“Slime” By Joseph Payne Brennan (Narrated By Jeffrey LeBlanc)
The origin story of a classic cinema monster!-JL
The origin story of a classic cinema monster!-JL
Terrifying poems to celebrate Halloween!!
Another horrific tale by Robert Bloch sure to make your skin crawl!-JL
A ripping yarn sure to cut deep by the master of mystery and horror–Robert Bloch!
He did not look long. A single moment of numbing realization, and then he leaped into the pool–leaped straight into the deepest water, breaking with his body the mad reflection he had seen on the mirrored surface.
The aged mariner may proclaim, “And on the first winter breaker…of Grand Isle’s coldest winter, Pierre Santiny plunged into the sea and was seen no more.”
Then, the teller of the tale may pause with haunting eyes as the fires crack in the bonfire, the sea roars, and the wind howls with possibly an ancient chime. With a whispering voice on the third crash of a wave they may even say, “But none on the island will ever say he died.”–JL
A legend haunts the town of Grand Isle. Aged mariners proclaim by roaring bonfires along the coast, “And on the first winter breaker…of Grand Isle’s coldest winter, Pierre Santiny plunged into the sea and was seen no more.”
Then, the teller of the tale may pause with haunting eyes as the fires crack in the bonfire, the sea roars, and the wind howls with possibly an ancient chime. With a whispering voice on the third crash of a wave they may even say, “But none on the island will ever say he died.”
Will Marty Santiny—son of Pierre Santiny, discover what really happened to his father? Or will the town continue to fear the legend of “The Mariner of Caminada Pass”?
So have your drink, and then my advice to you is to keep right on moving north. Whatever you do, don’t go up that road to Jerusalem’s Lot. Especially not after dark. –Stephen King
For a moment he stood stupefied by the power of the revelation, then ran with stumbling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin. There, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman—the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood.
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.—Edgar Allan Poe
Now I must go back to Yoh-Vombis—back across the desert and down through all the catacombs to the vaster vaults beneath. Something is in my brain, that commands me and will direct me . . . I tell you, I must go . . .
“As with sounds, so with colours. At each end of the solar spectrum the chemist can detect the presence of what are known as ‘actinic’ rays. They represent colours — integral colours in the composition of light — which we are unable to discern. The human eye is an imperfect instrument; its range is but a few octaves of the real ‘chromatic scale.’ I am not mad; there are colours that we cannot see.”
As I wait to freeze, I don’t remember much these days as I’m old. But I do remember the bite of that ice storm in 1866.
And, the blood. How I remember the blood.
“And on the first winter breaker…of Grand Isle’s coldest winter, Pierre Santiny plunged into the sea and was seen no more. But none on the island will ever say he died.” –JL
The strange feelings that kept him thus awake were not easy to analyse, perhaps, but their origin was beyond all question:they grouped themselves about the picture of that deserted, tumble-down chalet on the mountain ridge where they had stopped for refreshment a few hours before.