William Seabrook–a hard man to introduce. A cannibal and explorer, a drunkard and a fetishist. A dabbler in occultism, and in surrealism too, though always on the outskirts. Never quite “whole hog”. A kind of liminal figure, I suppose. His most significant claim to fame, at least to the broader world, is his introduction of the term “zombie” to English speakers through his 1929 book, “The Magic Island.” This paved the way for films like “White Zombie” and countless other portrayals in popular culture. He palled around with the surrealists is Paris too, collaborating on numerous bondage-themed photo series with May Ray and Lee Miller, and contributing to the magazines VVV and Documents. Perhaps most intriguing for us, as surrealists and Atlanteans, is that he once lived on a farm just minutes away from us in Atlanta. I’d learned this while reading Lawrence Sutin’s autobiography of Crowley, and was absolutely tickled that the Crowley-Atlanta connection was on the surface of it just so seemingly frivolous, and so odd, even for weird old Aleister. You see, it turns out Seabrook had once invited Crowley to spend a summer with him here, and in between bouts of drunkenness and sex magic, they’d also spent one very strange week playing a peculiar sort of experiment–a game of WOW. The details of this episode are reproduced in Seabrook’s words below:

One following summer — it was about 1920 — I invited A. C. to spend July and August with me on a farm near Atlanta. We got to talking one night about the Trappist monks, about their vows of silence, etc., and he suggested that we try an interesting variant. He proposed that for a week we limit all verbal communication and all conversation to one prearranged monosyllable. We experimented with several, tried various animal monosyllables, including urr, woof, moo, baa, and finally decided upon wow.

We stuck to this for the whole week. Katie was amused and tolerant, visitors wondered whether we’d gone crazy, while Shep and Vonie, our two Negro servants, were convinced we’d either joined or were founding a branch of some new religion. We learned in the first couple of days, or believed we did, a good deal about the manner in which animals communicate with one another. We were both surprised how much, by mere change in intonation, volume, etc., we could communicate. After we’d become pretty good, or thought we had, in “Pass the butter,” “I don’t care for any more,” “Would you like to take a walk?” “That’s a pretty girl!” “It’s a fine morning,” “Yes,” “No,” “Maybe,” “I like it,” “I don’t like it,” “The hell with it,” “Isn’t it wonderful? ” and elementary things of that sort — it chanced that one night Shep brought me a gallon of moonshine corn.

A. C. and I sat up that night, drank most of it, and held a long, deep, philosophic conversation, in terms of wow, until the small hours, when Katie finally made us shut up and go to bed. She still insists that we simply got drunk and sat and barked at each other all night, but A. C. and I felt the talk had been profound and illuminating.

Between this story and the surrealist connections, I found myself utterly caught in Seabrook’s web. I scoured the historical archives, looking for clues to the location of the house. I checked census records, old maps, and newspapers. I contacted Seabrook’s living son, and even his biographer. I managed to narrow down the road, and then, a possible location for the house. Though no smoking gun ever arrived, as far as the exact point. It had been along North Decatur Rd, of that much I was fully certain from the census records. Having reached the limits of rational research methods, I knew surrational research methods were now called for…

AT THE PUB

We sit in the Irish pub on the corner of Medlock and North Decatur Rd. Thinking of Crowley, thinking of Seabrook. We drink, and play surrealist folding games. Looking to goddess chance for clues.

THE FIRST HINT OF GODDESS CHANCE
red star like coal / the wind has swept the stairway / 17 snakes bear witness

THE SECOND HINT OF GODDESS CHANCE
a dome in the dark/ flesh sheep cast to dust / let it wilt. exhale!

I contemplate these strange truths while staring deeply into that bright glowing pint bubbling piss-yellow before me. I meditate upon the Holy WOW, and then, I sigilize…

WOW, MOM, WOW.
WHAT BIG BEAST YOU RIDE!

I cook up a batch of stickers with this symbol on it, planning vaguely to place them along the entire stretch of North Decatur Rd…

THE WALKING GAME

We decide finally to play a walking game in the area, to hunt for that Holy Wow along Seabrook’s North Decatur Rd. So we ask a non-corporeal friend for some key things to look out for. Our non-corporeal friend suggests the following clues:

Things to look out for:
– Dogs that sound weird.
– Red birds.
– Signs that make sentences.

Research Hints:
– Rose of fire
– Penguins

We consult our map, and decide to start the game at the corner of North Decatur and Clairmont. We leave our car at a shopping center there, and, worried about getting booted, we decide to drop in a store and give the illusion to any watching camera eyes that we park here for entirely wholesome, above-board reasons. Most stores are closed at this time of day, but there is one, a bird supply store, which is open. Its logo? A red cardinal–our first hit.

Having purchased a perfunctory owl-shaped seed and nut ball with apricot eyes, we start on our way. I place my very first WOW sticker on a silver pole at the intersection. And then, I place another. And another. Crows fly by and caw at us, heralding the start of our journey. A red fire truck howls past too, galloping down the hill wildly. Strange dogs, of a sort?

We come across a black glove, and I am immediately reminded of Man Ray’s bdsm-tinged photo collaborations with William Seabrook. A few paces from the glove, we also spy a dark object wrapped in a plastic, wearing that plastic over itself like a mask. Another hit–Seabrook’s photo famously reproduced in Bataille’s Documents magazine, a token of his African journeys which he’d sent to Michel Leiris, for his essay “Le caput mortuum ou la femme de l’alchimiste.”

Past this point we reach a bridge, next to which a bicycle has been placed. This bicycle has been painted white, and a red rose sticks out of it. A strangely poetic memorial, for an unlucky cyclist who died here. And then? A few houses later, and we see a large halloween tableau. Multiple skeletons (or should we say zombies?) digging themselves up from the ground. And for some unknown reason, donning swimsuits. Going swimming? In a sea, in a brook?

We arrive near the area I had marked out as the most likely position of the Seabrook Farm–the corner of Medlock and North Decatur. When last I’d scoped out this area, a psychic fortune teller had occupied a house here. Now it was entirely gone, seemingly disappeared into the ether. Had I imagined it? Perhaps. We spy a crushed Pabst Blue Ribbon can, and then turn left at an Irish pub. Signs of Seabrook’s alcoholism, leading our way. A red metal rooster sits at the corner too; more red birds to egg us both on. Getting closer now? Yes, I can certainly feel it. I spot a truck parked behind the pub, covered with a collection of horror-themed bumper stickers—references to Hammer horror films, various incarnations of zombies, and the Atlanta-based Silver Scream Spook Show. …clear echoes of Seabrook’s zombie legacy, right here at the (most likely) doorstep of his Atlanta farm. Soon, we turn down a neighborhood side-street where my best-guess location is for the lost Seabrook farmhouse. A feeling of discomfort washes over us. A dog approaches in the hazy distance, barking weirdly. We’ve arrived now, haven’t we? And now? Best we depart…

THE PARK

Our non-corporeal friend has offered one more intriguing suggestion: overlay the WOW sigil I created onto a map of the area. The points where the circles hit might reveal additional points of interest to Seabrook, they say. Three of the circles point to seemingly unremarkable neighborhoods, so I decide to pass over them, but the fourth is placed right in the middle of a certain “Ira B. Melton Park”. Bingo.

So we drive there, and we begin our walk. A somewhat slow beginning. We recite poems to the spiders, marvel at oversized mushrooms, and admire the rib-like trees lining a creek bed. We pass a massive bridge across a river surrounded by overgrown vegetation, and think of post-apocalyptic fiction.

As we pass through an unexpectedly magical stretch of undergrowth, everything suddenly shifts. The trees all seem caught in a strange, hazy glow. Our minds seem caught, too. Prompted perhaps by this new environment, Hazel recalls two dreams from the previous night. In the first, they were behind the wheel of a car, and they were having trouble pressing their foot on the brake pedal to stop and were afraid they would crash. They realized an old woman was in the car and she reminded Hazel of one of their friends and thought it must be his mother. Hazel awoke into another layer of dream and realized the car and old woman had been a dream. They met their friend, and he had his mother with him. It had been a premonition dream within a dream. In the next dream, there was an ambulance driver who had died, killed by something unnatural that came from nowhere and couldn’t be seen but had devastating effects on the body, even partially melting it. As Hazel reached the end of these accounts, and we were crossing over a stone walkway over a creek, I was struck by the eerie connections between these dreams and an event in William Seabrook’s life. In this incident, Seabrook had recounted his time as a WWI ambulance driver, describing a day when he was suddenly overwhelmed by an insistent premonition of his own death by shelling. He had penned a long, solemn letter to his wife, mailed it, and set off on what he believed would be his final ride. And then…nothing at all had happened. He had been quite struck by the firm, unwavering truthfulness that this premonition had announced itself for him, and wondered curiously at its complete non-fulfilment. Much as I wonder curiously at these connections, now. What does it all mean, if anything? The answer lies beyond logic, or at least, beyond human logic.

New marvels await us across the creek. We pass building after desolate building, each rotting and graffiti-covered, each a haunting beauty. The site of an old water treatment plant, it seems. Built in 1907, undoubtedly supplying water to Seabrook and Crowley. No doubt. A large, circular pool lies hidden in the forest here, its surface still and muckish. We walk around it, tracing the boundaries of the enchanted circle. As we explore, I notice something green peeking through the leaves on the ground. I brush them away with my feet, and–low and behold–two zombies! William Seabrook would be proud.

We finish our explorations and head back towards the entrance. On the way, a child’s doll hanging in a tree catches our eye. A Haitian vodou doll, perhaps, like in Seabrook’s “The Magic Island”? And then, right before the exit we stumble upon three fairy shrines. Tiny creatures, beckoning us to the invisible realm. We leave an offering of a small stone mushroom. Their call is seductive, and, like Seabrook and Crowley before us, we are sorely tempted to follow. Perhaps, one day we will…