If you’re like me, you love a good horror series. Hell, series are cool, period, right? I remember my 1970s collection of The Occult Files of Doctor Spektor! I treasured those 19 or 20 comics. Add the amazing artwork and illustrations that a series often comes with, and they’re great! Throw in a great editor and the really good writers, telling their most frightening stories—and series are fantastic!!
I have been collecting Stephen Jones’ The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror since around 2003 and I finally have them all in either hard copy or digital editions. But having more isn’t always easier! I’m always going: Where did I place that one book with the killer vampire story in it? Or which book was that crazy story about the “sticks” in? you know by Wagner?
Well, now-a-days it’s very easy to look things up and put a quick name to a book to a page number … and find just what you’re looking for. But back in the day? It was a treasure hunt!
But look no further—because here is the ultimate Master List (thank you ISFDB & StephenJoneseditor.com) of Tables of Contents from all 28 anthologies!—and the covers!*—almost three decades of great short horror fiction! “That’s gotta be like forty-eight hundred teeth!”
(*If an edition had more than one cover, I’ve included both below.)
xiii • Introduction: Horror in 1989 • [Horror in … Introductions] • (1990) • essay by Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell
1 • Pin • (1989) • short story by Robert R. McCammon
8 • The House on Cemetery Street • (1988) • novelette by Cherry Wilder
33 • The Horn • (1989) • novelette by Stephen Gallagher
57 • Breaking Up • (1989) • short story by Alex Quiroba
66 • It Helps If You Sing • (1989) • short story by Ramsey Campbell
75 • Closed Circuit • (1989) • novelette by Laurence Staig
93 • Carnal House • (1989) • short story by Steve Rasnic Tem
104 • Twitch Technicolor • (1989) • short story by Kim Newman
115 • Lizaveta • (1988) • novelette by Gregory Frost
144 • Snow Cancellations • (1989) • short story by Donald R. Burleson
154 • Archway • (1989) • novelette by Nicholas Royle
176 • The Strange Design of Master Rignolo • (1989) • short story by Thomas Ligotti
189 • …To Feel Another’s Woe • (1989) • short story by Chet Williamson
205 • The Last Day of Miss Dorinda Molyneaux • (1989) • novelette by Robert Westall
236 • No Sharks in the Med • (1989) • novelette by Brian Lumley
275 • Mort au Monde • (1989) • short story by D. F. Lewis
279 • Blanca • (1989) • novelette by Thomas Tessier
303 • The Eye of the Ayatollah • (1990) • short story by Ian Watson
312 • At First Just Ghostly • [Kane] • (1989) • novella by Karl Edward Wagner
370 • Bad News • (1989) • short story by Richard Laymon
383 • Necrology: 1989 (Best New Horror) • [Necrology (Jones & Newman)] • (1990) • essay by Stephen Jones and Kim Newman
xvii • Introduction: Horror in 1990 • [Horror in … Introductions] • essay by Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell
1 • The First Time • (1990) • short story by K. W. Jeter
14 • A Short Guide to the City • (1990) • short story by Peter Straub
25 • Stephen • (1990) • novelette by Elizabeth Massie
47 • The Dead Love You • (1989) • short story by Jonathan Carroll
60 • Jane Doe #112 • (1990) • short story by Harlan Ellison
70 • Shock Radio • (1990) • short story by Ray Garton
89 • The Man Who Drew Cats • (1990) • short story by Michael Marshall Smith
105 • The Co-Op • (1990) • short story by Melanie Tem
115 • Negatives • (1990) • short story by Nicholas Royle
126 • The Last Feast of Harlequin • [Cthulhu Mythos] • (1990) • novelette by Thomas Ligotti
159 • 1/72nd Scale • (1990) • novelette by Ian R. MacLeod
185 • Cedar Lane • (1990) • short story by Karl Edward Wagner
194 • At a Window Facing West • (1990) • short story by Kim Antieau
205 • Inside the Walled City • (1990) • novelette by Garry Kilworth
222 • On the Wing • (1990) • short story by Jean-Daniel Brèque
230 • Firebird • (1990) • novelette by J. L. Comeau
252 • Incident on a Rainy Night in Beverly Hills • (1990) • novelette by David J. Schow
272 • His Mouth Will Taste of Wormwood • [Cthulhu Mythos] • (1990) • short story by Poppy Z. Brite
‘”Listen. I hear bad things about you,” he said.
“I’m afraid so. I’m told you attacked one of my boys.”
Gavin took six paces before he answered.
“Not me. You’ve got the wrong man.”
“He recognised you, trash. You did him some serious mischief.”
“I told you: not me.”
“You’re a lunatic, you know that? You should be put behind fucking bars.”
Preetorius was raising his voice. People were crossing the street to avoid the escalating argument.
Without thinking, Gavin turned off St Martin’s Lane into Long Acre, and rapidly realised he’d made a tactical error. The crowds thinned substantially here, and it was a long trek through the streets of Govent Garden before he reached another centre of activity. He should have turned right instead of left, and he’d have stepped onto Charing Cross Road. There would have been some safety there. Damn it, he couldn’t turn round, not and walk straight into them. All he could do was walk (not run; never run with a mad dog on your heels) and hope he could keep the conversation on an even keel.
Preetorius: “You’ve cost me a lot of money.”
“I don’t see.”
“You put some of my prime boy-meat out of commission. It’s going to be a long time ’til I get that kid back on the market. He’s shit scared, see?”
“Look… I didn’t do anything to anybody.”
“Why do you fucking lie to me, trash? What have I ever done to you, you treat me like this?”
Preetorius picked up his pace a little and came up level with Gavin, leaving his associates a few steps behind.
“Look…” he whispered to Gavin, “kids like that can be tempting, right? That’s cool. I can get into that. You put a little boy-pussy on my plate I’m not going to turn my nose up at it. But you hurt him: and when you hurt one of my kids, I bleed too.”
“If I’d done this like you say, you think I’d be walking the street?”
“Maybe you’re not a well man, you know? We’re not talking about a couple of bruises here, man. I’m talking about you taking a shower in a kid’s blood, that’s what I’m saying. Hanging him up and cutting him everywhere, then leaving him on my fuckin’ stairs wearing a pair of fucking’ socks. You getting my message now, white boy? You read my message?”
‘When Bram Stoker discovered Walt Whitman, he was a young man only just beginning a literary career that would eventually create one of the most enduring and lucrative characters of all time. At the time, Stoker was beginning to cut his teeth as a literary critic, dissatisfied with theater writing in Dublin and publishing his reviews for free in the Mail.
Stoker was also sharpening his critical skills in literary salons and among friends by defending Whitman, whose poetry was beginning to creep across the Atlantic to condescending reviews. The iconoclastic poet spoke to the young writer so intimately that Stoker found himself defending him whenever necessary and recommending him whenever possible.
Writing reviews, reading and defending Whitman, and publishing his first short stories all seem to have been stirred in the same boiling pot in Stoker’s twenties. Stoker felt so overwhelmed, and his first letter to Whitman was so personal, that it went unsent for four years. When he did finally send it, he enclosed with it another letter about his miniature crusade to enlighten his countrymen to Whitman’s gospel.’
Adam Frost and Jim Kynvin have prepared for The Guardian a set of 17 marvellous charts that study in detail the cases and success of the world’s brightest and first consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The data for the charts is collected in an impressive spreadsheet document, and has been split into 17 different slides, each slide representing it’s own chart.
The visuals are brilliantly designed, with a vintage feel of the early 20th century. The data is presented using illustrations from early editions of Sherlock Holmes books.
Holmes, one of the most recognizable characters in all of fiction, was created by Scottish writer, medical doctor, and later prolific and eccentric spiritualist, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The first novel in which Holmes appeared was The Study in Scarlet, published as a book by Ward Lock & Co in 1888. During Doyle’s lifetime, Holmes appeared in three additional novels and a total 56 short stories. At one point, tiring of writing about the character, Doyle even killed him off! Only to bring him back again for more adventures at the imploring of Holmes very large fan base.
The charts below give you a chance to explore the most common deductive methods that Holmes used to crack his cases, and the various locales in which the cases were set.
Interesting to note that the characters chart reveals Dr. Watson as having been absent in two of the stories. Additionally, the evil Professor Moriarty, who gradually became Sherlock’s nemesis thanks to hundreds of film, TV, and later fictional adaptations, originally appeared in only three of Doyle’s stories.
A complete collection of Sherlock Holmes works is available on Amazon for just $0.99.
The complete work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is also available free in the public domain. So you can read and download ebook versions of his books for free at websites such as http://www.ProjectGutenberg.com.
THE TIME THAT’S RIPE FOR REAPING
(a bite-sized horror story by Sanguine Woods)
“I put on its skin. I put on its skin,” it said. “Must I put it on again tonight? I loathe it. It has an…odor.”
Narrow nostrils flared at the phantom scent of moist stinking flesh.
“You’ll do it. Again. Odor or no.”
A cracked iron pipe made a hissing sound.
Its head found the cup of its hands and rested there. A sharp wheezing whittled at the close air in which it huddled.
“I grow weary of hiding,” it said.
The sound of dripping off to the right.
“I tire of your hounding,” it said.
The dripping sound again. It made its left ear twitch. It swatted at the sound as at a whining mosquito.
The other noticed this; noticed the increased agitation cutting the air like a fume.
“We had an agreement.” He tossed it something dark and wet, wrapped in newspaper.
The sound of its hand, then—smacking at a puddle.
“I grow impatient with your masquerade!” It was almost a screech.
Rocking back and forth, now. Softer: “I grow impatient with this masquerade…” Water sloshing with the rocking.
The newspaper bundle disappeared into the folds of its long coat. A grunt; a quick rustle from the coat; a blur, really; and it was gone.
The surface of the puddle it had crouched in quivered empty in the blue light falling from a storm drain.
A quick puff, spent the candle.
He climbed the rusted iron ladder in the dark, until his fingertips felt the manhole cover. A thrust upward and he was in the alley again.
It was humid for evening. He cracked the bones in his neck. His fingers, worried at a wrinkle of loose skin around the opening to his ear.
A cab went past. A spray of gutter water behind its wheel. In the distance a woman’s laughter, and a rush of late-night bar sounds, sluicing from an open door just before it swung shut again. Above him, on a telephone wire, something made a flapping sound.
Bargaining with this…thing…was getting risky. He was running out of ideas. Something sharp played at the edges of his thoughts, fraying each one, little by little.
He was not ready to admit it was fear. Or he wouldn’t. Either way, it was risky. And risk, unmitigated, eats its way through the return on an investment, like rust.
He watched a pool of streetlight at the corner of the alley and 88th Street. The night stank of rain; the bereft precipitation peculiar to aged buildings, barren parks, withered boroughs. Within seconds the first drops were cooling his head.
The city wrapped protective wings about its nighttime sounds.
Crippled with moral decay, heavy with the parasite of disease; it shall, regardless, enjoy absolution this evening. In place of church bells: wheels ringing over a loose manhole cover; the symbol-like clang of a trashcan lid; the heavy thunk of a steel dumpster door dropping; the ping of lead pipe upon lead pipe somewhere in the darker corners of alleyways, resounding off ancient brick and wrought iron—back there, where the real transgressions were born.
I absolve thee. Harlot though thou art!
He chuckled to himself, arms outspread wings, turning slowly on his feet.
The sound of prayer beads clicked together in a memory; his mind evoked a Saint-Saëns bone-clatter, melting into the sound of the rain striking the roof of a parked car.
The irony had him tight around the gut and he felt the sudden urge to laugh out loud; combined with the urge to snap something’s neck.
It may be bitter, but it is my heart.
In a twist of leather and bone, he, too, was gone. A faint sound of metal links clinking together.
Then, a thud on the pavement where seconds ago he’d been turning: a dead pigeon; one eye staring at the sky; beak open. The feathers around its broken neck, a metallic orange in the light of the street lamp. ♢
Story (c)2016 by Sanguine Woods
(Images: Pinterest; Tumblr; Google Images. Unless otherwise noted, artists are unknown.)
This story was first published at HorrorMade.com. You can view the original publication and original artwork by Jeanette Andromeda, here…
And, you can view and purchase this and other art by Jeanette Andromeda, here…
Also, for a quick discussion on where the idea for this flash story came from, see my post below where I include the story after a quick word or two about visual writing prompts…