Fears Unnamed by Tim Lebbon

By Tim Lebbon

Tim Lebbon has burst upon the scene and proven himself as the most effective horror writers at paintings this day. he's the winner of diverse awards, together with a Bram Stoker Award. Critics have raved approximately his paintings, and enthusiasts have eagerly embraced him as a modern grasp of the macabre. possibly nowhere are the explanations for his acceptance extra obtrusive than during this choice of 4 of his so much chilling novellas. of those darkish gemstones got British delusion Awards, and one other used to be written particularly for this booklet. those terrifying stories shape a window right into a international of horrors that, as soon as skilled, can by no means be forgotten.

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It was not an image that I relished, but deep down I found some satisfaction in the stirring of my mostly dormant imagination. Thousands of tons of sand picked up by the storm abraded the whole landscape. It was powered against the canvas, setting the whole structure vibrating into a blur. Something hit the tent. It slid slowly across the surface, visible as a dark shadow against the slightly lighter background. Its edges shimmered in the wind, and it took several long seconds to pass over the tent's domed roof, finally being sucked away into the storm with a whiplike crack.

Scott once showed me his collection of scars. Shark off the coast of South Africa, snake in Paraguay, a goring from running with the bulls in Spain, a bullet in his hip from a brush with Chinese soldiers in Tibet, the ragged wound in his throat where he had given himself a tracheotomy after being stung by a deadly scorpion, airways closing, life fading away in his poisoned blood, his knife so sharp and sure. He had a tattoo on one shoulder blade, put there by an old woman in Haiti who claimed it would keep him alive when death came knocking.

I reached out to take it from him, but there was nothing there. No bone to touch, no friction, no heat when I held my hand in the guttering flames. Nothing. "Scott," 1 said. " "There'll be light," he said. "Every place I've read of this, there's the light of the dead. We just have to get there. This is the route to the city, not the city proper. We should find it soon, Pete. Soon! " "This is madness," I said. Our voices were peculiarly dead in that subterranean place, consumed by the rock walls and the weird hieroglyphs.

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