Review
"This solid, inventive, scary collection of stories reveals a writer who has thought hard about the problematics of horror." (New York Times on 20TH CENTURY GHOSTS )
"[A] new take on the fantasy-horror genre...Highly recommended." (The Sun Herald (Sydney, Australia) )
"Each of these chilling tales arrests you from the opening sentence and leads you - trustingly, thanks to the simple mastery of the story-teller - into a place of gulping fear." (Daily Mail (London) on 20TH CENTURY GHOSTS )
"Irresistible stories." (Evening Herald (Ireland) )
"Each tale is unique, and the collection proves that Hill's talent is not limited to horror, but extends well into the mainstream." (Denver Rocky Mountain News )
"[An] inventive collection . . . brave and astute." (New York Times Book Review (Editor's Choice) )
"The selections range from the mundane to the surreal, with a strong emphasis on the kind of horror tale perfected by Ray Bradbury, Peter Straub and Stephen King." (San Francisco Chronicle )
"[A] lovely, earnest collection of short fiction." (Village Voice )
"[O]ne of the best [horror] collections of the year. Hill is a relative newcomer who consistently creates creepy, very disturbing stories." (Locus )
"Subtle and disturbing in equal measure." (Coventry Telegraph on 20TH CENTURY GHOSTS )
"Alternately sad, scary, strange and at times even sweet, these tales will haunt you long after you've read them." (Parade (a "Parade Pick") )
Product Description
Imogene is young and beautiful. She kisses like a movie star and knows everything about every film ever made. She's also dead and waiting in the Rosebud Theater for Alec Sheldon on an afternoon in 1945 . . .
Arthur Roth is a lonely kid with big ideas and a gift for attracting abuse. It isn't easy to make friends when you're the only inflatable boy in town . . .
Francis is unhappy. Francis was human once, but that was then. Now he's an eight-foot-tall locust and everyone in Calliphora will tremble when they hear him sing . . .
John Finney is locked in a basement that's stained with the blood of half a dozen murdered children. In the cellar with him is an antique telephone, long since disconnected, but which rings at night with calls from the dead . . .
The past isn't dead. It isn't even past . . .