Twelfth Pan Book Of Horror
Herbert Van Thal
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The 12th installment in the Brit Pulp classic Horror short story series.
chest. Wetherby nodded. 'Oh, that. Yes, I remember.' 'We had a contest once.' 'You beat me.' 'Yes. It's not a game I lose. But it took seven minutes by the stop watch before I put your arm down, and I gained a great respect for you, John. I put Grant down in five minutes, by the way. Can you still hold your own?' Byron placed his elbow on the table; he looked expectant, almost hopeful. But Wetherby laughed and shook his head, and Byron sighed. 'You look fit enough.' 'I'm all right,'
Justin Bell underwent agonies of indecision, not knowing whether to concentrate his search on man or beast, and beleaguered by dark concepts he hadn't known lurked in his mind - unspoken and vague primordial fears that had been carried through the aeons since man's ancestors crawled out of the slime and began their ascent. He told himself that it was an anamorphosis, a deformed figure which would appear in proporti- on if only he could view it correctly, but at the same time he feared it was
would take them, one or two plums flipping out from overstuffed shirt-fronts. They all turned around at the corner, success in a mission accomplished overco- ming alarm, and laughed merrily at the ridiculous, spectacled face in the floppy hat peering angrily over the wall at them. One little chap of about eight or nine almost put his fingers to his nose in an obscene gesture, but apparently thought better of it and contented himself with a high 'Ha! Ha!' before picking up his heels and taking
back into her white, weatherboard ho- me, there to make certain arrangements. And a sly, secretive smile flickered on her thin face. 10: Martin Ricketts - The Nursery Club When I first arrived at Brandon House I had the strange impression that I was entering so- me sort of prison. The tall, spiked metal gates at the end of the long drive, the large wooden shutters on the windows, and the forbidding sturdiness of the house itself all combined to ma-ke me feel somewhat uneasy. The morning was,
reaching her room, she unwrapped the shoes and examined them. The satin felt cool and slick to her nervous hands, and the ribbons twined about her wrists. Ordinary ballet slip- pers - again and again she tried to convince herself of their normality, but each time she failed miserably. In sudden eagerness to try them on, she kicked her highly serviceable walking shoes across the room, and was ready to thrust her foot into one of the satin slippers when the telephone jangled loudly. Wrong