Tales From The Nightside
Charles L. Grant
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'We re headed over to the nightside now, so grab on, people. Get ready to break out.
In a hellish sort of way, I think you’re going to enjoy yourself.'
raincoat’s collar closer around his neck, held it closed with one hand while the other wiped at the pricks of moisture that clung to his cheeks, his short dark hair. He whistled once, loudly, but in listening heard nothing, not even an echo. He stamped his feet against the November cold and moved to the nearest corner, squinted and saw nothing. He knew the cat was gone, had known it from the moment he had seen the saucer still brimming with milk on the back porch. Damon had been sitting beside
didn’t want you to upset him.” “What in hell are you talking about?” “He would have seen you and he would have wanted to go back to Oxrun.” Her eyes narrowed. “This is his home, Frank! He’s got to learn to live with it.” “I’ll get a lawyer.” She smiled. “Do that. You do that, Frank.” He didn’t have to. He saw Damon a few minutes later and could not stay more than a moment. The boy was in dim light and almost invisible, too thin to be real beneath the clear plastic tent and the tubes and the
dimes good-bye forever. He had not mentioned it to Terry, though, because he didn't want to jinx it. He waited, instead. And walked with her back to the road. A yellow van was waiting in his lane, honking his horn and shouting for attention. At first Wes thought the driver might be in trouble, but when he hurried to the island and tightroped to the gate, the booth was empty. The driver was mad. Wes apologized for the delay, received a curse for a tip, and the quarter was thrown against his
and a hot-cold wind wailed through his long hair, ripped at the skin around his throat, making no sound as he gazed unblinking into the nothing that buried him weightlessly while he crouched, naked, on swollen hands and blistered knees listening for her voice and hearing only a volley of thunder cascade through his chest. A bubble of spittle quivered at the comer of his mouth while mute echoes, deafening in their dumbness, competed with the rasp of his lungs to fill the void. A flash, then, of
operation. The Savage Place. At the time-battered fieldstone wall, Gary stopped and pressed his hands against his sides, the cold air slicing into his lung and making his eyes water. Kim, just a few steps behind, draped himself over the chest-high barrier and panted loudly, shaking his head and covering his ears with his palms. The clouds that had greyed the daylight finally broke, and the moon-a bulging nail- brightened that grey to a not-quite-silver. Ahead of them was the field covered with