Anthology

The Best New Horror 7

The Best New Horror 7

Stephen Jones

Language: English

Pages: 512

ISBN: B00ET3NIQW

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


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 once again chosen more than twenty terrifying tales of supernatural fear and psychological dread by some of the most acclaimed authors working in the genre. Along with the most comprehensive review of the year and a fascinating necrology, this is the book no horror fan can afford to miss.

The Year's Best Horror Stories, Series VI

Killdozer! (The Complete Stories of Theodore Sturgeon, Volume 3)

Fantasy Gone Wrong

Collected Stories, Volume 4: A Meeting with Medusa

Last Summer at Mars Hill and Other Short Stories

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Already have.” “What? When?” “He suggested this. Said I needed this.” The train was there, shattering, battering, squealing down to just a silver, ribbed 10.08 to Hornsby, modern and safe, harmless again. We waited as people came and went, waited till the doors slid shut and it had pulled off into the undernight. I imagined it drawing the air from our lungs after it, pulling it into sighs, drawing it thin. Earth, fire, water and air. Max did sigh. “I’m scared, Paul. Really scared, you

an impromptu football to be vigorously tackled. Voices raised in anger now shouted encouragement to one another. She would never be able to understand these people. They blended west with east, lisping and pale skinned. Byzantine and Latin temperaments combined: mystery. As mysterious as the city itself, she was inclined to think. The Fortiscues’ unending tour continued during the blistering heat of the afternoon. Polyhymnia was aware that this city, more than any other they had visited, was of

puddle of sunshine, a heavy iron thing that only an inscrutable Chi-nee would invent. His gun belt hanging from the bedpost just above her left hand, but she wasn’t the kind to go reaching for it even though she carried an iron fan that could probably bust bones as efficiently as a railroad brakeman’s club. No. She was hiding. Eyelids closed, brow straining for high cheekbones like fingers strain for palms when a desperate man makes a fist. Lips drawn back, lavender tongue clamped between her

and grinned broadly, a dotty old wizard whom I feared might be the last of his kind. When I stood at his side again, he patted my mottled arm just below the rolled shirtsleeve, the skin of his hand like a smooth leather glove, dry and comforting. I felt that effortless acceptance that seems to emanate only from the very old, who never feel the need to say anything simply because there is silence. Back in the States we’ve forgotten how to appreciate that. Pedro and I took seats on a stone bench

tomorrow,” she hissed, and suddenly I realized what was happening. Her boyfriend had come to pick her up. She walked towards the kerb where a white car was coming to a halt, and I rapidly about-faced and started striding the other way. It wasn’t fear, not purely. I also didn’t want to get her in trouble. As I walked up the road I felt as if the back of my neck was burning, and at the last moment I glanced to the side. The white car was just passing, and I could see Jeanette sitting bolt upright

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