By Norman Partridge

Winner of the 2006 Bram Stoker Award for lengthy Fiction and the foreign Horror Guild Award for lengthy Fiction.

A Midwestern city. you recognize its identify. You have been born there.

It's Halloween evening, 1963. each boy among the a while of 16 and nineteen has been locked up for the final 5 days. Now, ravenous and wild, they're hitting the streets armed with baseball bats, pitchforks, and two-by-fours studded with nails.

They're able to move nose-to-nose with a legend. He's the reaper that grows in a cornfield, the cruel trick with a middle made from treats, the butchering nightmare with a Jack O' Lantern face. He's the October Boy, and he visits your city each Halloween, able to run a gauntlet of younger males worried to carve his beating sweet center from his chest.

Mitch Crenshaw and his gang burn rubber in a highway rod with Gorgon headlights…. Pete McCormick's at the stream with a stolen .45… and a hunted lady is on the market, too, making her holiday at the one evening of the yr while no ideas follow. You're working with them, threading your individual course via possibility and moonlight, shadowing a sadistic cop and packs of brutal childrens who'll assault someone who will get of their approach. simply because this is often your city. you know its secrets and techniques, and also you desire a ringside seat at the evening all of it comes tumbling down.


"Probably the main fascinating and unique voice in horror literature to have seemed within the final decade."--Peter Straub

"A significant new talent."--Stephen King

"This is modern American writing at its finest."--_Publishers Weekly

"If you're trying to find a frightening Halloween story, with plenty of blood and gore--and candy--you've come to the fitting place."-- Rocky Mountain News

"Using a short, lean prose equivalent to the best Gold Medal-era fiction and, even as, as clean as a Quentin Tarantino movie, Partridge packs extra into this slender quantity than so much authors do in a bloated 600-page epic."--The Austin Chronicle

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This particular gazelle was six feet tall with deep brown skin and rich chestnut hair that fell to his ankles, thick and straight, held back only by a thin copper diadem. He was naked from the waist up except for the rich gold silk suspenders that graced his chest and caught the faint yellow pattern in the brown of his suit pants. He had two 9mm guns in the front of his pants, because no one could figure out how to get him in a shoulder holster, or how to strap on his armor, or his swords, without damaging his wings.

The trouble was that I couldn’t see what Cel, or anyone serving his interests, would gain from killing Beatrice. The reporter seemed accidental, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. “You’ve thought of something,” Rhys said. “Later,” I said, and let my eyes flick to the backs of the men just a foot away from us. ” “We should hide the body,” said one of the men at our backs. Amatheon’s hair, in its tight coppery red French braids, left his face bare, but nothing could leave it unadorned, for his eyes were layered petals of red, blue, yellow, and green, like some multicolored flower.

The sluagh were the least human of faerie. The nightmares that even the Unseelie fear. They are the only wild hunt that is left to us. The only frightening group that can hunt the fey, even the sidhe, until they are caught. Sometimes they kill, sometimes they only fetch you back for the queen. The sidhe fear the sluagh, and its threat was one of the reasons to fear the queen. I’d agreed to bed the King of the Sluagh to cement an alliance with them against my enemies. It was not widely known in the court that I had made the bargain.

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