John Skipp_7 Titles (Var. Horror; Fantasy) EPUB + MOBI

After meeting Nora, a creature of the night, Syd, just another lonely working-class guy singing the steel-town blues, finds himself lured across the line that separates man from beast.



In a February 16, 2008 interview with cinematical.com, George A. Romero reminds us, “There was a collection of stories called Book of the Dead, in which horror and science-fiction writers came together and wrote short stories about what was happening to other people on that first night (as depicted) in Night of the Living Dead.” Noted authors such as Joe R. Lansdale, Stephen King, Robert R. McCammon, and Douglas E. Winter use their macabre vision to bring us those stories. Forwarded by the Godfather himself, this anthology imbeds itself in the cannon of zombie lore.



When the great storm comes, the good life ends. And hell on Earth begins. For 100 years we’ve been tossing our toxic waste over our shoulders. No more. This morning, while we slept, something woke up. It’s virulent. Malign. Intelligent. Ambitious. It’s in our food, our water, our air. It’s inside our bodies themselves. And it’s not leaving. We are.



Foreword by David Niall Wilson plus a new author's foreword by Craig Spector and Afterword by John Skipp

DEAD LINES is about a young writer/artist type, Jack Rowan, in NYC, whose career never took off. Hs life is in the toilet. He’s broken up with his girlfriend and crashing on the couch of his more successful photographer friend, Glen’s, loft while Glen is off in LA on a shoot. In the first chapter, Jack finishes his manuscript — a collection of short stories titled NIghtmare NYC — swigs off a bottle of vodka, then boxes the manuscript up, writes DO NOT OPEN UNTIL DOOMSDAY on it, and hides it in a crawlspace in his friend’s apartment. Then he walks up a ladder he set up in the living room, puts the rope he knotted to a steam pipe around his neck/ He takes one last swig off the bottle, looks at a photo in his hand of himself and a woman, says, look what you made me do.

The apartment is abandoned until two girls, Meryl, from a wealthy family in Boston and trying to escape her overbearing father by going to college at NYU and Katie, a waitress, become unlikely roommates. Then they start to become friends.

One night while Meryl is fixing up her room, she finds the box containing Jack’s lost manuscript. She starts to read the stories and becomes intrigued with this ‘mystery’ writer and his dark, brooding, moody vision of the city. As she reads and slowly falls in love with her mystery writer, stange things begin happening in the apartment, and in the girls’ dreams. Something is awaken in the loft – and it’s hungry, and Doomsday may not be so far away…



From the Inside Flap

"An absolute blast! This is not only the best Oz tribute story I've ever read, it's also one of the best books I've ever read period." - CARLTON MELLICK III, author of Warrior Wolf Women of the Wasteland

"Here's an unusual story for you. In the not too distant future, the government reveals that it has secretly been in contact with Oz for many years. It is possible to visit, although the portal doesn't work for everyone. Sometimes they're left standing where they were, on other occasions they die in spectacular fashion. The protagonist decides to emigrate in search of the woman he admires, and finds himself in a strange land where unoccupied cars travel about in packs and electric guitars grow on trees. He also arrives just in time to get caught up in a war between the legitimate rulers, Ozma and Glinda, and the army of the Hollow Man, a would-be usurper. Fortunately, our hero has brought with him a remarkable laptop computer which becomes sentient in Oz. This is an authentic Oz novel, but it starts and ends in very strange places, and the middle is pretty weird as well. The story sets its claws in your imagination early on, and never lets go through a series of adventures, confrontations, and revelations. For the weird little kid in you." -- DON D'AMMASSA, Science Fiction Chronicle



An adrenaline-charged tale of unrelenting suspense that sparks with raw and savage energy... The newspapers scream out headlines that spark terror across the city. Ten murders on the New York City subway. Ten grisly crimes that defy all reason -- no pattern, no m.o., no leads for police to pursue. The press dubs the fiend the "Subway Psycho"; the NYPD desperately seeks their quarry before the city erupts in mass hysteria. But they won't find what they're looking for.

Because they all think that the killer is human.

Only a few know the true story -- a story the papers will never print. It is a tale of abject terror and death written in grit and steel... and blood. The tale of a man who vanished into the bowels of the urban earth one night, taken by a creature of unholy evil, then left as a babe abandoned on the doorstep of Hell. Now he is back, driven by twin demons of rage and retribution.

He is unstoppable. And we are all his prey... unless a ragtag band of misfit souls will dare to descend into a world of manmade darkness, where the real and unreal alike dwell in endless shadow. A place where humanity has been left behind, and the horrifying truth will dawn as a madman's chilling vendetta comes to light...

Filled with gripping drama and harrowing doomsday dread, The Light at the End is the book that ushered in a bold new view of humankind's most ancient and ruthless evil; a mesmerizing novel from two acknowledged masters of spellbinding suspense.



Rock ‘n’ Roll. Hell. Two great tastes that taste great together. Long before Elvis gyrated on the Sullivan Show or the Beatles toiled the smoky red-light bars of Hamburg, music has been sowing the seeds of liberation. Or damnation. With each new generation the edge of rebellion pushed farther. Rhythms quickened. Volume increased. Lyrics coarsened. The rules continued to be broken, until it seemed that there were no rules at all.
And as waves of teens cranked it up and poured it on, parents built walls of accusation to explain their offspring’s seeming corruption. Sex and drugs, demon worship and violence are the effects. Music is the cause. Or so the self-styled guardians of morality would have us believe.
Meet The Scream. Just your average everyday mega-cult band. Their music is otherworldly. Their words are disturbing. Their message is unholy. Their fans are legion. And they’re not kidding. They’re killing. Themselves. Each other. Everyone. Their gospel screams from the lips of babes. Their backbeat has a body count. And their encore is just the warm-up act to madness beyond belief.
It emerged from a war-torn jungle, where insanity was just another word for survival. It arrived in America with an insatiable lust for power and the means to fulfill it. In the amplified roar of arena applause there beats the heart of absolute darkness.