The Best New Horror 6
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The Best New Horror has established itself as the world's premier annual, showcasing the talents of the very best writers working in the horror and dark fantasy field today. In this latest volume, the multi-award winning editor has chosen razor-sharp stories of suspense and disturbing tales of terror by writers on the cutting edge of the genre. Along with a comprehensive review of the year and a fascinating necrology, this is the book no horror fan can afford to miss.
clothes, trailing my hair away from my face. “The horsemen passed me, cold shadows washing across my face. “ ‘Greaser ain’t kilt,’ one said. “ ‘I allus has to finish your leavin’s,’ another replied, voice close. “A man knelt over me, face upside-down over mine. The glow on his skin was so bright I couldn’t make out his features. A shining blade passed below my chin, cutting. I choked blood out through the hole in my neck. “ ‘A clean job, Hendrik,’ the rifleman said. ‘Crick’ll bleed him dry
Commandments, Tarzan’s Fight for Life, Spartacus, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Tarzan’s Three Challenges, Kingdom of the Spiders and Ravagers. British leading man Sebastian Shaw died in December, aged 89. A child actor on the stage since 1913, his film credits include The Squeaker, A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1968) and It Happened Here, in which Britain is conquered by the Nazis during the Second World War. Shaw’s co-star in It Happened Here, Pauline Murray, also died in December.
said. And: “You must have realised I wasn’t happy.” I said dully: “Who is this fucker?” “It’s David Alexander.” “Who?” “David Alexander. For God’s sake, China, you make everything so hard! At the clinic. David Alexander.” I had no idea who she was talking about. Then I remembered. “Christ,” I said. “He’s just some fucking customer.” She went out. I heard the bedroom door slam. I stared at the books on the bookshelves, the pictures on the walls, the carpet dusty gold in the pale afternoon
breakfast. Scrambled eggs, country ham, red-eye gravy, grits. If you don’t want grits, why’d you order breakfast, as the saying goes. There were Niane and Navonna, somewhat red-eyed as well. Dr Ashford and Dr Greenfeld, both looking cheerful. Niane hadn’t realized that Dr Greenfeld was a psychiatrist until several days after her dimly remembered overdose. The coffee was good. It smelled like Navonna. There were about a dozen others in the group, some of whom had brought along spouses or
afternoon there were five or six stages erected in the Piazza San Marco for their performances and convoluted orations, in which they praised the virtues of their peculiar instruments, powders, elixirs and other concoctions. Venice tolerated these madmen, in Dr Stein’s opinion, because the miasma of the nearby marshes befuddled the minds of her citizens, who besides were the most vain people he had ever met, eager to believe any promise of enhanced beauty and longer life. Unlike the other