“Mannikins of Horror” (Weird Tales, December 1939)

Bloch, Robert. “Mannikins of Horror.” Weird Tales, December 1939, pp. 71-78.
archive.org/details/Weird_Tales_v34n06_1939-12/page/n71/mode/2up

Edgar Colin, an esteemed surgeon, served at the Red Cross base in Ypres during The Great War. He returned home without a scratch on him but was completely broken mentally. He resides at an asylum under the care of Dr. Starr, a younger and, in Colin’s estimation, far inferior doctor than himself. To pass the time, Colin uses clay and his expertise on human anatomy to craft little models of humans. As his skill grows, he becomes more and more committed to creating anatomically perfect clay figures that are complete with organs and other internal structures. In private, Colin begins to think of himself as a creator, as a God. He even begins to see his creations moving on their own. Eventually, they begin to speak to him. By this point, Colin has discovered that to animate the clay figures he has had to put some of himself in them, cognitive powers once transferred, cannot return to him. He feels himself weakening. Colin’s behavior has gotten the attention of Dr. Starr whose patience runs out. He tells Colin that he will be removing all clay and sculpting tools from Colin the following morning. Alarmed and desperate, Colin pours his vision and ability to walk into a clay figure to attack Starr before the morning comes. The plan is thwarted. The only remaining option is to pour himself entirely into a clay figure. He finds Starr, kills him, and, in the ensuing tumult, the animated clay figure—along with Colin’s consciousness—is crushed and killed.

This is one of those stories that stands out. Bloch himself often remarked on the uneven quality of his early work, and it shows. But then a story like this one comes along and it makes me smile. This one just sparkles.
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I am struck by the depiction of Dr. Colin here and his commitment to his art. It reminds me of the photographer in “The Sorcerer’s Jewel” who became dissatisfied with mere photography because it consistently showed him only what was right there in front of him. He pushed for deeper and deeper secrets and was torn apart in a different dimension for his curiosity. Colin, too, had that ambition, the drive that pushed him past what might have been a healthy coping device—a hobby such as sculpture (or photography)—into the realm of the bizarre and destructive. His delusions of power overcame him: “He might have created a race. A new race. A race that bred. A race that was developed to aid him. A hundred tiny figures, hands trained, teeth filed, could saw through his bars. A hundred tiny figures to attack the guards, to free him. Then out into the world with an army of clay; a tiny army, but one that could burrow deeply in the earth, travel hidden and unseen into high places. Perhaps, someday, a world of little clay men, trained by him. Men that didn’t fight stupid wars to drive their fellows mad. Men without the brutal emotions of savages, the hungers and lusts of beasts. Wipe out flesh! Substitute godly clay!” (75) 

This quote and Colin’s (somewhat) irrational lust for power remind me of “Queen of the Metal Men” and other stories that Bloch might have been aware of at the time. In the long arc of zombie movie evolution, for example, 1939 was an era where zombies, the blank slates of horror, represented the despot’s ability to raise an army of zealots, mindless killing machines not unlike any number of national militaries that seemed to kill without conscience. I wrote this in an old article of mine: “But after the shock of seeing a single dead person stumble around in the shadows seemed to wear off, the stakes had to be raised.  When the image of a single lethargic zombie became not particularly frightening, why not put a solitary madman in control of an army of the undead?  That innovation was enough to sustain a few more years of film horror.  Racism and class conflict were the themes of films such as White Zombie (1932), Revolt of the Zombies (1936), and Voodoo Man (1944) wherein a master, always a white man, usually Bela Lugosi, would enslave a group of undead and either force them to work, typically in third-world settings, to enrich the master or force them to fight in a new and terrifying kind of army.  World events such as the rise of Fascism in Europe and global economic depression and the fear engendered by them contributed to the success these films had.  In White Zombie, Lugosi's character, the aptly named Murder Legendre, uses Voodoo to populate his sugar refinery.  When a local landowner falls in love with a woman who reviles him, Lugosi uses Voodoo to turn her into a zombie so that she would no longer hate the man.  In Revolt of the Zombies, dead soldiers were raised so they could fight again.  Voodoo Man had Lugosi (again) as a heartbroken husband (again) enslaving a group of young and beautiful women in order to harvest their life energy to keep his dying wife alive.  The portrayal of zombies in these early films was distinct and consistent, for the most part.  They were mindless automatons completely under the control of a master.  There were intimations that some kind of voodoo or secret tribal ritual was involved but at this time, simply showing a dead person alive again and under the control of a madman was enough to scare the heebies out of most early audiences.  The zombies shambled and stumbled, looking more dead than alive, but were always good for a fright for these mid-20th century audiences.” (Gillard “Enter”)
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The best stories make me think about all kinds of things. I put Mannikins of Horror into the “best” pile. And I didn’t even talk about Bloch’s 1972 adaptation of this story for Asylum. I’ll get to that when I talk about another story that he adapted for that anthology movie.