Black Wings of Cthulhu: Tales of Lovecraftian Horror

Black Wings of Cthulhu: Tales of Lovecraftian Horror

S. T. Joshi

Language: English

Pages: 480

ISBN: 0857687824

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


From the depths of R'lyeh come twenty-one brand-new, utterly terrifying, and thoroughly entertaining short stories of horror and the macabre! 

Taking their inspiration from works by Lovecraft himself, prominent writers such as Caitlin R. Kiernan, Brian Stableford, Ramsey Campbell, Michael Shea, Darrell Schweitzer, Donald R. Burleson, and David J. Schow delve deep into the psyche, expanding on concepts H.P. Lovecraft created and taking them in new directions.

The result is stories that are wholly original, some even featuring Lovecraft himself as a character. Black Wings editor S.T. Joshi is the recognized authority on all things Lovecraftian, and is famous for his restorations of Lovecraft's original works. He has assembled a star-studded line-up in a book that is essential for every horror library. 

Including: 
Pickman's Other Model - Caitlín R. Kiernan 
Desert Dreams - Donald R. Burleson 
Engravings - Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. 
Copping Squid - Michael Shea 
Passing Spirits - Sam Gafford 
The Broadsword - Laird Barron 
Usurped - William Browning Spencer 
Denker's Book - Davd J. Schow 
Inhabitants of Wraithwood - W.H Pugmire 
The Dome - Mollie L. Burleson 
Rotterdam - Nicholas Royle 
Tempting Providence - Jonathan Thomas 
Howling in the Dark - Darrell Schweitzer 
The Truth About Pickman - Brian Stableford 
Tunnells - Philip Haldeman 
The Correspondence of Cameron Thaddeus Nash - Annotated by Ramsey Campbell 
Violence, Child of Trust - Michael Cisco 
Lesser Demons - Norman Partridge 
An Eldritch Matter - Adam Niswander 
Substitutions - Michael Marshall Smith 
Susie - Jason Van Hollander

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revival and Victorian pretenses. It had huddled at the end of a narrow cobbled lane, behind a pair of Federal mansions that fronted the sidewalk. How sad that such venerable charm had bitten the dust for the sake of nondescript, hulking barracks, as it had all over College Hill. My wife would have told me yet again to get over it or go work for someone else, but she was too often out of town for Ivy League depredations to weigh on her. From the tidbits I gleaned about Crawford Tillinghast, his

be.” Dead air followed as I cast about for a seemlier topic. He also pleaded ignorance regarding the balance of Crawford’s life post-1920, and no paperwork or microfiche at City Hall or the Providence Journal enlightened me, as if the records were defective or had been expunged through familial clout. After Crawford’s departure from the House Directory, his property stood derelict for decades till the Tillinghasts bequeathed it to the university, which apparently didn’t have to ask twice. In

“So they were this older mob couple who had been the owners here for, like, nearly twenty years; so anyway, they were vacationing in Prague, having a good time, and then BAM!” Tom whacked his hands together dramatically. “They’re dragged kicking and screaming across the Charles Bridge, to Prague Castle, and never seen again.” The room went quiet. The agent sighed loudly. “While it’s true that they did not return, no one knows that they were ‘dragged away.’ They were filmmakers and were doing

with a voice in it, stuck at the register arranging cigarette packages or reading a weekly magazine of stars uncovered, secrets exposed, until the clock placed its hands on midnight. Scared you forget things, like the phone in your pocket. Maybe I just needed to see a face. One that had heard of the meek shall inherit and do unto others. In old noir films the streets are wet to give heightened effects to the lights. Not here. Bone dry. And lights? I half wondered if they were outlawed here.

bubbles on the cliff above me reflect her body as she falls to the sand. Everywhere, walls glow and cradle me in purple and bumps and the musk of rotting lopes and peaches. Pressed inside, wrapped in warmth, I belong. Tatania isn’t with us. She’s beyond the rock, still on the beach. I’m inside now, where I belong, inside the cliff, where my bumps swell and cling to the bumps surrounding me. All of us, we belong, one with Yog-Sothoth, who dwells in the higher planes and comes to us in

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