Robert McCammon, Norman Prentiss, Shawntelle Madison, Graham Masterton, and Richard Christian Matheson scale new heights of horror, suspense, and grimmest fable in Dark Screams: quantity Two, from Brian James Freeman and Richard Chizmar of the popular Cemetery Dance Publications.
THE DEEP finish through Robert McCammon
every body thinks the drowning loss of life of Neil Calder within the neighborhood swimming pool was once a sad twist of fate. in simple terms his father understands larger. Now, at the final evening of summer season, Neil returns looking for revenge.
INTERVAL by way of Norman Prentiss
Flight 1137 from St. Louis in terms of Nashville has long past lacking. As apprehensive family and friends assemble round the gate, a price tag clerk reveals herself eyewitness to a second of inhuman evil.
IF those partitions may well speak by means of Shawntelle Madison
Eleanor has come from big apple urban to prep an previous Victorian apartment in Maine for America's Mysterious Hotspots. even though she's constantly thrown herself into her paintings, this activity will take her locations she's by no means dreamed of going.
THE evening HIDER through Graham Masterton
C. S. Lewis wrote a few portal that ended in a global of magic and attraction. however the cloth wardrobe in Dawn's room holds merely death--until she solves its grisly secret.
WHATEVER by way of Richard Christian Matheson
A Nineteen Seventies rock 'n' roll band that by no means was--in a global that's essentially our personal . . . yet possibly isn't, now not anymore . . . or, at the very least, no longer yet--takes one hell of a visit.
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Additional info for Dark Screams, Volume 2
Frankel/J. Wenner castle of the lifeless urban, Aix-en-Provence, France AUGUST 27,1969 Flies. notable pores and skin; bullets with eyes of dried blood. Clinging to tender stone, citadel partitions, sound asleep in chunks of coloration that creep; shadow icebergs. travelers. warmth. Salty half-moons less than armpits. Sandals scuffing old rock. Turkish cigarettes. fans carry humid palms. A abandoned urban. lengthy lifeless. sooner than Christ used to be born. Hated. Pounded onto wooden with nails; left to bleed, a slaughtered calf. Cries unanswered. purposes unprovided. a pair. younger. Nineteen. Seventeen. Him. Her. A dating. months. Moods past keep watch over. ardour and worry. affliction. Her Nikon cutting moments off time; a delicately clicking scalpel. thoughts for a publication. An album. A cocktail-table mausoleum. consistently combating. riding from Paris to Monte Carlo. preventing for iced coffee in a city. a captivating village. Staring in silence; a joint burial. He opens his guitar case. steel strings sizzling below sunlight; branding palms. performs a brand new ballad. Sings softly. young children assemble. He smiles, a barefoot saint. It’s approximately her. She attempts to not listen. Feels her existence washed away. He isn’t hers anymore. This journey used to be an epitaph. She starts off to cry. He’s going again to the USA. To that bastard Tutt. To checklist; to discover status. To no matter what. From a Taped dialog, Montserrat NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1972 “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. undesirable influenza. ” Jagger; straw to gimlet. Horse tooth shoving out lips; gaudy fenders. “Is pun? Christ…” while he talks it appears like oral intercourse. He’s tanning. A lewd little boy in Spandex; the Groin Gatsby, afloat on a 150-foot bauble. right away, he has the sniffles and 100 temperature. His beneficial properties are a water-retentive Halloween masks; now not a face that are supposed to host a head chilly. the opposite Stones are down there someplace, in rainy slow-mo, with rented air, scoping out the coral and triggers. Scaring the specimens with horned, goateed jewellery. Scarred palms. Albino eels worthy too many million to pester the maths. “Sunken cheeks amid sunken treasure,” Mick indicates. “So…what is it? you will want my opinion? ” He likes the assumption, disaffected glee trickling. He lighting an vintage pipe, tokes. solutions, tucking air in lungs, sounding within a heavy sack. “…okay. They’re us. If we have been more than enough to be them. ” I jot it down. He dimples Learjet cool. Licks the sting of his ideal little glass, a purple rag sponging. Then, as all at once, seems off right into a position he desires out of, speedy. a spot of torrential wrongness. “But that shit they write is excessive. those men are tormented. ” He shrugs. “It’s no longer Woodstock anymore. in addition to, like Keith says, that was once simply dust and undesirable acid. ” He blows Barnum air, yawns just like the world’s richest kitty. “But comparable time…I wouldn’t are looking to be them. the sunshine they use within these heads…too fuckin’ shiny. you will see that every thing. You heard ‘Error of the other’ from the 1st album? The songs are fuckin’ marvelous, but…where you get a gentle like that? ” sun shades mirror yachts, fridge magnet–sized boats sliding throughout his lenses. He says not anything. Sneezes.