Ancestral Visitors

            Several creatures of ill-fortune prowl around the bloodlines of the more noble families of old Tsarist Russia. Three of the noble lineages have had such creatures attach themselves to their households:

          The Zubov family of Strelna and Moscow has a reoccurring specter, which appears on the death of the current Count. The specter has only briefly been glimpsed by a scullery maid in 1636, and a half asleep footman in 1699. The specter has been described by both as a floating bald woman, wearing silken clothes, stained in some manner (whether it was by blood or mud is unclear). The specter howls out the name, ”Zubov! Zubov!” repeatedly. The Count is said to die within 48 hours of the specter’s appearance. It is unknown whether the visitation is the cause of the death, or simply reacts to the imminent demise of the current patriarch. Many believe that it is the cause, as evidenced in the memoirs of Sir David Luminsta, who was guest at the household of Stephan Zubov, then Count. The apparition was heard, but not seen, and within 12 hours the baron was dead.
As Sir Luminsta writes, “Count Stephan’s footman has just gone by in great haste, and he has told me that the Baron, after coming from the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health, but that about half past two this morning, his own man hearing a noise in his master’s room went to him, and found him in the agonies of death, and before he could alarm the servants, his lordship was dead. The specter strikes again.”

          A further household with ghostly visitors is the Demidov family of Mayvin. There the spectral visitor is seen but does not speak. This creature is further different in that it appears to warn of the death of any member of the family, be they blood or married in. The visitor first appeared two days before the death of Nikita Demidov, second patriarch after the establishment of nobility. The specter is a small man, wrapped in a death shroud; hair is attached to the head in thin irregular wisps. Across the face and scalp and hands foul open sores are displayed, some apparently oozing pus. All who have looked upon this creature have described being overcome by a wave of nausea (vomiting is not unheard of here). A member of the family is said to die within a week when this specter visits.

          Additionally an identity has been placed to this visitor. Many who see it swear that it resembles a painting prominently displayed in the Family Manse, that of Demid Antufiev, establisher of the line. If it is indeed this old noble, the sores on the ghost give credence to the rumor that he had died of an aggressive and persistent case of syphilis, and not of a heart seizure as the family maintains. If it is indeed Demid Antufiev, then perhaps the addled ghost does not realize that his reign has long been over.

          The third family, the Panin, ennobled in 1767, the case seems to be that the visitor appears only after the head of the family has died. To them a strange entity, known as the Grey Piper, comes. He walks the hills by the family manner playing a sad melancholy song on bagpipes. The song is taken to be a song of lament for the Count’s passing, but its true purpose is unknown. The entity does not appear to be malevolent and does not approach anyone, but he is clearly heard and seen in the hills. This entity is said to have appeared for over 300 years.

When Will Eisner Accidently Insulted Me

            This incident happened at a minor independent comics convention up in Toronto. My pal Don, who owned a comics store, drove a bunch of us over the border to Canada. Don, who had comic iconography tattooed up and down both arms some of it leaking onto his chest, was a fanatic on the subject. He was rabid about getting signatures and original art.

            Myself, I enjoyed the art and the stories and that’s all. I could never get into collecting autographs of writers or pencilers. It's foolish to pay an extra ten (or more!) dollars for a few more words.  Additionally the difference between a first and second printing can alter the price of a book, in the eyes of “real collectors”, by ten to twenty dolars. In most cases the first and second printings have the same story and art. So what makes one more valuable than the other? Human stupidity, that’s what. And I learned long ago that if a comic is labeled a  “collector’s item”, then it’s a guarantee that in a year it won't be worth a dime. Once the publishers slap that label on the front cover, a frothing horde of fan boys run about bagging-and-boarding the comic and squirreling it away in a basement for all time.

            To listen to these collectors talk, you’d think they were investing in the stock market. “This’ll be worth like…a lot of money someday.” Unfortunately no one’s buying for top dollar. Think, all you collectors, have you ever heard of anyone out there actually cashing in on their stash?  No. On the rare occasion when it does happen, it’s their family who does it, after the person’s dead.

            My favorite part of a convention has always been the independent dealers. Little guys who’ve published their own work as a labor of love and are just trying to make a buck or two. They might not be the greatest written or drawn books in the world, but they have heart. I almost always find something worthwhile, which I might not otherwise ever see again.

            What had attracted Don to the event was the appearance of Will Eisner, creator of The Spirit, (a big deal), and Dave Sims, creator of Cerebus (a lesser deal). I could’ve cared less. I wanted the product, not the creator, so I paid little attention to what was happening outside of my narrow view of the independants.

            I was looking through some Korean drawn comics, when Don came running up to me.

            “I need your help with something, dude.”

            “What is it?”

            Apparently there was a sign up in front of Eisner’s empty table stating that he would only sign three items per person. It was a smart move or else people would be backing up U-hauls of stuff for him to scribble on- Don being one of them. He had arraigned (for a fee I assume) to bring some stuff up to the convention for several of his customers. Now he wanted me to stand in line to get it signed.

            “Nah, I don’t want to.”

            “Oh come on man.”

            “I hate that stuff.”

            “Hey fuck you dude! I drove you up here!”

           How could I argue with that?

            So into line I went. He gave me  two slim books and a hardcover collection of The Spirit Sunday comics from the 1940’s volume 19, published by Dark Horse, costing about $50. Way overpriced for my limited income. I was third in line, but Eisner was late coming out and I could feel valuable minutes of scrounging slipping away. Don was a few feet behind me, in the other line, nudging with this toe a box of phone books for Dave Sims to scribble on. He caught my gaze and gave me two enthusiastic thumbs up. The cheeriness was not infectious.

            Eventually Eisner emerged from behind a curtain and sat down. He was an old Jewish man, neatly dressed. After I saw him, I must admit, my enthusiasm increased. How could it not? Here was a living legend before me, a man who had helped to pioneer the entire industry. Hell the highest award in comics is named after him. What was he like? An angel or a monster? I just hoped he wasn’t a prick. If he was, I would never be able to enjoy his work again.

            I stepped up to the old man, who grinned benevolent at me and reached for the books.

            “What’s your name?”

            “Rex.”

            “Okay.”

            And he wrote To Rex, thanks for the support, Will Eisner, in the first book. This apparently is a big no-no in collector’s circles. Apart from the fact that the people who owned the books probably weren’t named Rex, having someone else’s name in the inscription, rather than the naked autograph, lowered the value of the books.  It was now worth only a little more, rather than kinda more, of the standard resale value. Don bitched at me about this later, but what was I supposed to do? Tell Eisner not to personalize it because that would screw up my plans to make quick buck off of him later?What’s your name? Ebay!

             Then he reached Volume 19 of the collected Spirit and his eyebrows raised in interest. He picked up the hardback and examined it carefully.

            “I haven’t seen one of these yet,” He looked at me and winked, “I bet you’ve got them all don’t you.”

            “Absolutely.” I lied.  

            He looked at the price. “Fifty dollars? You know when they were putting these together and they told me how much they were charging, I couldn’t believe it. I said to them, ‘What kind of idiot would pay that much for this?’”

            Then he stopped and looked a little sheepish, remembering that I had just claimed to own all of them, which if I had would’ve totaled close to $1000. I reflected that if I had actually bought this stuff I would probably be pretty insulted right then. Should I fake outrage? No, it was just one of those things. It really was a pleasure to meet him. It was an even greater pleasure to see that he wasn't a complete egotisitcal prick, like several other of my writing "heroes" had turned out to be.
              I shook his hand and left.