Gaslight Grotesque: Nightmare Tales of Sherlock Holmes
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THE MONSTERS ARE DUE ON BAKER STREET!
Between the shadowy realms of fear and the unforgiving glare of science lies a battleground of unspeakable horror. In vile alleyways with blood-slick cobblestones, impenetrable fog, and the wan glow of gaslight, lurk the inhuman denizens of nightmare.
CAN REASON PREVAIL WHEN ELIMINATING
THE IMPOSSIBLE IS NO LONGER AN OPTION?
Faced with his worst fears, Sherlock Holmes has his faith in the science of observation and deduction shaken to the core in 13 all-new tales of terror from today's modern masters of the macabre!
Leslie S. Klinger - "Foreword"
Charles V. Prepolec - "Introduction"
Stephen Volk - "Hounded"
Lawrence C. Connolly - "The Death Lantern"
William Meikle - "The Quality of Mercy"
James A. Moore - "Emily's Kiss"
William Patrick Maynard - "The Tragic Case of the Child Prodigy
Hayden Trenholm - "The Last Windigo"
Neil Jackson - "Celeste"
Robert Lauderdale - "The Best Laid Plans"
Leigh Blackmore - "Exalted are the Forces of Darkness"
Mark Morris - "The Affair of the Heart"
Simon Kurt Unsworth - "The Hand-Delivered Letter"
Barbara Roden - "Of the Origin of the Hound of the Baskervilles"
J. R. Campbell - "Mr. Other's Children"
evening. A curt note instructing me to meet him on a street corner in a somewhat disreputable part of town. Hesitating, I opened the desk drawer where I keep my old service revolver. Remembering the despair I’d seen in Bradstreet’s eyes I loaded the weapon and placed it in my pocket. Thus comforted, I hurried to the address Holmes had provided. As the fading light of the day lengthened the city’s shadows I found my friend observing the comings and goings of a hotel across the street. As I
What does that suggest to you?” I shifted uncomfortably, not meeting Holmes’ gaze. An image of the handsome Mrs. Bradstreet rose in my mind. Stubbornly I replied, “I don’t know.” “A woman,” Holmes explained. “Such arrangements are not uncommon between members of the Yard and those they police. I admit I’d not suspected Bradstreet as being prone to such unfaithfulness but there it is.” “Still only a theory,” the protest sounded weak to my own ears. “Quite so,” waving Bradstreet’s key, Holmes
were safe in our beds. To my sorrow it created a distance between us. Guilt ate at my dearest friend. It formed around him a carapace. On my part I could no longer help the unease I continually felt in his presence. The billowing smoke of his pipe could not but conjure in my mind the sea-mist of that desolate landscape. And the shame in both of us. He hid himself from me. I lost him in the fog. We agreed never to speak of it again. My standard instruction to my housekeeper, Mrs. Race, was not
all old. Remembering our last conversation as we parted after Holmes’ funeral, I asked him how his grandchildren were. He answered that they were a joy in trying times. He had lost two sons in the Great War. He kept his raincoat on in spite of Mrs. Race’s polite request to hang it up for him. I noted his hands were pink from the cold. I offered him a cigarette. He took one and coughed at the first gasp. I used to be able to tell a lot from a cough, but I didn’t play that game any more. Those
painting of a unicorn by Harvey Deacon, that well known depicter of the outré and sensational who specialized in scenes of fairies, mythical animals and allegorical figures of all sorts. On the shelf beside my chair I saw books by Eliphas Levi and Paul Le Duc, the occultist, and my qualms in coming were reinvigorated. After fifteen minutes Mr. Hebron returned to the room and struck up his harmonium, playing a twee little song called ‘The Happy Land’, reminding me of the music hall and Jenny