Charles L. Grant
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You, the reader, are hereby advised that exposure to SHADOWS 7 can lead to stark, unrelenting terror. Symptoms include:
-A hot, sticky rush of pulsating blood through major arteries of the body
-An electrifying chill that paralyzes the spinal cord
-An all-consuming fear of unseen horrors, lurking in every shadow, preparing to dismember their victims in a single grisly embrace
-And—in extreme cases—death by fright
The publisher assumes no responsibility for the bone-chilling effects of SHADOWS 7.
Because we're scared, too . . .
DON'T SAY WE DIDN'T WARN YOU!
voice presently rose above the storm: "I've never heard such an outrage in my life!" But an agreement was reached and soon, in the middle of the storm, we saw John Jeremy put out in his skiff. It was almost dark by then and the corpse fisher, floating with the wind-whipped water with all the seeming determination of a falling leaf, disappeared from our sight. The onlookers began to drift home then while the passengers from the Sidney headed up the street in search of a warm, dry tavern. Dolph
with her in my arms as she nursed at the makeshift bottle I scrounged from my photo equipment, some milk from the icebox and—hell, why not?—an unused condom from a pack in the dresser. What the hell was I to do? The shock was wearing off, replaced by exhaustion. I wearily placed the bundle on the floor next to my chair, adjusted the bottle for her to work at it, and sat back with a very deep sigh. I'd had a hard night. I watched the rain sifting past the streetlights as the drops splashed on
the storm turned into a blizzard, I vowed that the next evening would find me under a different roof. Exhausted, I dropped off to sleep—and nightmare. I was fighting my way down darkened streets, nearly buried under huge drifts. Somewhere, miles off, a new room awaited me, a clean, quiet room. As I lurched along, groans, emanating apparently, from under the drifts, became audible. Frantically, I began digging into the nearest mound of snow. The faster I dug, the louder grew the groans. I sat up
day, Wednesday, he insisted that I stay and let him prepare the meal. He had, he told me, already been out to the butcher around the corner and purchased lamb chops for both of us. Although I protested that he must, in return, accompany me to a restaurant, I was touched by his invitation, and of course I agreed to stay. I could not remember the last time I had had the simple pleasure of a quiet meal with a friend, where the exchange of the evening was nothing more than mutual interest and
all bed-and-breakfast establishments, and several times I heard the slow footsteps of residents returning home, and laughter once or twice. Lorries passing nearby in Great Russell Street and, less often, the rumble of a bus making its way around Russell Square—all these sounds of ordinary London reached me in the silence of the night, as if floating on the soft swish swish of the curtains on the floor. Could I really be going off, my friend and I, just tomorrow afternoon, to a world that had