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Monsters of L.A. by Lisa Morton (Bad Moon Books) covers the array of horror tropes Free Press and edited by Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles. Its another sparkling gem in the crown of this king of comedy that takes it place alongside of "The Grocery Clerk" and the host host of other high-class.


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Bergmann, Martin Willitts, Jr. Wick, and Oliver Hunter continued to publish excellent dark poetry. Brackett Robertson, and Sarah Colona. Addison Necon E-Books is an enjoyable mix of thirty-five pieces of poetry and prose, some of it new, most of it horror. With excellent illustrations by the poet. Blood Wallah and other poems by Robert Borski Dark Regions Press has forty-three poems, mostly horror, fifteen published for the first time. The Vampire Bridegroom by Chad Helder Dark Scribe has fifty poems, mostly new about vampires and other monsters, including a few human ones.

Vamps A Retrospective by James S. The first section probes the founding of the Society of Psychical Research in by a small group of scientists, scholars, and politicians. The third section is devoted to exploring contemporary attempts to impose immortality on humankind.

Tracking the Chupacabra by Benjamin Radford University of New Mexico is an objective investigation in the existence of this recent addition to cryptozoology. Joshi Greenwood covers books, movies, television, folklore, and world mythology and is aimed at the library rather than the trade market. Lovecraft edited by S. Joshi Hippocampus Press includes obituaries by his friends; analyses and discussion of his work in the letter columns of Weird Tales and Astounding Stories; criticism from the fan world of the s and s; and more.

Lovecraft: Letters to James F. Morton edited by David E. Schultz and S. Joshi Hippocampus Press contains a series of letters between Morton and Lovecraft written over a period of ten years, despite an inauspicious beginning. Morton wrote a critical article responding to a Lovecraft rant about race. Lovecraft edited by David E. Joshi Hippocampus Press is an update of the edition of thirteen essays and a biographical introduction by S. The volume contains several essays never before published. Joshi, and David E.

Schultz Hippocampus Press is an annotated bibliography of this important small press, which specializes in publishing material by or about H. Lovecraft and his colleagues. Miller University of Texas Press is the first major exploration of the horror movies made since the Twin Towers fell.

At that time a number of cultural pundits asserted that horror as a genre was dead. Of course this was completely wrong-headed, as the explosion of horror movies continues into the second decades of the twenty-first century. Films covered are the Twilight Saga, the Saw series, remakes of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre , and big budget remakes of classic horror movies. Cohen and director Brian De Palma.

Aisenberg provides in-depth analysis on a scene-by-scene basis. This is a fascinating and very readable book for fans of Carrie and lovers of film. Reflections in a Glass Darkly: Essays on J. Nine essays are printed for the first time. Contributors include M. James, V. Pritchett, Jack Sullivan, John Langan, and many others.

Tibbetts Palgrave Macmillan presents interviews with S. Joshi, T. Drezner Princeton University Press is a quirky and entertaining look at how well-known theories from international relations might be applied to a war with zombies. Two new notable chapbook series started up in and First, Nicholas Royle began publishing stories under the Nightjar Press imprint. In the first year of publication he brought out an award-winning story by Michael Marshall Smith taken for my best of the year.

During four chapbooks were published. And in he published another four: Field by Tom Fletcher is a brief tale about a tight-assed forest warden and his assistant investigating a complaint of trespassing. Sullom Hill by Christopher Kenworthy is a depressing but effective story about three boys: the narrator, his mentally slow friend, and a nasty little tuff.

Remains by GA Pickin is about a young man who loses his way on the moor enroute to meeting friends at a holiday cottage. Simon Marshall-Jones started Spectral Press in with four chapbooks: Abolisher of Roses by Gary Fry, is about an obnoxious businessman who gets his comeuppance during a walk through several art installations in the woods. What They Hear in the Dark by Gary McMahon is a tense and powerful tale about a couple whose child has been murdered by three boys and how each parent deals with the anger, and pain of loss.

Nowhere Hall by Cate Gardner is a surreal tale about a despairing man whose impulse to commit suicide is stymied by a detour into a mysterious hotel. Old Albert by Brian J. Showers Passport Levant is a series of episodes in the life of a house called Larkhill, built by a rich man obsessed with the study of birds. There is much horror here but as the prologue explains there are no solutions.

While increasingly disturbing and creepy, the overall story is a bit too muddled to provide a satisfying conclusion. His specialty is Oedipus Rex and anyone who crosses him should beware. Some wonderfully creepy stuff. Bad Moon Books brought out the following chapbooks: The Cranston Gibberer by Martin Mundt is a clever, over the top little epistolary parody of Lovecraftian literature purportedly written by someone very much like H.

Humorous but not very scary. When the Leaves Fall by Paul Melniczek is about sinister happenings in the town of Haverville and the two boys who get caught up in them one Halloween night. Ursa Major by John R. Little is about a camping trip gone very very bad. Heart of Glass by David Winnick is about a married couple who have grown apart. The Bone Tree by Christopher Fulbright is about two boys in rural Texas in the late s suddenly faced with supernatural evil.

Alice on the Shelf by Bill Gauthier is a dark variation of Alice in Wonderland in which a man searches for a friend who disappeared. A Little Gold Book of Ghastly Stuff by Neil Gaiman Borderlands Press is the final volume in this adorable hardcover series and contains nineteen poems, essays, memorials, reviews, and other bits and pieces. Blindspot by Michael McBride Dark Regions Press is about an experimental process enabling the user to see through the eyes of the dead — the only possible chance to avert nuclear annihilation.

Lansdale is a chapbook published by Subterranean Press as a bonus to purchasers of the limited edition of Subterranean: Tales of Dark Fantasy 2. The two well-told tales are the start of a new series by Lansdale about a skeptical detective of supernormal happenings.

There is a new series from The Burns Archive Press, which over the years has published a number of gorgeously produced books of memorial photography, including Sleeping Beauty volumes I and II. The new series is designed as pocket-sized, square hardcover volumes as lovingly produced as the usual, larger books. Burns provides a preface about his own history of collecting memorial photography and in a fascinating introduction explains why the new technology of photography became so popular for memorializing the dead, especially children in the s.

The photographs are annotated with information about the kind of technology used. Some of the photographs are of dead children posed with a surviving sibling, held by one of its parents, or perhaps most pitiably, tiny and alone and dressed in finery in a coffin or crib.

The practice has begun to take hold once more in the twenty-first century as some contemporary families pose with their stillborn or newly dead children. Disturbing all, but with a quiet beauty. Bontecou was a military surgeon who recorded and photographed soldiers with amputated limbs and others with minor bullet wounds. The book itself is as much a mediation on war and suffering focusing on the Civil War, just two years before Joseph Lister announced his discovery of antiseptic surgical principles and almost twenty years before Robert Koch described the germ theory of disease.

Some of the photos are accompanied by detailed case histories of the soldier, and those are perhaps the most interesting. Something has taken a bite out of the cover. Inside is a spread on how to spot monsters watch out for sunglasses hiding strange eyes or hair hiding an extra eye , another about infestations at home, watch out for critters in the toilet or the oven.

I love popup books and this one is icky and has gooey things and is almost as good as my old favorite Fungus the Bogyman. Deborah Turbeville, the Fashion Pictures Rizzoli is a gorgeous and disturbing coffee table book of photographs by one of the major photographers of the last forty years. One of her most famous fashion spreads is a series taken of bathing suit models photographed in an abandoned New York City bathhouse that looks like an insane asylum for abused women.

A series of photographs taken in the woods of Normandy looks like a vignette on the horrors of war as beautiful dead-eyed women wait — for death? For liberation? Each series of photographs tells an enigmatic story. The book starts with the origins of the zombie and mentions zombies in books, graphic novels, and video games, and on film and television and record albums.

Clever and fun. Oversized and gorgeously produced, the book made a splash in the field and was nominated for the World Fantasy Award. The categories are broken down into thirteen categories including hardware, pins and needles, toys, buttons, and surgical objects. The mind boggles. The book is as riveting as any fiction and is for anyone interested in the uncanny. The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities edited by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer HarperCollins is a charming, sometimes creepy compendium of entries and stories about fictional artifacts and exhibits, with contributions by an array of talented writers and illustrators including Holly Black, Helen Oyeyemi, Alan Moore, Ted Chiang, J.

Kiernan, and many others. This delightful book would make the perfect gift at any time of the year. Neumeyer Pomegranate is a memoir of the friendship between Gorey and Neumeyer told through their correspondence between — Noir fans will enjoy thumbing through the entries. The book continues to be the showcase for the best in genre art — the sheer variety of style and tone and media and subject matter is impressive.

Arnie Fenner provides his usual thorough overview of the political and cultural year plus a necrology. A magnificent book to thumb through and enjoy. Katherine MacDonald, sitting beside the bed and attaching one of the four TENS units to his scrawny thigh just below the basketball shorts he now always wore, did not look up. Her face was carefully blank. She was a piece of human furniture in this big house — in this big bedroom where she now spent most of her working life — and that was the way she liked it.

Attracting Mr. But her thoughts ran on, just the same. Now you tell them that you actually caused the accident. Because you think taking responsibility makes you look like a hero. Not so tight, Kat, please. She loosened the Velcro strap a little, thinking: The pilot told you there were thunderstorms in the Omaha area. The two men listened closely. Jensen had heard it all before, of course, but you always listened closely when the man doing the talking was the sixth-richest man not just in America but in the world.

Three of the other five mega-rich guys were dark-complected fellows who wore robes and drove places in armoured Mercedes-Benzes. She thought: But I told him it was imperative that I make that meeting. His name was Rideout. He was tall and very thin, maybe sixty, wearing plain grey pants and a white shirt buttoned all the way to his scrawny neck, which was red with overshaving. The whiff of charlatan was strong about him.

In fifteen years as a nurse specialising in pain patients, she had met her share. Now tell them about your revelation , she thought as she carried her stool around to the other side of the bed. Although lately her silent compliance was wearing a little thin. She felt it happening. Like the fabric of a shirt that had been worn and washed too many times.

Newsome was speaking primarily to the fellow in the farmer-goes-to-town getup. Actually, two of them , Kat thought as she strapped a second TENS unit on his other wasted, flabby, scarred leg. The second was that the word imperative is used very loosely by most people, including my former self. There are only two imperative things. One is life itself, the other is freedom from pain. Do you agree, Reverend Rideout? How many times do I have to tell you? Why do I even try?

Melissa, the housekeeper, looking trim in a white blouse and high-waisted white slacks, came in with a coffee tray. Jensen accepted a cup, along with two packets of artificial sweetener. The new one, the bottom-of-the-barrel so-called reverend, only shook his head. Maybe he had some kind of holy coffee in his lunchbox Thermos. When she took coffee, she took it in the kitchen with the rest of the help.

It was November, and wind-driven rain lashed the windows. Newsome, or would you prefer that I leave now? Other charlatans would undoubtedly follow, now that all reputable relief resources had been exhausted, but Rideout was the first, and Kat was interested to see how the farmer-looking fellow would go about separating Andy Newsome from a large chunk of his cash. Or how he would try. At least in terms of money. Once the lechery might have been real Kat thought Melissa might have information on that subject , but now it was just a pair of shaggy eyebrows working on muscle memory.

Kat plugged the cords into the control unit and flicked the switch. Be that as it might, they would do nothing for Newsome tonight. Hooked up as loosely as they were, they had been reduced to the equivalent of joy-buzzers. Expensive ones. The lord wounded in battle commands , she thought, and I obey. She bent over to pull her chest of goodies out from under the bed.

It was filled with tools many of her past clients referred to as implements of torture. Jensen and Rideout paid no attention to her. They continued to look at Newsome, who might or might not have been granted revelations that had changed his priorities and outlook on life, but who still enjoyed holding court. He told them about awakening in a cage of metal and mesh. The fixators were anchored in the outraged and splintered femurs, tibiae, fibulae, humerus, radius, ulna.

His back was encased in a kind of chain-mail girdle that went from his hips to the nape of his neck. He talked about sleepless nights that seemed to go on not for hours but for years. He talked about the crushing headaches.

He told them about the bedsores and how he bit back howls of hurt and outrage when the nurses attempted to roll him on his side so the sores could be flushed out. Actually, Kat knew, there had been five, two of those to remove the fixators when the bones were sufficiently healed. Unless you included the minor procedure to re-set his broken fingers, that was.

That comes next. Last summer. I have almost no flexion in my knees at all, and the pain in my hips and back is beyond description. The doctors— ah! Stop, Kat, stop! She had raised his right leg to a ten-degree angle, perhaps a little more. Not even enough to hold the cushioning pad in place.

Kat relaxed her hold on his knee, and the leg returned to the hospital bed. Ten degrees. Possibly twelve. The doctors guilty of false promises had not been guilty of false advertising; they had told him the pain was coming. Kat had been there as a silent onlooker during several of those consultations. They had told him he would swim in pain before those crucial tendons, shortened by the accident and frozen in place by the fixators, stretched out and once again became limber.

He would have plenty of pain before he was able to get the bend in his knees back to ninety degrees. Before he would be able to sit in a chair or behind the wheel of a car, that was. The same was true of his back and his neck. The road to recovery led through the Land of Pain, that was all. These were true promises Andrew Newsome had chosen not to hear. It was his belief — never stated baldly, in words of one syllable, but undoubtedly one of the stars he steered by — that the sixth-richest man in the world should not have to visit the Land of Pain under any circumstances, only the Costa del Sol of Full Recovery.

Blaming the doctors followed as day follows night. And of course he blamed fate. Things like this were not supposed to happen to guys like him. Melissa came back with cookies on a tray. Newsome waved a hand — twisted and scarred in the accident — at her irritably.

Here was another thing Kat MacDonald had discovered about the mega-rich, those dollar-babies who had amassed assets beyond ordinary comprehension: they felt very confident about speaking for everyone in the room. Melissa gave her little Mona Lisa smile, then turned almost pirouetted and left the room.

Glided from the room. She had to be at least forty-five, but looked younger. Rather there was an ice-queen glamour about her that made Kat think of Ingrid Bergman. Icy or not, Kat supposed men would wonder how that chestnut hair would look freed from its clips, and lying all mussed up on a pillow.

How her coral lipstick would look smeared on her teeth and up one cheek. Or that heart-shaped bottom. Not even for the sixth-richest man in the world. She placed the pad under his knee. Grasped the hanging bags that should have been turning back into muscle by now.

Began to bend the leg. Waited for him to scream at her to stop. And she would. Because five thousand dollars a week added up to a cool quarter-mil a year. Did he know that part of what he was buying was her silence? How could he not? Now tell them about the doctors. Geneva, London, Madrid, Mexico City, et cetera, et cetera. Speaking primarily to Rideout now. He was wearing big yellow workboots. The heel of one almost touched his black lunchbox. Such a spoiled baby. On crutches, yes, but walking.

And in another year, he would have been able to throw the crutches away. Only in another year he would still be here in this two hundred thousand dollar state-of-the-art hospital bed. And she would still be with him. Still taking his hush-money.

How much would be enough? Two million? Money was wretched that way. Newsome snorted. But he was a Paki. And a queer. Rideout rotated his head side-to-side in a negative gesture. Very slowly. She let the leg subside and began to manipulate his left arm. That he allowed.

The left one had only been sprained. He also told people he was lucky not to be in a wheelchair, but the all-the-bells-and-whistles hospital bed suggested strongly that this was luck he had no intention of capitalising on in the near future.

The all-the-bells-and-whistles hospital bed was his wheelchair. It rolled. He had ridden all over the world in it. Neuropathic pain , Kat thought. Perhaps insoluble. The drugs no longer work. Your references in the matter of… er… healing… are very strong.

Rideout stood up. His shadow scared up behind him on the wall even higher. Almost to the ceiling. His eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, regarded Newsome solemnly. He had charisma, of that there could be no doubt. Jensen was actually craning his neck to see him. She looked and saw Melissa standing in the doorway. So now they were all here except for Tonya, the cook.

Outside, the wind rose to a shriek. The glass in the windows rattled. And flat. Maybe, Kat thought, a little scared. Rideout came to the bed and stood there with his long-fingered hands laced loosely together at the level of his flat crotch. His deep-set eyes looked sombrely down at the man in the bed. Now , Kat thought, I have heard absolutely everything.

But Newsome was fascinated. Like a kid watching a three-card monte expert on a streetcorner , she thought. Especially at night. The nights are… very long. One that worsens. Kat, sitting beside him on her stool, had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. It feeds on a special kind of hurt produced only by certain special people. It feeds just as termites feed on wood.

And it will eat until you are all used up. Then it will cast you aside, sir, and move on. Certainly not the one you preach about. That one is the God of love. Or so I grew up believing. Jensen was frowning at her and shaking his head. The fact that our Lord, the Lord God of Hosts, rules them all — and on the Day of Judgment will destroy them all — does not change that.

These little gods have been worshipped by people both ancient and modern. They have their powers, and our God sometimes allows those powers to be exercised. Jensen, too; his mouth actually dropped open. Newsome, although not used to hearing criticism, nevertheless smiled. I also have faith in money. How much do you want? Rideout returned the smile, exposing teeth that were little more than tiny eroded gravestones.

If he had ever seen a dentist, it had been many moons ago. Also, he was a tobacco-chewer. Kat heard Melissa gasp. If you do whatever it is you do — expelling, exterminating, exorcising, call it what you want — you get the money. Fail, and you get nothing. Except your first and only roundtrip on a private jet. For that there will be no charge. After all, I reached out to you. She could also smell some strong soap. This time it was the secretive and rather unpleasant smile he wore when he made his phone calls and did his deals.

Now comes the curveball. I really hoped you were on the level. Have I? Did your investigators tell you that? He was looking up at the thin, towering man with a certain unease. But an expulsion takes great energy and great strength. Five years ago I suffered a major heart attack shortly after performing one on a young girl who had been in a terrible car accident. We were successful, she and I, but the cardiologist I consulted in Jonesboro told me that if I ever exerted myself in such a way again, I might suffer another attack.

This one fatal. Newsome raised a gnarled hand — not without effort — to the side of his mouth and spoke to Kat and Melissa in a comic stage-whisper. We had a dry summer in my part of the world. There was a wildfire, probably started by campers. And probably drunk. My church is now just a concrete footprint and a few charred beams. I and my parishioners have been worshipping in an abandoned gas station-convenience store on the Jonesboro Pike. It is not satisfactory during the winter months, and there are no homes large enough to accommodate us.

We are many but poor. Kat listened with interest. As con-man stories went, this was a good one. It had the right sympathy-hooks. Rideout once more shook his head in that deliberate way: left, right, left, right, back to center. Newsome was smiling. Kat could tell from the stiff way he held his body that he was in serious discomfort — his pills were now half an hour overdue — but he was ignoring it because he was interested. He could battle the pain if he chose to. He had resources. She had thought she was merely irritated with this, but now, probably prompted by the appearance of the charlatan from Arkansas, she discovered she was actually infuriated.

It was so wasteful. I have taken the liberty of adding one hundred thousand dollars, just to be on the safe side. But then, not even a week after speaking with Mr. Kiernan, your letter came, along with the video-disc. Which I watched with great interest, by the way.

Especially the part where the doctor from San Francisco says the pain associated with his injuries can be greatly alleviated by physical therapy. Stringent physical therapy. It was true that nearly a dozen other doctors on the DVD had claimed themselves at a loss, but Kat believed Dr. Dilawar was the only one with the guts to talk straight. She had been surprised that Newsome had allowed the disc to go out with that interview on it, but since his accident, the sixth-richest man in the world had slipped a few cogs.

Newsome studied him. Now there were small beads of sweat just below his receding hairline. Kat would give him his pills soon, whether he asked for them or not. Some considerable size. What I believe you people call a love offering. Rideout shook his head again: left to right, right to left, back to center. Magicians always do , Kat thought. Outside, the wind shrieked, rested, then shrieked again. The lights flickered. Behind the house, the generator also state-of-the-art burped to life, then stilled.

Rideout sat on the edge of the bed. Jensen there, I think. He looks strong and quick. Running back. Rideout leaned toward Newsome. What color is your pain? He was looking back at the preacher with fascination. Rideout nodded: up, down, up, down, back to center. Eye-contact never lost. Kat was sure he would have nodded with exactly the same look of grave confirmation if Newsome had said his pain was blue, or as purple as the fabled Purple People-Eater.

She thought, with a combination of dismay and real amusement: I could lose my temper here. I really could. It would be the most expensive tantrum of my life, but still — I could. Melissa took a step forward, giving Jensen a look of concern. Kat saw him shake his head a little and motion her back to the doorway. Close your eyes, sir, and concentrate.

Look for the pain. Look past the false shouts it gives — ignore the cheap ventriloquism — and locate it. You can do this. Newsome closed his eyes. For a space of ninety seconds there was no sound but the wind and the rain spattering against the windows like handfuls of fine gravel. High in my chest. Or at the bottom of my throat, just below the windpipe.

Scars from the skin that had been flayed open during the accident wavered through these grooves of concentration. Rideout leaned closer. A green ball. Like the rigged-up tennis ball you undoubtedly have either up your sleeve or in that big black lunchbox of yours, Rev , she thought. Jensen, sir. Get it and open it and stand next to me. You need to do no more than that for the moment.

Kat MacDonald snapped. It was a snap she actually heard in her head. She stepped up beside Rideout and shouldered him aside. It was easy. He was taller, but she had been turning and lifting patients for nearly half her life, and she was stronger. Open them right now. Look at me. Startled, Newsome did as she said.

Melissa and Jensen now with the lunchbox in his hands looked alarmed. The boss commanded you. You most certainly did not startle him. There are plenty of other nurses in Vermont who specialise in pain therapy. She leaned forward, into his space, and the words spilled out in a torrent. It makes me sick. Do you know how lucky you are to be alive, when everyone else on that airplane was killed?

You would have lived four days, maybe even two weeks, in hellish agony. Instead you were thrown clear. You look for some easier way. You want to pay your way out of your situation. Jensen and Melissa were staring at her in horror.

If he had ever been talked to in such a fashion, it had been long ago. Only Rideout looked at ease. He was the one smiling now. The way a father would smile at his wayward four year old. It drove her crazy. Dilawar in San Francisco had the guts to tell you — he was the only one — and you rewarded him by calling him a faggot. His scarred hands had balled themselves into fists. Of course you are. But not by a lazy rich man who tries to substitute his sense of entitlement for the plain old hard work and tears it takes to get better.

You refuse. The quacks and confidence men come, the way leeches come when a man with a cut leg wades into a stagnant pond. Sometimes the quacks have magic creams. Sometimes they have magic pills. Usually the marks get partial relief. She raised her voice to a wavering, childlike treble and bent close to him. Tonya had come into the doorway and now stood beside Melissa, staring with wide eyes and a dishwiper hanging limp in one hand.

His brow was knitted in perplexity. His hands now began to knead his hips and thighs, as they always did when his pain medication was overdue. Shall I have mine? Newsome was sweating more heavily, but he was smiling again. I believe I want to hear this. Kat faced him. Those dark, socketed eyes were unsettling, but she met them.

Hands still clasped behind his back, pink skull shining mutedly through his thin hair, long face solemn, Rideout examined her. Kat felt an urge to flinch at that, or look away, or both. She suppressed it. Rideout rounded his thin lips and whistled: one tuneless, almost toneless note. Yes, that must have been excruciating. She flushed.

I based what I said on years of experience dealing with pain patients. It is a medical opinion. You know their kind. They work in sickrooms, they work with patients who are in varying degrees of distress, from mild pain to deepest, searing agony. What was happening to her voice? All at once it was small.

Refusing to do the hard work? Perhaps even fishing for sympathy? Some are malingerers. Or stupid. He bowed as if she had paid him a compliment — which, in a way, she supposed she had. But now, in your secret heart, you believe all of them are malingerers. Newsome here has been infested, I tell you, invaded. It will improve matters for you considerably, I think. Certainly it will change your outlook on pain. Rideout smiled.

I would not ask others to constrain it, or constrain it myself. She was furious, on the verge of tears. Do you still intend to leave? But no more talk. Jensen gave her the long black lunchbox. Kat opened it. Inside the domed lid, held by a wire clamp meant to secure a Thermos, was a green aerosol can. There was nothing else. Kat turned to Rideout. He nodded. She took the aerosol out and looked at the label, nonplussed. I need one more thing before we begin. Do you have a baseball bat?

Or any sort of club? Tonya shook her head. The wind gusted again; once more the lights flickered and the generator burped in its shed behind the house. Tonya left. There was silence except for the wind. He had rolled and rolled, while the wreckage of the Gulfstream burned in the rain behind him. There were no vampires, and no gods of agony… but when the wind blew hard enough to make the big house shiver in its bones, such ideas almost seemed plausible.

Tonya came back with a broom that looked like it had never swept so much as a single pile of floor-dirt into a dustpan. The bristles were bright blue nylon. The handle was painted wood, about four feet long. She held it up doubtfully.

It occurred to her that Newsome might not be the only one in this room who had slipped a few cogs lately. No offence to you, Mrs. Marsden, but younger folks have quicker reflexes. Looking not offended in the slightest — looking relieved, in fact — Tonya held out the broom. Melissa took it and handed it to Kat. Rideout smiled, briefly showing the stained and eroded pegs of his teeth.

Just remember: first the bristles. Then the stick. Then you put it in the specimen bottle. He smiled without humor. Jensen, please. And pray, if you know how. On my behalf, as well as Mr. For my heart to be strong. Kat, who saw a fake heart attack coming, said nothing. She simply moved away from the bed, holding the handle of the broom in both hands.

Rideout sat down beside Newsome with a grimace. His knees popped like pistol-shots. As quick as you were on the football field, all right? It always is, but the goddam stormy weather makes it worse. They hushed. Rideout closed his eyes. His lips moved silently. Her hands were damp with perspiration. She wiped them one at a time on her sweater, then took hold of the broom again.

We look like people gathered at a deathbed , she thought. An outsider feeding on his flesh and bones. Help me cast it out, as Your Son cast out the demons from the possessed man of the Gadarenes. Help me speak to the little green god of agony inside Andrew Newsome in your own voice of command.

He leaned closer. He curled them, and pulled down the jaw. He had spoken of command, but his voice was soft. Almost cajoling. Come out in the names of all the saints and martyrs. Come out in the name of God, who gave you leave to enter and now commands you to leave. Come out into the light. Leave off your meal and come out. Come out in the names of the saints and martyrs. Jesus commands you. The saints and martyrs command you.

God commands you to leave your meal and come out. It was Melissa. Her eyes were huge. Her mouth hung open. It began to move slowly mouthward. Kat had never seen anything like it in her life. His face was streaming with sweat; the collar of his shirt had gone limp and dark. The wind rose to a scream. Rain that was now half-sleet blasted the windows like shrapnel.

The lights flickered and the house creaked. Jesus commands you to leave. More: it began to widen, first into a gape and then into a soundless howl. His eyes rolled back in his head and his feet began to jitter. Jensen yanked her back.

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