Like any boy my age, I read comic books. The usual. The Amazing Spiderman. Batman. The Fantastic Four. I also loved horror comics. The Witching Hour. The House of Mystery. Or the pricier, Eerie, Creepy magazines.
My comic book purchases were not based on price, outside the magazines, but availability of past issues and the frequency in my visits to the local convenience store. It’s frustrating trying to read The Amazing Spiderman, issue 93 if I hadn’t read the previous issue. The Witching Hour had stand-alone stories, reading continuity was not essential. Now if you were a collector, you go to the newsstand. That required a concerted effort on my part and bus ride downtown. It wasn’t going to happen.
I, like any kids my age, had a newspaper route. I wore a canvas poncho with large pockets in the front and back for carrying newspapers. If you had a larger route, a cart was needed to tote your deliveries through the neighborhood. I delivered for the Indianapolis News, so, I was off on Sundays. Wednesday deliveries were a bear. The papers were stuffed with the shopping circulars. The Wednesday paper was HEAVY, weight comparable to the Sunday edition of the Indianapolis Star. The newspaper editions, in Indianapolis, were confusing to the casual observer. The Star was the morning edition, The Indianapolis News, the evening edition.
Newspaper delivery required that I perform two roles: deliverer and bill collector. I had to collect payment for the week, deliver the subscription payment to my boss, who then paid me. Did I mention, I was also a salesman as well? I was. The money I made was dependent on the number of subscriptions in my neighborhood. It behooved me to generate more customers to increase my income.
What does any of this have to do with comic books? After I deposited the profits from my route into my Squirrel’s Club savings account, I had money to spend at the local convenience store. Comic books were economical in the 1970s, one quarter. One dollar would net you several comic books, trading cards, and candy. Comic books are so much more expensive today, where a single issue costs $4-5.
Summer was magical for me. We had a large tent that us kids assembled in the back yard. I’d invite friends over to camp out, read comic books and eat mustard-bologna sandwiches, with onions.
The stories were scary, downright violent. You may have read about the horror comics ban in the 1950s, out of concern over juvenile delinquency. Funny how that pops up from time to time. Remember how Tipper Gore railed against explicit lyrics in the 1990s? Anyway, the Comics Code Authority was the death knell for Tales from the Crypt, The Vault of Horror, and other EC comics. Some horror comics survived the ban under Marvel or DC banner. The late 1960s, early 70s also saw their resurgence with many new offerings, Tomb of Dracula, Werewolf by Night, and The Witching Hour, the latter, the only one of the three that was an anthology. And there was the horror comic magazine Eerie and Creepy in the 1960s and 70s, a product of Warren Publications, publisher of Mad magazine.
I remember how much I loved the stories contained within the pages of the comic books or magazines. The most gonzo story I ever read was about a couch that ate people. What a story! And the story about an emerald lizard a man gave to his wife, who in a fit of rage threw it into a fire. The jeweled reptile turned into a giant lizard that ate the husband and wife. Wow, great story.
As it goes, I grew up and out of reading comic books. At least that’s until you reach a certain age, and nostalgia seeps back into your bones. I’ve search for these old, discontinued comics and magazine. I’ve found several on Kindle, Eerie, Creepy, and Tomb of Dracula. Isn’t the internet wonderful. The rights to EC Comics were acquired by a publisher and you can now buy compendiums of the various comics including Tales from the Crypt. I have been working my way through several volumes of this and other EC Comics.
However, The Witching Hour eludes me. I’ve bought a few issues at comics conventions. What I want is a compendium of all the past issues. I keep looking. I keep hoping. A chance to relive a happy time in my childhood, camped out in a tent in the backyard, flashlight in hand, reading a horror story and scaring the crap out of myself.
Until next time, dear readers.