Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon

By Thomas Tryon

One of the touchstone horror novels of the Seventies, Harvest Home was once Thomas Tryon's moment novel and used to be released to vast serious and advertisement acclaim. This re-creation positive aspects the unique colour airborne dirt and dust jacket paintings through Paul Bacon, new inside works by way of Alex McVey, a brand new creation through Tim Curran, and an afterword through a few Tryon associates.

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95. Beth paused to gaze out the picture window at the terrace beyond, with its unfinished wall. ” “Oh-today. ” I supposed the fair, locally signifying the end of summer, had something to do with her thought. ” Daughter of a minister, Beth had shunned churches ever since we’d been married. ” She turned, brightening. “Have you noticed? They seem to be changing. Don’t you think they are? ” We had arrived outsiders, city people, not wanted on the voyage. “They” had been aloof-not unfriendly, but as remote from us as their village was from the roads and highways.

Unthinkingly I had promised it before we left New York, not realizing then the serious allergic effects of animals on Kate’s asthma. The doctor in Saxony, who had been treating her, had told us to keep her from direct contact with any four-footed creatures, but the trouble was far more serious than a mere allergy. Since the age of nine, Kate had suffered from a congenital condition known as status asthmaticus, which continually imperiled her life. After years of treatment, to little effect, we had learned from a new doctor that the symptoms were self-induced, a form of psychosomatic asthma, whose origins had been eventually traced to the trouble Beth and I had had between us six years ago.

A low iron fence marked the boundary of the cemetery, and on the other side, half hidden under a tangle of briars, was a solitary marker. Curious, I went to investigate. All around the plot the grass was long and untended, the ground wet and soggy. I pushed the briars aside and read the inscription: Grace Everdeen Deceased 1958 Wondering who the unfortunate lady was who had been thus consigned to unconsecrated ground, I returned to Beth on the slope above, and we left the cemetery and passed the church where the old man pursued his woolwork-a muffler, if I was correct-his eye not missing a trick as we continued along the walk to the point where Main Street began.

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