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Delapore. A name with a history. A history of unspeakable atrocity; a history of black arts; a history of hatred, and terror.
Delapore. It’s just a name, now. In this case, it is the name of a man returning to England to reclaim the lands of his family. The name of a man who knows the skeletons in his family’s closet — or so he thinks.
Delapore. Surely it is possible to outlive the past. Surely it is possible to outrun one’s ancestors, to outrun history — to outrun fate. Surely a man’s destiny lies in his own hands, and not in the misdeeds of men a hundred generations dead.
Beware, England. The last Delapore has come home.
Featuring the voice of Harlan Ellison as Delapore. Also appearing are Berl Boykin, Thomas E Fuller, Bill Jackson, Joyce Leigh, Brad Linaweaver, Lee Millman, and Brad Strickland.
Adapted by Brad Strickland. Produced and soundscaped by Henry Howard. Foley effects by Daniel Taylor. Directed by Thomas E Fuller.
Recorded live on stage at Georgia Fantasy Con in 1990. In addition to Delapore, Mr. Ellison also portrayed one of the shepherds… and the cat.
| Weight | 3.60 oz |
|---|---|
| Dimensions | 7.50 × 5.25 × .50 in |
| Audio Type | CD, Digital Download |
| Written By | |
| Adapted By | Brad Strickland |
| Featuring | Berl Boykin, Brad Linaweaver, Brad Strickland, Harlan Ellison, Joyce Leigh, Lee Millman, Thomas E. Fuller, William Colquitt |
| Length | 46 mins |
| Release Date | 2007-08-30 |
Ah, the sweet, sweet singing of the whip-poor-wills. Surely one of the most innocent, purest birdsongs one can know, plaintive and perfect in the clean morning light.
Unless, of course, you happen to live near the decayed New England village of Dunwich. Unless, of course, you have seen the mad fires blazing from the ancient stone circles atop Sentinel Mountain. Unless, of course, you remember the horrible events of seventy years ago and happen to be familiar with the name “Whately.”
Then the singing of whip-poor-wills isn’t so sweet and their patient waiting anything but innocent…
“How’d yew like to be livin’ in a town like this here Innsmouth, with everything a-rottin’ an’ dyin’ an’ boarded up! Things crawlin’ an’ bleatin’ an’ barkin’ an’ hoppin’ around black cellars an’ high attics every way ye turn? Hey? How’d yew like to hear the howlin’ night after night from the Esoteric Order o’ Dagon hall an’ know what unholy things is doin’ part of the howlin? Yew think this old man’s crazy? Well, sir, let me tell yew that ain’t the worst! That ain’t the worst! That ain’t the worst!”
There is something wrong in the decayed seacoast town of Innsmouth. Something wrong in the crumbling buildings. Something wrong in the cold deep waters.
Something wrong in the blood.
The “blasted heath” they called it. Five acres of grey desolation, like a sore eaten into the land.
West of Arkham, the hills rise wild. There are dark little glens where the trees hang precariously, and where thin brooklets trickle, never having been touched by sunlight. There was once a road over the hills and through the valley, but people ceased to use it. The old folk have died or gone away, and the farms and villages are slowly decaying back into dark woods and narrow clearings.
A family died up there. Of a poisoned well…
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