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Bentley Little: The Collection

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Bentley Little The Collection

The Collection: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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How far would you go with a hitchhiker who'd left behind an unimaginable trail of horror and destruction? How would you feel if your father's new bride was something dredged up from the bowels of hell? What would you do if you discovered an old letter suggesting one of America's Founding Fathers had been a serial killer? How long would you last in a mysterious border town that promised to let you in on one of its most gruesome secrets? This is The Collection — thirty-two stories of hot blood and frigid terror that could have come only from the mind of Bentley Little. And that's a scary place to be.  He's been hailed by Dean Koontz for his "rock-'em, jolt-'em, shock-'em contemporary terror fiction." Now Little presents a 32-story collection that could only have come from an author with "a deft touch for the terrifying" ( ). From Publishers Weekly Little (The Association) displays his darker side in the 32 mostly memorable stories that comprise this collection of unpublished and previously published stories. Drawing from a bizarre cauldron of influences (cited in brief introductions to each piece), Little tackles some disturbing topics, including pedophilia, family crucifixions, incest and bestiality. Indeed, even fans accustomed to the gore found in Little's novels may be taken aback by the manner in which characters carry out their fetishes and crimes. The main character in "Blood," for example, kills both little boys and grown men without remorse, believing that his macaroni and cheese craves human blood. The supernatural and the unexplained are common themes, but some plot lines are underdeveloped. In "Monteith," readers are left to ponder what would have happened had the main character confronted his wife about a one-word note - written in her hand - that turned his life upside down. Among Little's best offerings are "Bob," a chilling tale of mistaken identity, and "Pillow Talk," a witty yet sad story about bed linens that come to life and ultimately display more human traits than many of the characters in this collection. A fascinating glimpse into how Little's creativity has evolved over the years, this volume is a must-have for the author's fans despite its uneven nature.  From Booklist Of the 32 spine tinglers in Little's gathering, some inevitably stand out. In "The Phonebook Man," the guy delivering the directory, once invited into a woman's house, changes his appearance drastically and refuses to leave. "Life with Father," one of the darkest stories in the collection, concerns a recycling obsession that leads to incest and murder. In "Roommates," Ray searches for one, only to get a strange batch of applicants, including a woman who believes her monkey is her daughter, a three-foot-tall albino, and a dirt-obsessed nurse. In "Bob," a group of women cleverly "sell" a young man on the idea of killing the abusive husband of a woman they know. And in "Pillow Talk," a man is shocked to find himself pursued sexually--by pillows. Little introduces each story by briefly explaining his inspiration for writing it. Little's often macabre, always sharp tales are snippets of everyday life given a creepy twist. 

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THE

COLLECTION

Bentley Little

A SIGNET BOOK

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

ISBN 0-7394-2761-X

Copyright © Bentley Little, 2002 All rights reserved


Contents

The Sanctuary

The Woods Be Dark

The Phonebook Man

Estoppel

The Washingtonians

Life with Father

Bob

Bumblebee

Lethe Dreams

Paperwork

The Idol

Skin

The Man in the Passenger Seat

Comes the Bad Time

Against the Pale Sand

The Pond

Roommates

Llama

Full Moon on Death Row

The Show

The Mailman

Monteith

Pillow Talk

Maya's Mother

Colony

Confessions of a Corporate Man

Blood

And I Am Here, Fighting with Ghosts

The Baby

Coming Home Again

The Potato

The Murmurous Haunt of Flies


The Sanctuary

Religious fanatics have always seemed scary to me, and when I hear them espousing some wacky eschato-logical theory or promoting their perverse interpreta­tions of the Bible, I always wonder what their home lives are like. What kind of furniture do they have? What kind of food do they eat? How do they treat their neighbors and their pets?

"The Sanctuary" is my version of what life would be like for a child growing up in such a household.

* * *

The drapes were all closed, Cal noticed as he came home after school, and he knew even before walking up the porch steps that something terrible had happened. The drapes hadn't been closed in the daytime since ... since Father had had to pay.

He shifted the schoolbooks under his arms, licking his dry lips before opening the front door. Inside, the living room was dark, the heavy brown drapes effectively keeping out all but the most diffused light. He almost didn't see his mother curled up in a corner of the couch. "Mother?" he said nervously.

She didn't answer, and he walked over to where she was sitting, placing his books on the coffee table. This close, he could see the wetness of tears on her cheeks. "Mother?"

She leaped up and grabbed him by his shoulders, holding him close, pressing him against her bulk. He could smell on her housedress an unfamiliar odor he did not like. "Oh, Cal," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to do it! I didn't mean to!"

Cal suddenly noticed that the house was silent. There were no noises coming from the back of the house, and he had a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Where's Chrissie?" he asked.

Her hands clutched tighter, hugging him. "I couldn't help myself," she wailed. Tears were rolling down her puffy cheeks. "I had to kill him."

"Kill who?" Cal asked, fighting back his fear. "Who did you kill?"

"I was walking home from the store, and I saw this man walking his dog, and The Rage came over me. I couldn't help myself."

"What happened?"

"I-I told him my car wouldn't start, and I had him come into the garage with me to see if he could figure out what was wrong. Then I closed the door, and I used the ax. I-I couldn't help myself. I didn't think I'd do it again, I didn't want to do it again, but The Rage came over me." She ran a hand through Cal's hair, and her voice was suddenly free of emotion. "I sinned," she said. "But it was not my fault."

"Where's Chrissie?" Cal demanded.

"Chrissie had to die for my sins."

Cal pulled away from his mother and ran down the hall­way, through the back bedroom, to The Sanctuary. There, next to Father's cross, was the crucified form of his sister. She was naked, spread-eagled, her hands and feet nailed to the wood, her head hanging down limply.

"Chrissie?" he said.

She did not move, did not reply, but when he hesitantly touched her foot the skin was still warm.

Behind him, he heard the door to The Sanctuary close. The only light in the windowless room came from the can­dles flickering in front of the altar. As Cal stared at the un-moving form of his sister, at the small streams of blood which flowed from her impaled hands and feet, his mother's strong hands grasped his shoulders. "She will be resur­rected," his mother said, and when he turned he saw the tears in her eyes. "She will be resurrected and will sit at the throne of God and we will pray to her and worship her as we do your father."

She dropped to her knees beside him and gestured for him to join her. He saw faint red traces in the lines which crisscrossed her palm. Her life line, he noticed, was totally obscured with a thin smear of blood. "Pray," she begged. She folded her hands in a gesture of supplication.

Cal knelt down before his father's cross and folded his hands in prayer.

"Dear Jim," his mother began. "Hallowed be your name. We thank you for protecting and providing for this, your household. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. We beseech thee, O Jim, to keep us safe from harm. You are great, you are good, and we thank you for our food. Amen."

Cal knew his mother's prayers were not exactly right. He remembered some of what he had learned in Sunday school, when they used to go to church, and he could tell that her en­treaties were a little off. But he said nothing. If he did speak up, she would only scourge him until he repented of his blasphemy and then make him kneel for hours praying to his father, so he kept his mouth shut.

His mother was muttering next to him, reciting a private prayer, and though he knew he was expected to do the same, he glanced around The Sanctuary instead. Below Chrissie's hands and feet were the sacred bowls used to catch her mar­tyred blood. They would drink it later for Communion, and Cal grimaced at the thought. Already he could taste the sick­ening salty herbal flavor of the blood, and it made him want to vomit. In the corner of the room, bathed in a swath of shadow not penetrated by the candlelight, he could see the outline of the bloody ax leaning against the wall. On the floor in front of the ax was the hammer she had used to cru­cify Chrissie, and next to the hammer were scattered extra nails.

His mother stood. "You may leave," she said. "I want to be alone right now."

He nodded silently and left The Sanctuary. He wanted to cry, but could not; instead he sat at the kitchen table and stared into space blankly. Bocephus scratched on the door, and he let the dog inside, feeding him on the kitchen floor. The shadows lengthened, the sun set, and still his mother did not come out. He made himself a sandwich, drank some milk, and after watching a sitcom on TV, went into his bed­room. He was tired but found himself unable to fall asleep. He turned on the small black-and-white television on the dresser. He needed company.

Sometime later, he heard his mother's footsteps and the rustle of her clothes as she emerged from The Sanctuary and went directly to her bedroom. Through the thin wall, he heard her praying, her hoarse voice rising and falling in rhythmic oratorical cadences.

Bocephus came into his room and jumped on the bed, tail wagging, tongue hanging happily out. Cal pulled the dog close and buried his face in the clean golden fur, hugging the pet to him. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and he wiped them on the dog's soft hair. "Chrissie," he said. "Chrissie."

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