Charles L. Grant
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Your presence is requested at the dark edge of the city of the dead.
Your place is prepared deep in the dank tombs, under night’s cover.
Your name is being called by the wind that cries between gravestones.
never-to-be-used handkerchief. “You’ve no right to encourage it. Spoiling our day out, upsetting your mother, and depriving your little brother of good sea air.” Mother flopped down into a deck chair, where she continued to wave her handkerchief back and forth. “Yesterday evening I caught her at it. Talking to it, she was. Lying there on the grass, and talking to it. She’s mad. Heavens above knows who she takes after. Certainly my family were sane enough. I don’t know what’s to become of us.”
strangers. I only really hate people I used to love.” “Makes sense, I suppose.” Joseph stroked her hair away from her eyes, then hesitated. “The kid’s a lot like Paul, isn’t he?” “He’s a lot like me, too.” She used his shoulder as a pillow and settled down to sleep. “I’ll try not to worry about Tommy. There’s nothing to be done about it all anyway. And maybe he’ll like England.” Tommy hated England. He hated London—complaining loudly in museums so that guards stared indignantly at the family,
angle of his head that had caught her eye. It was cocked curiously to one side with the unabashed honesty of children. He just stood, feet apart at an awkward angle, as if he had been running and had been forced to a sudden halt. By what? His body was still, frozen, head tilted to one side. Margaret Lockwood watched her son. She knew that Robbie was seeing something. Suddenly Robbie whirled and ran back toward the house. His eyes were wide. They flew open wider as he spotted her in the doorway.
circumspectly. That means you, Jim.” “It means you, too. You can’t go putting this in a casebook and getting a big publicity tour for it.” Jim shot back, more caustically than he had intended. “Both of you, stop it.” Franciscus said with such assurance and resignation that the other two were silenced at once, like guilty children. “I’m asking that you each suspend your first inclinations and keep quiet about what is going on here. If it gets any worse, then you’ll have to do whatever your
neighborhood of twenty-five, and I’ve discovered something on my own that everyone else who’s been around for a while knew all along—it is, without a doubt, much harder to write a short story than a novel. Much more. And when you add to this the horror-fantasy notion, what you have is a minor miracle when it works; a major one when it’s as successful as it should be. The short story demands an economy of words, the luxury of rambling reserved to the manuscripts that run 250 pages and longer.