By Al Sarrantonio
The weaving of fictional suspense and terror is as historical as humankind itself. yet the place does this age-old culture stand on the cusp of a brand new decade, a brand new century, a brand new millennium? This massive quantity seeks to reply to that query. Your carry on your palms the state-of-the-art -- of fear.To organize this groundbreaking anthology, author and editor Al Sarrantonio challenged a exotic roster of authors to illustrate with all-new tales the form of horror/suspense literature as we input the twenty-first century. As you are going to learn the twenty-nine individuals replied by means of showing the countless style that's the very hallmark of this box. a few of these tales will startle you or fill you with terror. a few will hang-out you lengthy once you end analyzing them. there's even an eerily echoing snicker or came upon within. yet jointly, those most eldritch of stories sign up for to shape a very good literary mosaic, a vibrant modern portrait of a style that's proud, powerful, and irresistible.Not in basic terms is that this the biggest anthology of unique horror/suspense fiction of all time -- no longer one tale in 999 has ever been released sooner than -- however it is additionally the best. here's a significant publishing occasion with an angle: to shake you up and scare you foolish.
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Additional info for 999: New Stories of Horror and Suspense
The outer walls were still decorated with gilted plaster friezes, and his bootfalls echoed on the solid floors. He walked around the edge of the pit, looking down at the white-coated toilers and their unmoving clients. The Pool was divided into separate work cubicles and narrow corridors by flimsy wooden partitions that rose above the old water level. A girl caught his eye, blond hair tightly gathered at the back of her neck. She had red lipstick and her coat was rolled up on slender arms as she probed the chest cavity of a corpse, a girl who might once have been her slightly older sister.
Chirkov presented papers and admitted he had been sent by the dispatcher at the railway station, which elicited a shrug. The civilian mused that the central station was always sending stray soldiers for an unknown reason. Lyubashevski had three days of stubble and mismatched eyes. He offered Chirkov a swallow of vodka—pure and strong, not diluted with melted snow like the rat poison he had been sold in Borodino—and opened up the lump of papers, searching for a particular signature. In the end, he decided it best Chirkov stay at the Spa.
The doors of the Spa, three times a man’s height, were pocked with bullet holes new and old. Unlocked and unoiled, they creaked alarmingly as he pushed inside. The foyer boasted marble floors, and ceilings painted with classical scenes of romping nymphs and athletes. Busts of Marx and Lenin flanked the main staircase; a portrait of the New First Secretary, significantly less faded than neighboring pictures, was proudly displayed behind the main desk. A civilian he took to be Lyubashevski squatted by the desk reading a pamphlet.