We owe 1902s The Hound of the Baskervilles to Arthur Conan Doyles good friend Fletcher Bobbles Robinson, who took him to visit some scary English moors and prehistoric ruins, and told him marvelous local legends about escaped prisoners and a 17th-century aristocrat who fell afoul of the family dog. Doyle transmogrified the legend: generations ago, a hound of hell tore out the throat of devilish Hugo Baskerville on the moonlit moor. Poor, accursed Baskerville Hall now has another mysterious death: that of Sir Charles Baskerville. Could the culprit somehow be mixed up with secretive servant Barrymore, history-obsessed Dr. Frankland, butterfly-chasing Stapleton, or Selden, the Notting Hill murderer at large? Someones been signaling with candles from the mansions windows. Nor can supernatural forces be ruled out. Can Dr. Watson--left alone by Sherlock Holmes to sleuth in fear for much of the novel--save the next Baskerville, Sir Henry, from the hounds fangs? Many Holmes fans prefer Doyles complete short stories, but their clockwork logic doesnt match the authors boast about this novel: its a real Creeper! What distinguishes this particular Hound is its fulfillment of Doyles great debt to Edgar Allan Poe--its full of ancient woe, low moans, a Grimpen Mire that sucks ponies to Dostoyevskian deaths, and locals digging up Neolithic skulls without next-of-kins consent. The longer one stays here the more does the spirit of the moor sink into ones soul, Watson realizes. Rank reeds and lush, slimy water-plants sent an odour of decay ... while a false step plunged us more than once thigh-deep into the dark, quivering mire, which shook for yards in soft undulations around our feet ... it was as if some malignant hand was tugging us down into those obscene depths. Read on--but, reader, watch your step!