A Host of Shadows by Harry Shannon

By Harry Shannon

"Everyone contains a shadow," wrote analyst Carl Jung, "and the fewer it's embodied within the individual's wide awake existence, the blacker and denser it is."

Few folks see the shadow with any readability. flip round for a peek, it slips away. Our violent, sexually tinged fantasies are indulged frequently in darkened theaters, savored in eerie prose, celebrated in track, occasionally reluctantly encountered in the depths of a reoccurring nightmare. once we do glance not easy at one, lengthy adequate to acknowledge it as our personal, the adventure can problem fact. we will be able to then decide to develop into wiser therefore - or spin completely out of control...

what percentage fragments of a shattered replicate may well you research and nonetheless survive?

during this assortment, his first in approximately ten years, award successful writer Harry Shannon supplies us twenty 3 brief tales, a few released the following for the 1st time.

"Master craftsmanship." - CEMETERY DANCE

"Shannon is a author who's now not afraid to stroll into the Shadows and drag the issues dwelling there kicking and screaming into the light." - Brian Keene

"Harry Shannon takes age-old topics and offers them a brand new and fearsome chunk. Vividly learned, his writing is managed, guaranteed, and full of the type of spooky surroundings that used to make you cover your head less than the mattress covers on wind-wracked nights." - Tom Piccirilli

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You kill him, uh? That would be nice, to have him gone. He drives the banditos away. ” Toweling his face with a swatch of frayed burlap, Yakima turned to her. She reclined naked amidst the bed’s twisted sheets, her head propped on an elbow, her rich hair spilling across her wrist. A smoky smile lit her eyes, which the sun discovered as it rose now behind the eastern ridges and slanted through the window. ” Yakima turned back to the basin and washed his privates. ” “Shame on you. ” She smiled lustily, savagely, showing her teeth.

The redhead fired twice more at Yakima as he gained the top of the stairs. 44. The man lurched forward and dropped to a knee, grabbing his right shoulder. He poked the pistol through the rail pillars, showing his teeth as he glared down the revolver’s shivering barrel. The pistol flashed and popped, the slug chewing into the floor and throwing slivers across Yakima’s boots. The half-breed sprinted to the bottom of the stairs, grabbed the newel post, and sprang up the steps two at a time as the redhead scrambled to his feet and bolted off down the hall, bellowing like an ox in an abattoir.

The single window looked out on a narrow balcony and the corrals in the canyon below, which was quickly filling now with purple shadows as the sun sank behind the western hills. A lone coyote yammered atop the opposite, saffron-bathed ridge—a slight gray smudge beside a single, gnarled pinion, the brush wolf’s slender snout canted skyward. Yakima dropped his saddlebags on a chair and leaned his rifle against the wall beside the window. The pad of bare feet sounded in the hall, and he turned as Sabina entered, a beaded leather pouch in one hand, a basin of water in the other.

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