We looked at each other.‘Any clues?’ I asked.They shrugged.‘You can go in now,’ said Mrs Partridge, so in we went.He looked up from his desk. ‘There you are.’We agreed that yes, here we were.He gestured at his briefing table on which reposed several archive boxes and a fat folder.‘The County Archivist has been good enough to make available various documents requested by Dr Dowson. A condition was that we do not expose them to the hazards of a random delivery service.’ It was not clear whether it was the company or its delivery that was random, but we nodded anyway. ‘And so, I would like you, personally, to return these valuable documents with my compliments and thanks.’He handed Peterson an envelope.‘Of course, sir.’‘This afternoon, if you please.’Peterson glanced at his watch. ‘It’s already afternoon, sir.’‘How quickly you grasp my meaning.’‘I do my best, sir.’‘I have assured the County Archivist that my best people are on the job. They being unavailable, however, I have therefore designated my Chief Operations Officer, my Head of Security and my Deputy Director to fulfil this simple task.’His Deputy Directory, Head of Security and Chief Operations Officer assembled their best air of cool professionalism – which in our case consisted of standing a little straighter and not picking our noses. I don’t think he was impressed, staring at us bleakly for a few seconds and then demanding to know why we were still here.Since Peterson was burdened with the envelope, Markham and I seized the boxes and we left with all speed.‘Right,’ said Peterson, ‘I shall assume full control of this mission.’Markham made a rude noise.‘Get changed and meet in the car park in ten minutes. That’s ten minutes, Max. No wafting around in front of mirrors trying on dresses.’Now I made a rude noise.We met in the car park, shoving Markham and the boxes in the back, and departed.‘A nice afternoon out,’ said a voice from behind the boxes, and we agreed.Now I know what you’re thinking. I can hear exactly what you’re thinking, so I will say now that the boxes were delivered on time and to the correct destination. The County Archivist herself took delivery so God knows what was in them. Peterson, after a series of nudges from me, remembered to hand over Dr Bairstow’s letter of thanks and they gave us a cup of tea. They were lovely people. I wish I worked there. We set off for the return trip, hoping to be back in time for tea, and things started to go wrong almost immediately.Peterson caught my eye. I always think that sounds as if you’ve been indulging in a quick game of eyeball tossing, but I knew what he meant‘So,’ he said, almost casually, negotiating the last roundabout out of town and accelerating away, ‘how are things with you and Hunter?’‘OK,’ said Markham vaguely. ‘I think.’‘Don’t you know?’‘Well, it’s hard to tell sometimes, but I always think if she’s not coming at me with a kidney bowl then, you know, things aren’t too bad.’‘Why would she come at you with a kidney bowl?’‘Because she can’t find a bedpan.’Peterson tried again. ‘So – got any celebrations planned then?’‘What for?’‘Well, you have an anniversary coming up.’‘What anniversary?’‘Wedding. You know. You and Hunter.’There was a long silence from the back. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’‘I worked it out,’ said Peterson in his best I’m Peterson and I’m brilliant voice. ‘I’m looking at Hunter these days and she’s looking very well, isn’t she? Blooming, almost. And she’s a very moral girl is our Hunter. Well, she has to be since you don’t have a single moral to your name, so I reckon you had the ceremony just before or just after the Battle of St Mary’s which means there’s an anniversary coming up.’There was a lot more silence from the back.‘Oh come on,’ said Peterson. ‘Admit I’m right and the then the two of us can buy you a celebratory drink in the bar.’More silence.‘I’m right, aren’t I? Go on – say I’m right.’Even more silence.‘I don’t know why you won’t admit it,’ he said, slightly exasperated. ‘Are you ashamed of something? Wait until I tell Hunter you’re ashamed of her.’He paused, hopefully.Nothing but silence.I pulled down the passenger’s sun flap and looked at the mirror. Markham was sitting with his arms folded and a stupid grin on his face.‘I reckon,’ said Peterson, ‘the two of you snuck into the Register Office without telling anyone but I’m going to make you tell me just the same.’Silence.‘Right,’ he said. ‘You asked for it. Hold on tight, Max.’We swerved off the road into a field, skidding to a halt in a shower of dust, stones and indignant birds.‘What are we doing here?’ said Markham, picking himself up off the back seat and peering out of the window.‘We’re staying here until you tell us.’ He switched off the engine and folded his arms. ‘Not another yard until you tell us the truth.’Markham folded his arms. ‘Never.’I began to make plans for spending the rest of my life in a field.The silence dragged on, only to be broken by the sounds of Markham getting out.‘Where are you going?’ I said, in some alarm. ‘We’re still not supposed to go anywhere alone.’‘Well I’m not staying here with you two maniacs. If you want to sit in a field you can do it on your own. I’m off.’We watched him walk across the field and out of the gate.‘Bollocks,’ said Peterson.‘Well, that worked, didn’t it?’‘Bollocks,’ he said again.‘Look, why don’t you just check the records at Somerset House? It’s a simple enough process.’‘That’s not the point. I want him to tell me.’I surveyed the vast, empty field. ‘How’s that working out for you?’He cursed again and switched on the engineMarkham was a couple of hundred yards up the road. We passed his plodding figure with a merry toot of the horn.‘It’s four miles back to St Mary’s,’ I said, watching him recede in the wing mirror.‘Do him good.’‘Ronan,’ I said warningly. ‘We shouldn’t leave him alone.’‘No,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You’re right. We shouldn’t.’We pulled into a layby and waited.He never came.We waited some more.‘For crying out loud,’ said Peterson. ‘I know he’s Security Section, but surely even he can’t have got lost between there and here.’I sighed. ‘I’ll go and look for him. He might just be taking a rest.’‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, getting out. ‘No one should be alone, remember?’‘Markham,’ I said accusingly. ‘We left him alone.’‘He doesn’t count.’We walked to the bend and looked. The road was empty. We could see for miles. No Markham. Not anywhere.‘Shit,’ I said. We rotated slowly. Where could he be?‘He’s cut across the fields,’ said Peterson. ‘Hang on.’ He climbed onto the car roof and surveyed the flat countryside. The flat, empty countryside.‘Shit,’ I said again, beginning to panic. ‘We’ve lost him.’‘We can’t have,’ he said, climbing down.‘Then where is he? Oh my God, we’ve lost Markham.’‘Look,’ he said. ‘The little sod’s in a ditch somewhere. Either he fell in and hurt himself – perfectly possible – or he’s hiding under a hedge to teach us a lesson. We’ll go and find him, kick the living shit out of him for frightening us like this, and then he can buy us a drink afterwards.’I looked up. It was the only direction left. ‘Do you think he’s been snatched by aliens?’‘Always a possibility,’ he said, locking the car. ‘Although if so then they’ll be returning him in a hurry any minute now.’‘No, seriously,’ I said as we set off, him on one side of the narrow lane and me on the other. I peered into ditches and looked under hedges. ‘It’s the only explanation. You hear about this sort of thing all the time. You know – anal probing.’‘For God’s sake, Max, get a grip. Why on earth would super intelligent beings cross the vastness of space just to firkle around in Markham’s bottom area. Would you?’‘God, no.’‘Well there you are, then. Anything your side?’‘Nothing. Where could he be?’‘I don’t know, but it’s four miles back to St Mary’s.’It was at that moment we heard the car start up. We stood paralysed for a moment and then Peterson screamed, ‘Bastard,’ and set off at a run. I pounded along behind him and we raced back around the bend just in time to see Markham pull out of the layby. He waved, gave us a merry toot, and sped away out of sight.We skidded to a halt.‘Didn’t you lock it?’ I said accusingly.‘Of course I did, but it’s bloody Markham, isn’t it? He could hot-wire a rock’.‘It’s four miles back to St Mary’s.’‘He’ll stop around the next bend,’ said Peterson, reassuringly. ‘He’s just teaching us a lesson.’He was and he didn’t.Four bloody miles. With Peterson vowing grim retribution with every step.And we missed tea.

    Anderson, and Rob Thurman—nothing is as simple as black and white, light and dark, good and evil..Unfortunately, that’s exactly what makes it so easy to cross the line.In #1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Butcher’s Cold Case, Molly Carpenter—Harry Dresden’s apprentice-turned-Winter Lady—must collect a tribute from a remote Fae colony and discovers that even if you’re a good girl, sometimes you have to be bad...New York Times bestselling author Seanan McGuire’s Sleepover finds half-succubus Elsie Harrington kidnapped by a group of desperate teenage boys. Not for anything “weird.” They just need her to rescue a little girl from the boogeyman. No biggie.In New York Times bestselling Kevin J. Anderson’s Eye of Newt, Zombie P.I. Dan Shamble’s latest client is a panicky lizard missing an eye who thinks someone wants him dead. But the truth is that someone only wants him for a very special dinner...And New York Times bestselling author Rob Thurman’s infernally heroic Caliban Leandros takes a trip down memory lane as he deals wih some overdue—and nightmarish—vengeance involving some quite nasty Impossible Monsters .ALSO INCLUDES STORIES BYTanya Huff * Kat Richardson * Jim C. Hines * Anton Strout * Lucy A. Snyder * Kristine Kathryn Rusch * Erik Scott de Bie *From the Trade Paperback edition.

    I read, watch, and play Horror every week, but I barely ever write it. Instead I tend to put Horror-y things back out as humorous stories or heartwarming stories. Off the top of my head I gave them the example that if I wrote a haunted house story, it wouldn’t be like Haunting of Hill House – it would be about a haunted house that was lonely and desperately wanted someone to live in it. One of my fellow authors reached across the table, grabbed me by the hand, and said, “Please write this.” On the train ride home, I did. So this story is dedicated to Natalia Theodoridou, who demanded I help 133 Poisonwood find its family and its audience – all of you.

    Since its publication in 1895, The King in Yellow has inspired other horror-genre writers including H. P. Lovecraft, and the text is referenced by many works of fiction, in music, and by the hit television series True Detective, starring Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson. HarperPerennial Classics brings great works of literature to life in digital format, upholding the highest standards in ebook production and celebrating reading in all its forms. Look for more titles in the HarperPerennial Classics collection to build your digital library_We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.

    Throughout the story Blackwood personifies the surrounding environment—river, sun, wind—and imbues them with a powerful and ultimately threatening character. Most ominous are the masses of dense, desultory, menacing willows, which "moved of their own will as though alive, and they touched, by some incalculable method, my own keen sense of the horrible.""The Willows" is one of Algernon Blackwood's best known short stories. American horror author H.P. Lovecraft considered it to be the finest supernatural tale in English literature. "The Willows" is an example of early modern horror and is connected within the literary tradition of weird fiction.

    Read on for more from this exceptional character. Please note: This story includes language that some might find offensive.

    A Bonus Chapter from "Before I Wake".

    Depicting both the horrors of the Holocaust and the lifetime of emptiness that pursues a survivor, 'The Shawl' and 'Rosa' recall the psychological and emotional scars of those who suffered at the hands of the Nazis.

     THERE'S ROOM AT THE INN. BUT YOU MIGHT NOT GET OUT. Nestled on a lonely stretch along the Pacific coast, quaint roadside outpost Harmony Corner offers everything a weary traveler needs--a cozy diner, a handy service station, a cluster of motel rooms . . . and the Harmony family homestead presiding over it all. But when Odd Thomas and company stop to spend the night, they discover that there's more to this secluded haven than meets the eye--and that between life and death, there is something more frightening than either. Includes a preview of the next thrilling novel in Dean Koontz's acclaimed Odd Thomas series: "Odd Apocalypse" "Koontz gives his character wit, good humor, a familiarity with the dark side of humanity--and moral outrage.""--USA Today" "The nice young fry cook with the occult powers is Koontz's most likable creation . . . candid, upright, amusing and sometimes withering."--"The New York Times" "Suspense, tension, and surprising plot twists . . . Characters and the search for meaning, exquisitely crafted, are the soul of his work. . . . One of the master storytellers of this or any age."--"The Tampa Tribune"

    Vulnerable and resilient, openhanded and open-hearted, these women forge their lives in a place that in turn threatens and protects—a common prison and a shared home. Naylor renders both loving and painful human experiences with simple eloquence and uncommon intuition. Her remarkable sense of community and history makes The Women of Brewster Place a contemporary classic—and a touching and unforgettable read.

    It's a party all the townspeople will remember...always!Voted as one of the greatest stories by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, the story was also adapted into a classic Twilight Zone episode.

    In Europe, however (particularly in Germany, Italy, and France where he is published by the great publishing houses), he is critically recognized as one of America's greatest realist writers.

    Campbell classic about an antarctic research camp that discovers and thaws the ancient, frozen body of a crash-landed alien. The creature revives with terrifying results, shape-shifting to assume the exact form of animal and man, alike. Paranoia ensues as a band of frightened men work to discern friend from foe, and destroy the menace before it challenges all of humanity! The story, hailed as "one of the finest science fiction novellas ever written" by the SF Writers of America, is best known to fans as THE THING, as it was the basis of Howard Hawks' The Thing From Another World in 1951, and John Carpenter's The Thing in 1982. With a new Introduction by William F. Nolan, author of Logan's Run, and his never-before-published, suspenseful Screen Treatment written for Universal Studios in 1978, this is a must-have edition for scifi and horror fans!

    Here are classic tales from writers including Truman Capote, Shirley Jackson, Dylan Thomas, Saki and Chekhov, as well as little-known treasures such as Italo Calvino's wry sideways look at Christmas consumerism, Wolfdietrich Schnurre's story of festive ingenuity in Berlin, Selma Lagerlof's enchanted forest in Sweden, and Irène Nemerovsky's dark family portrait. Featuring santas, ghosts, trolls, unexpected guests, curmudgeons and miracles, here is Christmas as imagined by some of the greatest short story writers of all time.

    Henry Award in 1961, the stories have been anthologized over a hundred times, made into three films, translated into thirteen languages, and - most important - once read, they abide in the hearts of their readers.