Lee Millman

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  • Dunwich Horror, The

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    Dunwich Horror, The

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    Ah, the sweet, sweet singing of the whip-poor-wills. Surely one of the most innocent, purest birdsongs one can know, plaintive and perfect in the clean morning light.

    Unless, of course, you happen to live near the decayed New England village of Dunwich. Unless, of course, you have seen the mad fires blazing from the ancient stone circles atop Sentinel Mountain. Unless, of course, you remember the horrible events of seventy years ago and happen to be familiar with the name “Whately.”

    Then the singing of whip-poor-wills isn’t so sweet and their patient waiting anything but innocent…

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  • Happy Man, The

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    Happy Man, The

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    Capital punishment is a terrible thing, they say. It reduces the State to the same level as the Criminal, they say. It must be replaced with something humane, they say. But who is to say what is humane and what isn’t and if the Convicted had a choice, which would they choose?

    A man is running, running through the woods, avoiding cities, avoiding his fellow man, running, running. He’s running from the authorities, from his crimes, from an entire world. And most of all he is running from himself and the logically frightening and humane punishment that waits for him if he stops.

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  • Invisible Man, The

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    Invisible Man, The

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    The small English town of Iping is just a waystation on the main road to Port Braddock. Nothing ever happens in Iping. Not in the dead of winter with the snow thick and crisp on the ground. Not with the wind howling and the ice crunching underfoot. Not until the Stranger came with his thick dark glasses and his head wrapped in bandages. Not until the Invisible Man arrived.

    H G Wells’ The Invisible Man is one of the true classics of science fiction, as frightening and fresh now as it was when it was first written. For there is terror in doors that open with no one behind them, in footsteps in empty halls, in a touch in an empty room. And for Griffin, the Invisible Man, in the discovery of what it is to be both powerful — and powerless.

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  • Rats in the Walls, The

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    Rats in the Walls, The

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    Delapore. A name with a history. A history of unspeakable atrocity; a history of black arts; a history of hatred, and terror.

    Delapore. It’s just a name, now. In this case, it is the name of a man returning to England to reclaim the lands of his family. The name of a man who knows the skeletons in his family’s closet — or so he thinks.

    Delapore. Surely it is possible to outlive the past. Surely it is possible to outrun one’s ancestors, to outrun history — to outrun fate. Surely a man’s destiny lies in his own hands, and not in the misdeeds of men a hundred generations dead.

    Beware, England. The last Delapore has come home.

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  • Shadow Over Innsmouth, The

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    Shadow Over Innsmouth, The

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    “How’d yew like to be livin’ in a town like this here Innsmouth, with everything a-rottin’ an’ dyin’ an’ boarded up! Things crawlin’ an’ bleatin’ an’ barkin’ an’ hoppin’ around black cellars an’ high attics every way ye turn? Hey? How’d yew like to hear the howlin’ night after night from the Esoteric Order o’ Dagon hall an’ know what unholy things is doin’ part of the howlin? Yew think this old man’s crazy? Well, sir, let me tell yew that ain’t the worst! That ain’t the worst! That ain’t the worst!”

    There is something wrong in the decayed seacoast town of Innsmouth. Something wrong in the crumbling buildings. Something wrong in the cold deep waters.

    Something wrong in the blood.

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Showing all 5 results