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THE STARLIGHT PROJECTThe Chicago docks at dawn in 1918 possessed a particular kind of cruelty, the sort that seeped through your boots and into your bones. I was sixteen years old, standing shoulder to shoulder with a hundred other boys on the packing-house wharf, watching the fog lift off the South Branch like a shroud being pulled away from a corpse. The air smelled of river mud and raw meat and the sour tang of...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 50 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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THE LAME MAN OF PENNSYLVANIAThe elevator doors opened on the forty-second floor and Patrick O'Brien stepped into a world that smelled of lemon polish and ambition. The receptionist, a woman with hair the color of corn silk and eyes that had long since stopped blinking with wonder, barely glanced up from her typewriter. She pointed to a chair in the waiting area, the kind of chair designed to make you forget what comfort...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 34 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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LONG ISLAND LOVERJay Caldwell's parties were legendary, even by the standards of 1922. They said you could smell the champagne from the road, a sweet effervescence that drifted across Long Island Sound like the promise of something better just over the horizon. The mansion stood at the tip of West Egg, its windows blazing with light, its gardens filled with the laughter of people who had forgotten how to...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 21 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Keeper of the Iron GateI. The fog came early that November of 1888, as it always did in London, but this fog was different from any I had known. It clung to the windows of Blackwood Hall like a living thing, pressing against the glass with pale, shapeless fingers. I stood in the study for nearly an hour, watching it, telling myself I was merely thinking. There was a difference, I told myself, between thinking and not...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 25 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Iron Crown of DendralI awoke to the sound of rain against the windowpane and the smell of beeswax and old wood. The bed beneath me was vast—a four-poster of dark oak carved with lions and roses, its curtains drawn like the walls of a tomb. I reached up to touch the ceiling and found not the plaster of my apartment in Edinburgh, but a vaulted ceiling painted with frescoes of angels and emperors. My head throbbed. I...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 55 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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The Bayou LedgerAct I: The Return The rain in New Orleans didn't wash anything clean. It just made the grime slicker, turned the streets into black mirrors that reflected the neon signs of French Quarter bars and the gas lamps of a city that hadn't figured out what to do with itself after the war ended. Jack Mercer stepped off the train with a duffel bag and a face that no longer matched the reflection he...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 42 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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THE SLEEPING PRINCESSDr. Victor Hartmann had built his reputation on understanding the mysteries of the mind. In the alpine sanatorium where he practiced, he treated the neurasthenic wives of industrialists, the melancholic sons of aristocrats, the religious maniacs and sexual hysterics who filled the waiting rooms of modern psychiatry. He had studied with Charcot in Paris, with Freud in Vienna, with Bleuler in...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 38 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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I woke up with twelve scars on my left wrist and no memory of how they got there.The ceiling above me was white and cracked, like a map of a country that didn't exist. I knew this ceiling. I had been looking at it for six months, according to the woman in the white coat who called herself Dr. Drackett. Six months, she said. You've been here for six months. You don't remember any of it. I remembered some of it. Not in lines or sequences, but in fragments—like a photograph...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 30 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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THE ASHWORTH LEGACYI write these words by the light of a single candle, knowing full well that my time grows short and that these letters may never reach their intended recipient. But if I am to leave this world, I must leave something behind, something true. What follows is the story of Edmund Ashworth, the man I loved and the man I failed to save. It was November 1883 when I first truly saw him. I had been...0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 27 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр
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