Tomb of Darkness #13.

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When I think of Code-approved horror in monthly slices, I always think of DC and Charlton.

Marvel was for super-heroes. Even their big horror titles, like Dracula, Frankenstein and Werewolf by Night, were super-hero yarns in everything but name.

But even the House of Ideas sometimes dipped its toes in the waters of full-colour anthologised horror, and Tomb of Darkness was one of those bouts of splishing.

As far as I know, #13 was the only issue of this mag my younger self ever owned. So - reacquainted with it - when I open it, what do I get? Will 13 be lucky for some?

First, there's The Man in the Tomb. The town's most exclusive masonic lodge has a problem when the local gangland big cheese shows up and demands it let him join, so he can impress his girlfriend with how classy he is.

As the lodge's initiation ceremony involves convincing new recruits they're about to be decapitated, I'm not sure membership of it really suggests classiness.

Nonetheless, undeterred, he's determined to join and, having the sense not to threaten to behead a man who's holding a gun, the members, instead, lock him in a local tomb, telling him he can free himself, with a key, any time he wants to but he has to stay overnight if he's to complete his initiation.

Their genius ploy is that, while he's entombed, they can flee to another part of town where he'll never find them and they'll be rid of him.

Unfortunately, in his escape attempt, the gormless gangster manages to drop the key and now has no way out. With the lodge having fled to another part of town, there's no one to liberate him, and his doom is surely set.

Next, Alone sees a famous actor become so fed-up of constant adulation that he wishes he could be left alone.

For no good reason, his wish is granted and he, indeed, finds himself alone in a world in which he's unable to see, hear or touch the people he knows must be there.

This is an odd one. Clearly, we're supposed to see him as a jerk who deserves everything he gets but, in truth, he comes across as suffering from a massive dose of social anxiety; and needing professional help, rather than salutary lessons.

Third, Stop the Presses delivers us a journalist who endures as much bullying from his editor as he can before he murders the man.

But not until after he's written up the story for his newspaper.

Finally, the comic delivers The Gal Who Talked Too Much. A long-suffering husband, whose wife never shuts up, agrees to slip her a Mickey Finn, so she can be entombed, alive, in a time capsule, for future generations to know what a human being was like.

Sadly, for the husband, it turns out the scientist who arranged that also arranged for her to drug him, and now he's trapped in the time capsule, for the rest of his life with, his nagging wife.

How terrifying are these tales?

Not muchly.

Even by the standards of 1970s horror comics, they're mild, being reprints from the 1950s when restrictions on mainstream comics were even more stringent than they were twenty years later. These are definitely tales for the very faintest of hearts.

And, unlike those DC and Charlton books, there's no host to tie the stories together, giving a sense of half-heartedness to the venture that contrasts with the more involved efforts of those other two publishers.

Egads, there's not even a letters page!

The longevity of many of DC and Charlton's books - and the sheer quantity of titles - would suggest there was a healthy market for such things. So, why Marvel lacked the will to seriously pursue it is anyone's guess.