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go to site For purchases where a shipping charge was paid, there will be no refund of the original shipping charge. And his magicians and occultists are easily the creepiest ones I have encountered in fiction in a really long time! But as I experienced with his previous work, I flipped the last page desperate for more.
More Children of Old Leech, more cynical company men who get caught in weird and deadly traps, more criminals who discover some things are scarier than having a gun pointed at you! More everything! Delicious, richly textured, creepy as Hell stories from one of the best horror writers I have ever read.
View 2 comments. Shelves: horror , ebook , monsters , short-story , read-on-phone , enviable-prose , american-fantasy , fantasy-dark , lovecraftian , contemporary. Inevitably, when you want to praise a new horror writer and make him sound like the Next Big Thing, you compare him to Stephen King. Or maybe H. Or maybe even Edgar Allan Poe.
Laird Barron isn't any of those guys. Oh, sure, you can see the influences - especially Lovecraftian. And he claims the Pacific Northwest as his territory in which unspeakable cults, and monsters walking as men who make bootleggers, loggers, and gangsters piss their pants, and hidden enclaves of villagers in th Inevitably, when you want to praise a new horror writer and make him sound like the Next Big Thing, you compare him to Stephen King.
We cannot take responsibility for items which are lost or damaged in transit. After all the weirdness of the first one, The Redfield Girls starts off as a very simple story. In my case, if I ever return to horror anthologies, I'll be sure to look for Laird Barron in the participant authors list. May 3, 0 Comments. Going to purchase a copy.
And he claims the Pacific Northwest as his territory in which unspeakable cults, and monsters walking as men who make bootleggers, loggers, and gangsters piss their pants, and hidden enclaves of villagers in thrall to squirming elder Things, all lurk in the backwoods and in the back alleys of cities, in much the same way as King has made Maine the stomping grounds for most of his stories.
In a castle… or perhaps a manor house. A solitary gent with a few years on him; a man who's carved his place in the world" - but who is in fact the survivor of a hard-scrabble upbringing in Alaska has his own particular style and mode of storytelling, very much fitting into the classical horror genre, but his own. He's influenced by many, but not imitating anyone.
You can see shades of Bierce and Byron and Poe and Lovecraft and maybe Conrad and a few others, but these stories are dark and spooky and just right for Halloween reading. Like good King when he's really up to snuff, but again, most definitely not King. There are nine stories in this collection.
I like some more than others, but none are duds. All are violent, generous with viscera and guts, and even more disturbing images than mere bloodshed, fit to make you squirm. Below, a summary and the first paragraph from each story.
Blackwood's Baby Big game hunters try to bag a legendary buck, known as "Blackwood's Baby. Dark things dwell in the woods. Late afternoon sun baked the clay and plaster buildings of the town. Its dirt streets lay empty, packed as hard as iron. The boarding house sweltered. Luke Honey sat in a chair in the shadows across from the window.
Nothing stirred except flies buzzing on the window ledge. The window was a gap bracketed by warped shutters and it opened into a portal view of the blazing white stone wall of the cantina across the alley. Since the fistfight, he wasn't welcome in the cantina although he'd seen the other three men he'd fought there each afternoon, drunk and laughing. The scabs on his knuckles were nearly healed. Every two days, one of the stock boys brought him a bottle.
The Redfield Girls A group of women take an annual trip to a lake. Tragedies past cause tragedies present. A ghost story of sorts, one of the least bloody of the tales.
Every autumn for a decade, several of the Redfield Girls, a close-knit sorority of veteran teachers from Redfield Memorial Middle School in Olympia, gathered for a minor road trip along the hinterlands of the Pacific Northwest. Traditionally, they rented a house in a rural, picturesque locale, such as the San Juan Islands or Cannon Beach, or Astoria, and settled in for a last long weekend of cribbage, books, and wine before their students came rushing into the halls, flushed and wild from summer vacation. Their frequent arguments were excruciating or exquisite depending on how many glasses of merlot they'd downed.
Both of them considered Bernice, the lone science teacher and devourer of clearance sale textbooks, a borderline stick in the mud. They meant this with great affection. Hand of Glory A hit man finds out his old man had bigger enemies than rival gangsters. Tangles with wizards and worse. From the pages of a partially burned manuscript discovered in the charred ruins of a mansion in Ransom Hollow, Washington: That buffalo charges across the eternal prairie, mad black eye rolling at the photographer.
The photographer is Old Scratch's left hand man. Every few seconds the buffalo rumbles past the same tussock, the same tumbleweed, the same bleached skull of its brother or sister. That poor buffalo is Sisyphus without the stone, without the hill, without a larger sense of futility. The beast's hooves are worn to bone. Blood foams at its muzzle.
The dumb brute doesn't understand where we are. But I do. CP, Nov.
The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Over the course of two award-winning collec. A third collection of stories from critically acclaimed and award-winning author Laird Barron, and the winner of the Bram Stoker Award for Superior.
I was seven. Mother died of consumption that winter, and my baby brothers Earl and William followed her through the Pearly Gates directly. Hell of a housewarming. The Carrion Gods in their Heaven Woman flees her abusive husband.
Hooks up with another woman, who decides to take care of things. The leaves were turning.
Lorna fueled the car at a mom and pop gas station in the town of Poger Rock, population Poger Rock comprised a forgotten, moribund collection of buildings tucked into the base of a wooded valley a stone's throw south of Olympia. The station's marquee was badly peeled and she couldn't decipher its title.
A tavern called Mooney's occupied a gravel island half a block down and across the two-lane street from the post office and the grange. Next to a dumpster, a pair of mongrel dogs were locked in coitus, patiently facing opposite directions, Dr. Doolittle's pushmi-pullyu for the twenty-first century.
Other than vacant lots overrun by bushes and alder trees, and a lone antiquated traffic light at the intersection that led out of town, either toward Olympia, or deeper into cow country, there wasn't much else to look at.
She hobbled in to pay and ended up grabbing a few extra supplies—canned peaches and fruit cocktail, as there wasn't any refrigeration at the cabin. She snagged three bottles of bourbon gathering dust on a low shelf. The Siphon An amoral salesman, recruited as a spook for an intelligence agency, crosses agents of much darker powers.
Much sanity loss ensues. Lancaster graduated from college in and landed a position in the sales department of a well-known Wichita company that manufactured camping gear. He hated the outdoors but was naturally manipulative, an expert at affecting sincerity and bright-eyed chumminess of variable intensity. Despite this charm that wowed the socks off clients, he never made much headway with management or co-workers, two species immunized against snake oil and artifice.
Jaws of Saturn Another tale of a gangster running into the terrible truth that makes mobsters and drug dealers seem like chump change in the table games of hell. She and Franco were sitting in the lounge of The Broadsword Hotel, a monument to the Roaring Twenties situated on the west side of Olympia. Most of its tenants were economically strapped or on the downhill slide toward decrepitude, not unlike the once grand dame herself. Carol lived on the sixth floor in a single bedroom flat with cracks running through the plaster and a rusty radiator that groaned and ticked like it might explode and turn the apartment into a flaming wreck.
Marvin was scary. And ugly as three kinds of sin. He busted kneecaps for a living. Some living. Or both. When I was six, I discovered a terrible truth: I was the only human being on the planet.