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About This Book
A horror novella from one of the modern masters of contemporary horror fiction. Mark Edward Hall delivers a rich, dark and terrifying tale of a young man's struggle to understand the horrific visions of murder that have plagued his life since childhood. What he discovers is a truth so shocking it threatens to destroy him.
An Excerpt from THE FEAR:
Mitch whirled, as he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A tiny bent form scurried across the living room carpet. Mitch screamed as his heart hammered into a gallop. "Oh, Jesus!" he said. "Oh, Jesus Christ, this can't be happening."
Mitch stood stark still, staring at the place where he thought he'd seen the tiny scurrying form. He saw no more movement, but that didn't mean anything. The house was dark, and filled with shadows, and there were plenty of places for . . . it to hide.
Mitch bent over, resting his hands on his trembling knees as his breath sucked asthmatically through constricted airways. That's when he noticed the dark stains. They were all over the front of his sweats and his nightshirt. He straightened up, raising his hands, holding the palms close to his face, straining to see them in the dim light. The dream intruded on him suddenly, in all its gruesome detail.
"Oh, Jesus no," he said, turning sharply and limping quickly down the corridor. In the bathroom Mitch flipped on the light and gawked at himself in the mirror. It was worse than he could have imagined. The blood was everywhere, smears of it on his face and clots of it in his unkempt hair. The front of his shirt and sweats appeared to be finger-painted with the stuff. They looked like a macabre map of some unknown continent. Most of it had dried, leaving his pants and shirt stiff, like a second skin frozen with rigor. On his face, however, the blood was still wet; it had mixed with his sweat and tears and the combination looked like a haphazard watercolor painting on the face of a ghoul.
Dear, God, what has happened here?
"Mark Edward Hall writes like a master. Stephen King, yes, but also like Stoker, Poe, and Bradbury, yeah, even Shakespeare. His prose is hypnotic and seductive, visceral, and edgy. He's the real thing." —Kiana Davenport, New York Times Bestselling Author of Cannibal Nights and House of Skin
"Hall has an uncanny knack for blending vivid, almost poetic prose with visceral images of jaw-dropping horror to great effect." —Bram Stoker Award Winning Editor, Vince Liaguno
"Poetic and eerily seductive, Hall pushes you to the edge, until you get lost in the beautiful madness of his creations." —Midwest Book Review
"Hall is rapidly climbing the ladder to stake a claim as one of the dark fiction elite." —Morpheus Tales
An Excerpt from THE FEAR:
Mitch whirled, as he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A tiny bent form scurried across the living room carpet. Mitch screamed as his heart hammered into a gallop. "Oh, Jesus!" he said. "Oh, Jesus Christ, this can't be happening."
Mitch stood stark still, staring at the place where he thought he'd seen the tiny scurrying form. He saw no more movement, but that didn't mean anything. The house was dark, and filled with shadows, and there were plenty of places for . . . it to hide.
Mitch bent over, resting his hands on his trembling knees as his breath sucked asthmatically through constricted airways. That's when he noticed the dark stains. They were all over the front of his sweats and his nightshirt. He straightened up, raising his hands, holding the palms close to his face, straining to see them in the dim light. The dream intruded on him suddenly, in all its gruesome detail.
"Oh, Jesus no," he said, turning sharply and limping quickly down the corridor. In the bathroom Mitch flipped on the light and gawked at himself in the mirror. It was worse than he could have imagined. The blood was everywhere, smears of it on his face and clots of it in his unkempt hair. The front of his shirt and sweats appeared to be finger-painted with the stuff. They looked like a macabre map of some unknown continent. Most of it had dried, leaving his pants and shirt stiff, like a second skin frozen with rigor. On his face, however, the blood was still wet; it had mixed with his sweat and tears and the combination looked like a haphazard watercolor painting on the face of a ghoul.
Dear, God, what has happened here?
"Mark Edward Hall writes like a master. Stephen King, yes, but also like Stoker, Poe, and Bradbury, yeah, even Shakespeare. His prose is hypnotic and seductive, visceral, and edgy. He's the real thing." —Kiana Davenport, New York Times Bestselling Author of Cannibal Nights and House of Skin
"Hall has an uncanny knack for blending vivid, almost poetic prose with visceral images of jaw-dropping horror to great effect." —Bram Stoker Award Winning Editor, Vince Liaguno
"Poetic and eerily seductive, Hall pushes you to the edge, until you get lost in the beautiful madness of his creations." —Midwest Book Review
"Hall is rapidly climbing the ladder to stake a claim as one of the dark fiction elite." —Morpheus Tales