The Year's Best Horror Stories, Series IX

The Year's Best Horror Stories, Series IX

Language: English

Pages: 131

ISBN: B000GRLJG6

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Introduction by Karl Edward Wagner
The Monkey by Stephen King
The Gap by Ramsey Campbell
The Cats of Pere LaChaise by Neil Olonoff
The Proper Bequest by Basil A. Smith
On Call by Dennis Etchison
The Catacomb by Peter Shilston
Black Man with a Horn by T.E.D. Kline
The King by William Relling, Jr.
Footsteps by Harlan Ellison
Without Rhyme or Reason by Peter Valentine Timlett

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Faery Worlds Boxed Set

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Nebula Awards Showcase 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

heavy. “What’s down here, Daddy?” Petey asked. Hal didn’t answer. He set down the flight bag. “Don’t touch that,” he said, and Petey backed away from it. Hal felt in his pocket for the ring of keys Bill had given him and found one neatly labeled B’HOUSE on a scrap of adhesive tape. The day was clear and cold, windy, the sky a brilliant blue. The leaves of the trees that crowded up to the verge of the lake had gone every bright fall shade from blood red to sneering yellow. They rattled and

of ice, soon a jagged line of green. I found myself giving the man my sister’s address—Indian Creek was just outside Miami, where he’d be staying—and immediately regretted doing so. What did I know of him, after all? He told me his name was Ambrose Mortimer. “It means ‘Dead Sea,’ ” he said. “From the Crusades.” When I persisted in bringing up the subject of the mission, he waved me off. “I can’t call myself a missionary anymore,” he said. “Yesterday, when I left the country, I gave up that

Hal’s chest He could feel her perplexed silence for a moment, and then she went. Hal looked at his son again. “I’m sorry I badmouthed you, Dad,” Dennis said reluctantly. “When we get home next week, I’m going to wait two or three days and then I’m going to go through all your drawers, Dennis. If there’s something in them you don’t want me to see, you better get rid of it.” That flash of guilt again. Dennis lowered his eyes and wiped away snot with the back of his hand. “Can I go now?” He

last thirty years: Jungle Ways, by that old humbug, William Seabrook. I’d met him back in the twenties and had found him likable enough, if rather untrustworthy. His book described dozens of unlikely characters, including “a cannibal chief who had got himself jailed and famous because he had eaten his young wife, a handsome, lazy wench called Blito, along with a dozen of her girl friends,” but I discovered no mention of a black horn-player. I had just finished my coffee when the phone rang

looked through every book I could find with “Malaya” in its title. I read about rainbow gods and phallic altars and something called “the tatai,” a sort of unwanted companion; I came across wedding rites and The Death of Thorns and a certain cave inhabited by millions of snails. But I found no mention of the Tcho-Tcho, and nothing on their gods. This in itself was surprising. We are living in a day when there are no more secrets, when my twelve-year-old nephew can buy his own grimoire and books

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