it a success; it sold well for a play of its size (completely selling out one venue), and we had some reasonably complimentary reviews.

British Theatre Guide Review

A Younger Theatre Review

“The script is engaging and well thought out.”

“The performances are fantastic.”

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So am I pleased? Absolutely! And I’d definitely like to say a big thank you to Rumpus for bringing my ideas to life and the actors, David Gilbrook and Nicholas Bourne, who gave outstanding performances every single night. But the biggest thank you of all should go to all the HP Lovecraft and Rumpus Theatre fans alike who turned out to see it. Thank you to you all!

Now I’ve had a bit of time to reflect, I thought I’d share a few thoughts on the creative process and take a look look at if there anything I’d have done differently. In terms of major changes, “no” is the short answer. After watching the show for a second time I did wonder if the part about Walter de la Poer’s mysterious letter could have been cut to make the play slightly shorter. But on balance, although it doesn’t directly effect the plot it does add to the overall sense of mystery and provide a nice connection between Delapore and his family history, so I think I’ll retain it for any future runs.

Actually it’s interesting to think how much already got cut from the story. You might imagine that turning a short story of only a few pages into a two act play would mean that every single word had to be retained and used. But a single sentence of first person narration often equates to several lines of natural sounding dialogue, so the page count soon builds up. Many of the little details about the history of the Priory and the de la Poer family didn’t make it into the final draft. Likewise the full list of everything that was discovered in the final scene. That’s not to say they didn’t make it into early drafts, but they just made the play a bit too long and rambling.

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Speaking of the final scene, one question that came up during development was whether or not the final scene should have been staged in full, rather than told via the medium of Delapore’s narration and the sound and lighting effects?

After a lot of thought, I believe our narrative approach was the correct one. Even if we had managed to find a plausible way to stage it in a production of this size, I doubt it would have lived up to people’s imaginations of the spectacular scene described. In fact I doubt even an expensive staging would have achieved this. After all, an important technique in Lovecraft’s work is to hint at horrors rather than spell them out. Imagined horrors are always far worse than the reality.

Another technique that Lovecraft often calls on is [SPOILERS AHEAD] a narrator  retelling the events of the story from a position of insanity, just as happens in the original text of ‘The Rats in the Walls’. I feel it would have been a shame to drop that element entirely. And of course, if we’re not relying on Delapore’s narration then it potentially removed the ambiguity of whether or not he is responsible for the final act, or if it is indeed the rats, as he claims.

So what next? Well I’d certainly love to adapt one more Lovecraft play if I had the chance. I have a shortlist, but I’ll keep it to myself for the moment as I’m likely to change my mind several times. There’s such a rich seam of work to draw on. But I’ve always been partial to Shadows and Horrors.

The Enforcer and the Neophyte

More Warhammer 40,000 fiction on the theme of Genestealer Cults, following on from The Church of the Astral Ascension short story.

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A pall of smog from the refineries hung over the ore merchant’s district, guarding the secrets of the alleyways and barter houses as jealously as any territorial Guilder. The streets were full of life, the people of Grovsenor II going about their daily business in the half-light and petrochem fumes. The sunlight barely reached the ground. Eventually it gave up and took its business elsewhere.

Garon casually scanned the throng from his vantage point. The entrance to his patron’s house was raised a few steps above the dust and dirt of the thoroughfare, the height symbolic as well as practical. The Zavr dynasty were an ancient and well respected merchant family of ore traders. Any cargo coming into the hives from the Kolt Mountains to the north, or from far Asa Prospect, or even the orbital Parable Station, chances were it passed through the Zavr-run ports.

All manner of people walked up and down the cobbled street, slipping wraith-like from the gloom and fading away again into the distance like unquiet spirits. Traders, negocitories, indentured ogryn, tax servitors – they all came and went. None approached the steps where Garon stood. You needed a gene-verified invite wafer to take that course.

Garon took pride in his work. He was an Enforcer. A Guild Enforcer, yes, not Arbites. Arbites wouldn’t deign to get their hands dirty with civil work, but Garon knew it was important never-the-less. The Pax Zavr kept the Emperor’s peace in the ore merchant’s district. He’d dealt with fraudsters, thieves, tax avoiders and even the odd Guild Assassin in his time. Each time he’d walked away mostly unscathed. Or still standing, at any rate.

Something changed in the flow of people. You didn’t spend as much time as Garon had in this district without a subtle appreciation of the way people travelled the streets. Citizens were moving aside. It wasn’t fear or panic, they were simply making way. Distant shapes twisted in the fog. Sound echoed weirdly from the brick buildings. Was that chanting? Singing? Praying? Garon activated his infra-visor. There was a partial heat-wash a little way down the street, a livid bruise in the air. A large mass of bodies? Or a lost ore conveyer? Garon’s hand rested on the holster of his autopistol. It was probably nothing, but he stayed alert.

Like an oceanic mass conveyor emerging from the evening mist, a throng of people, banners and motion emerged from the smog. Garon relaxed. It was just some kind a religious parade. Asteroid miners, down from orbit for a trip to the big city, by the looks of their pressure suits. A bulk hauler took off from the distant starport as if to confirm this, a grey blur ponderously fighting to pull itself back into orbit. The Enforcer watched it for a moment, then returned his attention to the pantomime unfolding before him. He’d seen it’s like before; every so often a religious frenzy would work itself up amongst the lower orders. Productivity would increase, church membership would swell and a few mutants would be whipped through the streets. Useful really.

This lot were really getting into it though. The precession marched through the street, handing out literature and propaganda to bemused or disinterested onlookers. At the centre of the throng, a zealot wielding a massive icon rallied the faithful around him. And behind him, a group of men followed in very convincing xenos costumes. They held Garon’s attention. They were fantastic! The parade drew to a halt outside the Zavr Guildhouse.

“Hark all ye the words of Jarick Ovid,” said the bald priest at the head of the procession, “I am Kodyn Oospore, his appointed Neophyte and messenger of the creed of the Church of the Astral Ascension!”

It annoyed Garon that they’d stopped directly in front of him, but technically they weren’t breaking any law. He scanned up and down the street, checking no-one was using the crowd as cover to sneak up on him. Everything seemed fine. Some people had stopped to watch. The poor and desperate mostly. The wealthy and the mind-wiped servitors were sauntering past, not sparing the faithful a second glance. Garon went back to listening to the priest.

“The time is almost upon us! Even now the rightful Emperor of all Mankind prepares for his Astral Ascension,” said Kodyn, “and when he walks abroad amongst the stars he will cow all the horrors and the unbelievers. See! Even the icon of his embryonic apotheosis commands respect.”

The icon bearer raised his precious charge high – a massive metal pole with an oddly monstrous symbolic embryo at its crown – and the men in the xenos costumes cowered before it. Well, sort of. It looked more like a bow of respect to Garon. Their outfits really were good, much better than the large paper wyrms full of dancers that you sometimes saw. Garon had seen a handful of his aliens in his time; an Eldar wanderer attached to a trade delegation. A Jokero that had joined a merchant’s retinue for reasons no-one could fathom. A mounted and stuffed Ork warboss in a museum. That one had been a tiny thing, laughable really, with a long pointy nose, big ears and sickly green skin.

But these costumes he was looking at now….he had no idea what they were supposed to be, with their bulbous purple heads and blue carapaces.

The Neophyte priest was still talking about the fate that awaited those that didn’t submit to the will of the Astral Emperor. He seemed like a man of calculating intelligence. In contrast, the icon bearer had the passion of a true believer, a real fire in his eyes. Garon idly wondered where that figure of speech came from, and if the zealot’s passion would actually manifest as raised ocular temperature.

He flicked his infra-visor down. He frowned. He flicked it back up again and looked at the men in the xenos costumes. One of them had fixed him with its burning red gaze. He lowered the visor again. They weren’t reading as men in costumes, they were reading as…

Garon fumbled for his autopistol with shaking fingers. It was too late. The Genestealer’s talon punched through his carapace armour. Punched clean through the armour that had kept him safe for over a decade. Punched through as though it was nothing more than a simple robe.

People screamed. Footfalls pounded on the cobbles. Guns were produced from concealed holsters under priestly robes. Everything was suddenly very cold. Garon hit the rockrete steps as medical alerts sounded distantly in his armoured earpiece. In one last act of loyalty to House Zavr and the people of the city, Garon found the strength to activate the silent alarm built into his gauntlet. Then he slipped into darkness.