Best New Horror 2
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This is the sensational showcase of the year's very best horror stories from the greatest contemporary masters of fear.
thought the thing still retained a trace of the grave’s scent—a dark odor like potatoes long spoiled. Each grave has its own peculiar scent, just as each living body does. “Are you certain you should wear it?” I asked. “It will go into the museum tomorrow,” he said, “with a scarlet candle burning eternally before it. Tonight its powers are mine.” The nightclub was in a part of the city that looked as if it had been gutted from the inside out by a righteous tongue of fire. The street was lit
was pale, streaked and splotched with scarlet, and woke in him a longing never felt before. In his mouth, it brought peace, health, love, and hunger for something he could not name. Old Hop Thacker’s voice floated across infinite distance: “Don’t never shoot anythin’ without you’re dead sure what ’tis, young feller.” Another worm and another, and each as good as the last. “We will teach you,” the worms said, speaking from his own mouth. “Have we not come from the stars? Your own desire for
“That hurt,” Anne said. “No.” Anne stood straight. She unbuttoned her blouse and let it drop from her shoulders. She could not look at Stephen for fear of revulsion in his eyes. She removed her bra, and then slipped from her skirt and panties. She looked at Stephen, and thought she saw him nod. Anne climbed onto the foot of the bed. Beneath her knees the folded, unused blanket was cold. She moved forward, and bent over Stephen’s body. Around her and beside her was the tangle of supports. Her
that. The last person I’d told was my old boyfriend, Victor Dixon. Was he here? “Who sent it, Walter?” “I’m not supposed to tell you that either, but I will. The guy at the bar in the great Gaultier jacket.” I looked up and saw a man at the bar, his back turned to me. He had dark hair and wore a cranberry-red jacket with black Cyrillic letters across the bottom. It was show-offy but wonderful, too. Victor Dixon never wore snazzy clothes. “Who is he, Walter?” “I don’t know. He just ordered
David shoved it back with the toe of his trainer. He tried another match, almost dropping the crumpled book to the ground in his hurry. It flared. He forced himself to crouch down—moving slowly to preserve the precious flame—and touch it to the cloth. It went up with a satisfying whooph. David stepped back from the cheery brightness. The cloth soon charred and vanished. The model mewed and twisted. Thick black smoke curled up from the fire. The grey plastic blistered and ran. Bubbles popped on