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Winner of a Bram Stoker Award for his short story, "The Calling."
Winner of a World Fantasy Award for The Horror Show.
David B. Silva "is a talented writer of novels and short fiction, who knows where the heart of a story lies, and who deserves a larger audience than he has yet received." - Dean Koontz
"David B. Silva is one of the great unsung heroes of horror." - Bentley Little
INTRODUCTION: by Paul F. Olson
David B. Silva is a liar.
It pains me to say that, but there it is.
David B. Silva cannot be trusted.
Many years ago – never mind just how long, but we both had a lot more spring in our steps and a lot less gray in our beards – I had the good fortune to visit Dave at his home, far from the crush and cry of civilization, deep in the mountains of Northern California. For three days or so, he was the ideal host and perfect tour guide. He showed me things that left a deep, indelible impression: postcard-perfect small towns, winding mountain roads that ended in breathtakingly magnificent vistas, dark and majestic forests, mighty waterfalls, dormant volcanoes, mid-July lakes covered with ice, a night sky with stars so big and bright and close that you could almost feel their heat. When it was time to go, I left reluctantly, convinced that I had just spent seventy-two hours in one of the most perfect places on earth.
Never, not once, did Dave hint at the truth. Not once did he let on what was really happening around there. He didn't tell me, didn't whisper, didn't even suggest that this seeming paradise was anything but, that it was actually one of those places, one of those spots on the earth where the things you can see are not all there is, where the line between dark and light, reality and ... let's call it otherness ... where that line is dangerously thin and often vanishes completely, where midnight is not twelve hours from noon but actually just a short, sharp gasp of breath away.
I said it was heaven on earth, and he agreed with me.
David B. Silva is a liar.
Only now is he revealing the truth, pulling back the curtain, taking off the mask, and letting us see the true nature of what lies beneath.
Are you ready?
You are about to go on a journey to the town of Kingston Mills. Like other dark corners of small town America – Arkham comes to mind, and Oxrun Station, and Castle Rock – it is a place where dreams are few and what dreams there are can turn to nightmares in the twinkle of an eye. It is not a place that attracts trouble. It is trouble. Not that you generally notice it right away. What you see at first is the beautiful scenery, the quaint charm, the unrushed pace, the friendly people. The greater truth only reveals itself later, and you come to understand that Kingston Mills is not at all, not by any stretch of the imagination, what it first seemed to be. It is a place that swallows light and regurgitates darkness. It is a place where the fabric of existence is thin and wrinkled and torn in too many spots to count. It is a rift, a wormhole, not to another part of space-time but to that part of the soul where terror dwells.
Nothing pure ever touched the ground here. Nothing pure ever survived.
So we are told in "The Itching," one of the twelve tales you'll find within. But by the time Dave tells us this, it's too late. Too late for the protagonist of the story. Too late for us. We are already hopelessly, helplessly ensnared.
But as often as it met my expectations, this collection confounded them. It kept me off balance. Like the town of Kingston Mills itself, these stories convinced me that they were one thing, but almost always became something else. They are truly unexpected stories, deceptive, dangerous.
Genre: Horror
Winner of a World Fantasy Award for The Horror Show.
David B. Silva "is a talented writer of novels and short fiction, who knows where the heart of a story lies, and who deserves a larger audience than he has yet received." - Dean Koontz
"David B. Silva is one of the great unsung heroes of horror." - Bentley Little
INTRODUCTION: by Paul F. Olson
David B. Silva is a liar.
It pains me to say that, but there it is.
David B. Silva cannot be trusted.
Many years ago – never mind just how long, but we both had a lot more spring in our steps and a lot less gray in our beards – I had the good fortune to visit Dave at his home, far from the crush and cry of civilization, deep in the mountains of Northern California. For three days or so, he was the ideal host and perfect tour guide. He showed me things that left a deep, indelible impression: postcard-perfect small towns, winding mountain roads that ended in breathtakingly magnificent vistas, dark and majestic forests, mighty waterfalls, dormant volcanoes, mid-July lakes covered with ice, a night sky with stars so big and bright and close that you could almost feel their heat. When it was time to go, I left reluctantly, convinced that I had just spent seventy-two hours in one of the most perfect places on earth.
Never, not once, did Dave hint at the truth. Not once did he let on what was really happening around there. He didn't tell me, didn't whisper, didn't even suggest that this seeming paradise was anything but, that it was actually one of those places, one of those spots on the earth where the things you can see are not all there is, where the line between dark and light, reality and ... let's call it otherness ... where that line is dangerously thin and often vanishes completely, where midnight is not twelve hours from noon but actually just a short, sharp gasp of breath away.
I said it was heaven on earth, and he agreed with me.
David B. Silva is a liar.
Only now is he revealing the truth, pulling back the curtain, taking off the mask, and letting us see the true nature of what lies beneath.
Are you ready?
You are about to go on a journey to the town of Kingston Mills. Like other dark corners of small town America – Arkham comes to mind, and Oxrun Station, and Castle Rock – it is a place where dreams are few and what dreams there are can turn to nightmares in the twinkle of an eye. It is not a place that attracts trouble. It is trouble. Not that you generally notice it right away. What you see at first is the beautiful scenery, the quaint charm, the unrushed pace, the friendly people. The greater truth only reveals itself later, and you come to understand that Kingston Mills is not at all, not by any stretch of the imagination, what it first seemed to be. It is a place that swallows light and regurgitates darkness. It is a place where the fabric of existence is thin and wrinkled and torn in too many spots to count. It is a rift, a wormhole, not to another part of space-time but to that part of the soul where terror dwells.
Nothing pure ever touched the ground here. Nothing pure ever survived.
So we are told in "The Itching," one of the twelve tales you'll find within. But by the time Dave tells us this, it's too late. Too late for the protagonist of the story. Too late for us. We are already hopelessly, helplessly ensnared.
But as often as it met my expectations, this collection confounded them. It kept me off balance. Like the town of Kingston Mills itself, these stories convinced me that they were one thing, but almost always became something else. They are truly unexpected stories, deceptive, dangerous.
Genre: Horror
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Used availability for David B Silva's The Shadows of Kingston Mills