Festival of Fear
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Award-winning horror writer and master of the macabre, Graham Masterton presents a blood-curdling array of treats: twelve stories of terror celebrating the bizarre and grotesque, guaranteed to quicken the pulse. Marvel at the mirror dug up in secret and better off buried . . . Thrill at a pair of lovers, whose promises to each other lead them down a disturbing path. Observe the haunted house . . . Come closer, dear reader â€“ the hour of the festival is upon us . . .
They still refused to open. Both John and Fionnula were hammering and kicking on them, but they were so solid that they didn’t even shake. It was then that I heard two more sounds. A high-pitched squeaking, like a screw turning, and then a sliding noise. ‘John!’ I shouted. ‘John, are you all right? I’m going into the garden, see if I can find a shovel or a pick or something!’ But John yelled, ‘The ceiling! The ceiling’s coming down!’ ‘What?’ ‘The ceiling’s coming down! It’s going to crush
cursing and spitting. She raised her head and said to Grace, ‘Find me a knife. And do not think of trying to kill me with it. I cannot be killed by stabbing – or hanging for that matter, or poisoning, or drowning.’ Grace said, ‘OK, I understand.’ She turned away, but immediately she turned around again, and took hold of the lid of the freezer chest, and slammed it down, and locked it. Baba Jaga screeched in fury. She began to beat on the lid with her fists, until dents appeared all over it.
cousin Sibyl in San Luis Obispo in my ’75 Toronado, with the warm wind fluffing our hair, and Sibyl served us chargrilled tuna and showed Kylie how to throw a terracotta pot. Idyllic days. Especially when we went back to my apartment on Franklin Avenue, cramped and messy as it was, and fell into my bed together, slow motion, with a full moon shining through the open window, and Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto tinkling in the background, and Juanita next door clattering saucepans in the sink
could amount to cruelty, on account of the person in the mirror still being able to hear what’s going on and everything.’ ‘Oh, God,’ said Jack. The sandy-haired detective took out a folded handkerchief and dabbed his forehead ‘Most folks, though—’ ‘Most folks what?’ ‘Most folks break their mirrors, sooner or later. I guess it’s like taking their loved ones off life support.’ Jack stared at him. ‘But if you break a mirror – what about the person inside it? Are they still trapped in some kind
night, and nobody knew what tricks he got up to, when he was alone, but some people say they heard screaming and shouting and roaring coming from out of that shack like all the demons in hell. The local preacher said that he was an emissary of Satan, and that no good would come of all of his rituals, and behind his back that was what the people of Roseau started to call him, Satan, even though they carried on allowing him to visit their farms with his bones and his smoke because they was