By Douglas Clegg
From Douglas Clegg, award-winning writer of The Priest of Blood and Afterlife, comes a nightmarish imaginative and prescient of Washington, D.C.-where shadows and secret linger within the alleys, and the place the haunts of the earlier come to existence. This condominium has a reputation . . . Rachel Adair proposal Draper residence in Washington, D.C, may be the excellent position for her and her husband, Hugh, to aim and begin a relatives. yet as quickly they moved into the century-old townhouse, the nightmares all started: awful photographs of the kid Rachel misplaced; the unforgivable sins of Hugh's father; scenes of blood-curdling rituals . . . and the scraping sounds of an excellent better terror that lives in the partitions . . .
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One bony hand gripping the steering wheel, he tilted each box to pour the snacks into his thin face. Sister Vigilante brought a shopping bag of clothes with a satchel bag set in the top. Leaning over her own huge breasts, holding them like a child in her arms, Mrs. Clark asked, did Sister Vigilante bring along a human head? And Sister Vigilante opened the satchel far enough to show the three holes of a black bowling ball, saying, “My hobby . ” Comrade Snarky looks from the Earl of Slander scribbling into his notepad, then looks at Sister Vigilante's braided-tight black hair, not one strand pulling loose from its pins.
Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas. That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts, floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on. God forbid my folks see my dick. My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck.
Not with her feet fondled to death, but dead the old-fashioned way, with a hollow-point bullet to the back of her perfect French braid. A warning to all the Dirks and Dominiques who might jump ship. The clinic calls, not Lenny, but some other Russian accent, trying to send you to clients, but you don't trust them. The guards saw you with Lentil. Up at the penthouse. They must have another hollow-point ready for the back of your head. Your folks call from Florida to say a black town car keeps following them, and somebody calls to ask if they know how to find you.