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flourescineThe New York Times, September 14, 1914. Lemme get this straight: Upon the injection of this Lovecraftian substance into a freshly dead person, his or her eyes turn into “superb emeralds, set like jewels in their sockets,” and then it turns out no funeral is necessary after all. Could this “Icard” (transparent anagram for “I, Drac”) be any more brazen in his campaign to take over Marseilles with his private army of the undead?

Still, it would all make a great ad for the glossies. You’ve got this Lionel Atwill-type in a white lab coat brandishing a big hypodermic, see? He’s shooting the goo into the pallid arm of a young lovely whose charms are barely covered by her winding sheet. Her wide-open eyes are superb green emeralds, and nicely set off by the stainless steel mortuary table upon which she reposes, whose outline is isometric to the fireplug shape of the bottle containing your client’s naphtha-like beverage.


  1. You just name-dropped Lionel Atwill. You officially cannot get any cooler.

    • Thanks, I had no idea the upgrade was so simple. Any equivalent magic in the names of J. Carroll Naish or Rondo Hatton?

  2. in the good old days they would whack the genitals, or piss in the mouth of the corpse to see if it was really dead

    • Now who’s “they” here? Was this a separate profession, or a side gig for barber-surgeons?

  3. would have been the people responsible formaking sure the bodies were actually dead. pissing in the mouth was done in extreme cases. it’s all documented in “buried alive” by jan bondeson

    • I will check that shit out, thanks.

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