I first encountered the work of Christopher Conlon in the indispensable anthology, California Sorcery. As I read his Introduction to this book, I became aware that he was as knowledgeable of the Twilight Zone-era writers as he was a fan of them. Clearly this was a man after my own heart.

I began seeing Conlon's name here and there in the ensuing years. Often as an editor, but increasingly as a writer. He was publishing short prose fiction as well as poetry. But it wasn't until 2008 and the publication of Christopher Conlon's debut novel, Midnight on Mourn Street, that I truly realized how talented the man is. This emotionally devastating book became my favorite of that year. I began to find short stories by Conlon in various publications and I was unsurprised to discover that Midnight on Mourn Street was no fluke.

I'm pleased and honored to have Mr. Conlon here at Horror Drive-In, but be forewarned: Grace is possibly the most disturbing story we've featured. Yet as with the other pieces I've read by Conlon, human decency outshines the horrors that we as a species inflict upon one another.

Stick around after the feature and we'll have a few words with Chris.

It was when she saw the closet—the closet she’d not seen or thought of in fifteen years, except in dreams—that Abby Winter truly knew she’d come home.

It had been easy getting here. The entire old block was being demolished to make way for a shopping complex, and there was construction equipment all around—trucks, bulldozers, other great angry-looking metal beasts whose names she didn’t know. Huge piles of lumber and brick that had once been people’s houses dotted the landscape. Wire fences surrounded everything and there were big-lettered signs warning Construction Area and Keep Out and Men At Work. But it was Sunday morning now, and there were no men at work.

The fence hadn’t been difficult to breach. It was clearly designed more for intimidation than actual security; Abby had simply parked her car near an obvious space between two metal posts that were holding up part of it. The space was just wide enough to squeeze her body through. Walking past the big silent machines had given her an unsettled feeling, as if they might suddenly roar into life and chase her down, crush her, obliterate her. But she knew that the most fearful things of all were within the house itself, the house she hadn’t seen in a decade and a half and which now rose defiantly before her, one of the only structures still intact in this old neighborhood, a silent sentinel waiting patiently for her return.

The actual house was unimposing. Abby was surprised at how small it was; just a simple one-story rancher, long and low and undistinguished. The paint she’d remembered as yellow seemed to have dirtied to an indifferent gray, or perhaps the later owners had repainted it; it didn’t matter. It was the house, anyway. The house where she’d spent the first twelve years of her life, the house that for years she thought she would never bring herself to look upon again.

She wondered why she found herself thinking suddenly of horses. She’d never yet even seen a real horse when she lived here, though now she and David and the kids loved nothing more than to drive out to the stables and go riding on a sun-bright afternoon. But when she was a girl? No. She’d never even taken a pony ride then. How strange, this random jumble of thoughts. Horses, indeed. She shook her head in irritation.

Now she peered through one of the front windows of the house, saw dimly outlined in the shadows the general shape of a front room she remembered well. It too looked smaller than she’d expected.

You didn’t do it, Abby, she could hear her mother insisting in her mind. Understand? You didn’t do it.

Abby had never seen her frail, nervous mother again after that final, catastrophic night, the night when everything ended, the last night Abby had spoken a word aloud for nearly three years. All that silence, she thought. From ages twelve to nearly fifteen she hadn’t uttered a sound—well, her foster parents would tell her later that she sometimes cried out in the night. But words?

No. No words.

Abby wondered momentarily what she would do if the door were locked to her old house—odd, she hadn’t even considered the possibility until this moment. But it was open, as she discovered upon reaching forward and simply turning the knob. Why would anyone lock a house that was going to be demolished the next morning, anyway? She pushed the door in gently and moved slowly across the threshold.


There was an unreality to it. Such a simple, nondescript little house, the same as the dozen or so around it, almost all of which were now piles of rubble outside. Yet this house—this house was the one that had driven her into years of wordlessness. The one that had landed her mother in the prison upstate, where she soon died broken and alone. This house.

But the house wasn’t the important thing, of course. It was the man in it. “Daddy.”

Not her father. Her mother never knew who Abby’s father was, though of course she hadn’t admitted this to her daughter; Mama claimed that her real daddy had died a war hero in Vietnam. But Abby had learned the truth eventually, when she’d ordered a copy of her birth certificate to be able to apply for a college loan. Under Father, big as life—or death—was the word “UNKNOWN.”

In place of her father, then, in this house, had been Mr. Pike. Richard Pike. “Daddy.”

Stepping through a narrow hallway she stood in the main room, which was hollow and empty. The carpet had been pulled up, exposing a raw, ugly floor, scratched and stained. A few nails rested atop a small stack of wooden planks in the corner. The windows were uncurtained, dirty and naked. Abby could hardly imagine a time that there had been life here. A big multi-patched leather sofa had once sat in the far corner with a battered coffee table in front of it; Mama’s chair had been opposite it. The TV had squatted in the other corner, there. The carpet had been long green shag. She had walked across it, played on it. For a while, that is. When Daddy first arrived.

She remembered his hard, angular face, long and sallow, his depthless blue eyes, the buzzcut that she’d liked to touch at the beginning. She remembered how his cologne mixed with the smell of his cigarettes and the metallic odor of his many guns. She had liked the resulting aroma. For a while.

C’mere, big girl! she could hear him saying, putting aside a pistol or rifle he was cleaning. Come to Daddy!

Now she wandered into the kitchen, which was gutted. The refrigerator and stove were gone; the cabinet doors gaped open, the cabinets themselves empty of all but dust and dirt. Had she really stood here with Mama, watching her fry eggs for him, make waffles for him, get him his endless cans of beer? Yes, she had. For a while.

Yet none of it seemed real. None of those things had ever happened, not in this place. Not to her.

It didn’t become real until she reached the closet. Then she knew, truly, finally, that she was home.

She stood staring at the door. It was just a plain wood-panel closet door. Tens of thousands of them must have been manufactured for houses just like this one.

For a long time she couldn’t approach it.

The closet was inside what had once been her bedroom. But the room itself meant nothing to her; it was as empty and lifeless as the other rooms in the house. It was the closet which held her attention, which fixated her. The door. The closet door.

Who’s been a bad girl? Who’s been a bad little bitch?

I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry!

His hand, as big as her head, grabbing her wrist, yanking her across the room. The panicked sensation that her arm would pop out of its socket, that he would tear her apart like a doll, throw pieces of her everywhere around the room. His massive palm swooping down once, twice, slapping her across the face and whipping her head this way and that until her neck ached and her cheeks were numb and her ears rang and he pulled open the closet door while she kicked and screamed and tried to hold onto the doorframe.

Bitch! Get in there! Little fuckin’ bitch!

The door would slam and she’d be thrown into darkness. She’d hear the special latch which Daddy had installed slide impenetrably shut.

And there she would stay.

At first he’d done it only when Mama wasn’t home, before he’d installed the latch. He’d shove her dresser in front of the door to hold her there. Then after an hour or two he’d calm down and she’d hear him pulling away the dresser again and he’d open the door, looking in at her sheepishly.

Lost my temper, big girl. You won’t say anything about this to your mama, will you? Hell, you know ol’ Daddy don’t mean it. I’m all bark and no bite, you know that. Howzabout we drive into town and get you some ice cream? We can see a movie, too. Just let’s keep this between us—okay, big girl? Okay, baby?

She remembered watching him cleaning his gun collection while he stared at sports on TV. At first he’d only brought in a single hunting rifle, but later he had more—handguns too, eight or ten of them. The rifles he kept mounted on the wall; the handguns were in drawers throughout the house. She would watch as he massaged oil into them, peered down their barrels, cocked and uncocked them.

Don’t you go touchin’ any of these, now. They’re dangerous. They’re Daddy’s toys.

She remembered wearing long sleeve shirts and scarves to school even in hot weather to cover the bruises he’d given her. Once he punched her right in the face, knocked her unconscious—a gigantic purple blotch covered her right cheek that no makeup could hide. She’d stayed out of school for a week. Chicken pox, Daddy said to the school officials on the phone. To Mama he said, She walked into a door.

And one night—Daddy was out drinking with his pals—she’d crawled up onto her mother’s lap in her big chair and confessed in a whisper everything that was happening when Mama wasn’t home. All of it. The punishments that involved her pulling down her pants, too, and Daddy poking and prodding her with his fingers until she bled.

Her mother had looked at her strangely. And in that moment Abby realized something that sent a trickle of ice water down her spine: Mama already knew.

Now she stood before the door of the closet. Cold sun poured through the windows. She noticed that the latch mechanism Daddy had installed was long gone; she could detect no trace of it.

She opened the door slowly.

Mama, why didn’t you do anything?

For soon it was the closet all the time. She stopped going to school. She wasn’t allowed any light or clothes. There was no bedding; she slept naked on the shag carpet. He made her put in a bucket for when she had to go to the bathroom. Each night, very late, he unlatched the door and she was told to go empty the bucket in the toilet and flush it. Then she would be given a tray of food and water by Mama, who would silently kiss her on the head. Abby would take the tray back to the closet. Her bucket, too. Then Daddy would slam the door and latch it. At first she’d screamed, but what Daddy would do to her then quickly made her stop.

The closet was where, for nearly a year, she lived her entire life. Until one night when, dizzy, weak, delirious, she’d tripped with her bucket of urine and had gone sprawling across the carpet of the hallway.

Stupid bitch! He’d kicked her in her stomach, forcing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. She could only look as he glowered down at her. He’d picked up one of his gray pistols. Stupid bitch!

Somehow she staggered to her feet. And somehow—she would never remember how—she fell against him, or threw herself at him. She remembered the odor of alcohol on his breath. They struggled. The pistol skittered to the carpet between them. She snatched it up and, clenching her eyes shut, pulled the trigger. The gun exploded like a cannon, bucking wildly in her hands.

When she opened her eyes again she saw what looked exactly like rain-covered rose petals spattered on the wall behind Daddy’s head. He stared at her blankly, seemingly puzzled, as his body slid slowly down to the carpet, twitching and jerking. Finally he was still. That was all.

Then Mama was standing behind her, muttering, sighing, making odd little mewling sounds. She took the pistol gently from Abby’s hands and looked at it.

You didn’t do it, Abby, she said. Understand? You didn’t do it. I did it.

Abby had nodded, and not spoken another word for nearly three years.

She looked into the closet now. It was about four feet deep, perhaps six feet long. The carpet, like the carpet everywhere in the house, had been pulled up to expose raw floor.

When she looked at the back wall of the closet, down low, near the baseboard, she was surprised to notice a crude, dimly visible shape—a little drawing of some kind. She had to lean close to make out what it was: a childish outline sketch of a horse, some six inches high.

In a blindingly vivid flash, she remembered. She’d done it during the long days, when the light from the space between the door and doorframe allowed a dim glow into the closet. She’d drawn it by scratching in the paint with her fingernail. The later owners had never repainted inside the closet, and she’d blanked it out of her memory for fifteen years.

Grace. That had been the name she’d given her little horse.

She’d drawn it in the day, refining it, giving it texture and detail, and at night she trained herself to dream of riding on Grace through warm green fields, across sunlit valleys and meadows. She’d never dared scratch any more artwork into the wall for fear of Daddy finding it and punishing her. Just Grace. Only Grace.

Now Abby dropped down into the closet again and slowly pulled the door shut. For a long moment it appeared to be pitch dark, but then as her eyes adjusted the familiar glow between the door and doorframe began. This, at least, was just as she recalled it.

I’m sorry, Abby, her mother had said, before they took her away. But I love you. I’ve always loved you.

Abby shut her eyes and her fingers moved slowly across the outline of the horse on the wall. It took only a moment: and she was with Grace again, riding in the sunshine as they had for countless hours when she was young. She felt the supple, muscular animal moving rhythmically beneath her legs like an extension of her own self. She breathed in the clean, cool air rushing past and smelled the green living things all around her....

She began to weep then, galloping full-speed through the only world where, for a very, very long time, she had ever been happy.

Horror Drive-In: Chris, thanks for taking the time to talk to us and especially for providing us with such a powerful story.

Christopher Conlon: Well, ever since the Horror Drive-In fiction series started I've been hoping you'd get around to inviting me, so needless to say, I'm delighted to be here!

HD-I: Obviously you're a fan of imaginative literature. Have you always been a voracious reader?

CC: Oh my God, yes. My mother taught me the rudiments of reading; she was followed by my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Balfour-Ritchie, at whose knee I used to sit while she read in her sonorous British voice from THE CHILDREN'S BIBLE (it was a private school). All the children sat in a circle around her, enraptured--she was a wonderful reader. Well, the religious aspect of the thing never quite "took" with me, but the storytelling aspect certainly did. Adam and Eve in the Garden. Samson. Jonah and the Whale. By the time I was in first grade I was officially a bookworm, and I've been one ever since. And imaginative literature...well, for me, it started with those Bible stories. I didn't take them as truth, I took them as flights of fancy that filled my mind with the most incredible pictures and sounds. I read children's books for only a short time--in fifth grade or thereabouts I discovered Edgar Allan Poe, and my life officially changed. Reading Poe--"The Tell-Tale Heart" first, followed quickly by "The Cask of Amontillado," "The Pit and the Pendulum," and my first favorite poem, "Annabel Lee"--did something to me psychologically and emotionally and spiritually that to this day I still can't quite explain.

HD-I: That's very interesting. You're the first person I've met that said he got his love of reading and imagination from The Bible. At least within the horror genre. It makes a lot of sense, though. Those old stories are really quite magical.

And your early love of Poe eventually led to the POE'S LIGHTHOUSE anthology that you edited for Cemetery Dance, right?

CC: Absolutely. POE'S LIGHTHOUSE was my tribute to Poe. It came about in a very simple way. I'd just re-read Robert Bloch's completion of Poe's unfinished story "The Lighthouse," and the thought crossed my mind: "Why does Bloch get to have all the fun? Why don't other people work with this little fragment?" I looked around and eventually discovered that a couple of other writers had taken a whack at it over the years, but on the whole it was surprising how little attention the piece had received. I proposed the idea of a book of such completions to Cemetery Dance, with whom I'd had some dealings on CALIFORNIA SORCERY, and we were off to the races. I didn't plan it this way, but all the books I've edited have been tributes to someone or other--I've compiled two collections of Jerry Sohl's writings for Bear Manor Media, including his scripts for TWILIGHT ZONE, and of course there's my Matheson tribute, HE IS LEGEND, published last year by Gauntlet and being reprinted this fall by Tor. At the moment I'm editing a poetry anthology for Dark Scribe Press devoted to the life, legend, and films of Alfred Hitchcock, another absolutely central figure in my life.

HD-I: Let's move on to your own fiction. When did you first begin to write?

CC: As soon as I learned to read. In kindergarten and my first few years of elementary school I used to create my own comic books. I graduated quickly enough to writing short stories and poems--pieces which, I must say, didn't show any particular promise of a future writer on the horizon. But I kept with it. By high school I began submitting stories--the first was a science fiction tale I sent to Galaxy Magazine. The editor rejected it, but with a rather kind personal note. I couldn't believe it--the editor of my favorite science fiction magazine had written me a personal letter! I was fourteen--this was almost unbelievable, because people who wrote and edited books and magazines were gods to me. My parents thought I'd be depressed at the rejection, but I was overjoyed to think that somebody like that even knew I existed.

In the latter days of high school my simultaneous discovery of T.S. Eliot and Shakespeare caused me to drift away from genre fiction. My writing became much more literary in orientation, though I still frequently used supernatural tropes. By the time I was nineteen or twenty I'd fallen in love with the writing of Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, Carson McCullers--the whole Southern Gothic crew, whose works in some ways descend directly from Poe. My first publication, very Gothic if not exactly Southern, was actually in a small-press horror magazine of the 1980s called 2AM--a story called "Consummation." I still kind of like it, to be honest. It was probably the first worthwhile thing I ever wrote.

HD-I: I can see a strong literary influence to everything I've read by you, but often there seems to be a sly intrusion of the genre ghetto peeking through.

CC: It's all an influence. After I got my MA in American Literature I found myself nostalgic for all that science fiction and horror I'd read when I was young, and returned to it for the first time in over a decade--two of the first novels I re-read were Matheson's I AM LEGEND and Pohl's GATEWAY. I read this kind of fiction a bit differently than I had then--years of graduate school can't help but re-focus one's lenses to some extent. But I found that I still loved those books, and that was the beginning of a kind of re-emergence into genre fiction, which I thought I'd left behind long ago. So if my stories seem to have been influenced by both literary and genre fiction, that's why. I love Williams and Capote, but I also love Richard Matheson and William F. Nolan. With any luck my work reflects the best of both those worlds.

HD-I: Oh man, I gotta agree 100% about GATEWAY. That novel was a revelation for me. It opened doors for what science fiction can be capable of.

You've published a lot of poetry as well as prose. Do you find it harder to sell a poem than a short story? I mean, it's hard enough to find readers these days and it's much harder to find ones that read poetry. At least that's my impression.

CC: Actually I've always found it easier to get poems published, exactly because there is no expectation of audience. No poetry publisher goes into the business thinking they're going to get rich or that they need to appeal to this or that set of readers--it doesn't even enter into the equation. Most poetry presses are supported by universities or arts grants of one sort of another, so there's no thought of a "market." And that works better for me, actually, because my creative process is very internal, very personal. It's not commercially-oriented at all. I've never looked at writing fiction or poetry as a way to make money or build a career. What I've always done is to write exactly what I want to write, finish it to my satisfaction, and then look around to see if there might be someone out there who would like to publish the result. I'm incapable of writing with the intention of cracking some market or other. I can produce the occasional commissioned article--nonfiction--for a particular publication, but in terms of fiction and poetry, my brain just isn't wired toward trying to appeal to anyone but myself. Luckily what I do seems to appeal to a few others, as well.

HD-I: I'm not much of a poetry reader, but I loved your book, STARKWEATHER DREAMS. I think it would surprise a lot of other horror readers that do not consider themselves fans of poetry. Has it been a successful book for you and your publisher?

CC: It seems to be getting out there a little bit. I know it's received some Stoker recommendations, and a number of people have told me how much they like it. I do think that the book is, like all my books of poems, a good place for people to start if they think they don't like poetry. STARKWEATHER DREAMS is poetry, but it tells a story--the story of Charlie Starkweather, the notorious Nebraska spree killer of the 1950s, and his girlfriend, Caril Ann Fugate. It's got a clear beginning, middle, and end, and the poems are easy to read--because that's the kind of poetry I like to read myself. T.S. Eliot aside, almost all of my favorite poets write in easy, clear lines, not obscure or hard to follow. Actually one of the nicer compliments I've gotten lately came from an avowed "hater" of verse who said that as she read STARKWEATHER DREAMS she loved it so much she forgot she was reading poetry!

HD-I: Ha, I sort of felt the same way.

MIDNIGHT ON MOURN STREET is your only novel to date. Or should I say only published novel. Had you completed any others that didn't sell?

CC: There's just one, a mainstream novel called THE UNSPOKEN, which was actually my first completed novel. Maybe it will come out someday. I like it a lot. But there's the hazard of writing without a market in mind--sometimes you discover to your dismay that there's no market at all!

HD-I: Oddly, though MIDNIGHT ON MOURN STREET has been embraced by the horror community, I consider it to be a mainstream novel. Do you consider it fitting into any single genre?

CC: I see it as a novel. I was happy when the horror community seemed to take to it, but like you, I never saw it as a horror novel--not even when it became a finalist for the Stoker Award. At the same time it's difficult to see how MOURN STREET has much connection with anything that gets published as mainstream fiction. Someone suggested that the novel is a "thriller," but even doesn't seem quite right for it, since there is very little action. The story is almost entirely psychological, much of it occurring inside my two protagonists' minds and in the dialogue. So I guess that brings us back to square one. It's simply a novel, I think.

HD-I: I think I agree. Wasn't there a stage adaptation of MIDNIGHT ON MOURN STREET?

CC: Yes. I'd long wanted to write a play. MOURN STREET, with its small cast of characters and limited settings, seemed a natural. As it happened, I was able to interest a small professional theater company near where I live--the Washington, D.C. area--in the idea, and the final result was a full-length adaptation in two acts. It was incredibly helpful to have theater pros available to assist me in developing the material. The toughest thing, I discovered, was to find a structure--the novel has something like twenty-nine chapters and probably hundreds of scenes, and this all had to be streamlined and simplified and made practical for the stage. The script received a staged reading last May, which was very exciting for me--I'd never had the experience of hearing professional actors interpreting my words. It went over well; the audience seemed to like it a lot. At this point, though, the play is at something of a standstill. The company in question isn't going to go forward with a full production--in this economic climate they've decided to do no more original works for the time being. The play is simple to produce--three characters, one set--and I'd love to find a company somewhere to do it. I'd be interested in getting the script published at some point, too.

HD-I: I'd like to see that too. Maybe a special edition hardcover with the novel and the script in one volume. We can dream, right?

CC: That would be fabulous. Speaking of dreams, let's include a DVD of the premiere production too!

HD-I: At this point you're almost certainly best known for editing the Richard Matheson tribute anthology, HE IS LEGEND. How did that come about? Did you approach Gauntlet, or did they ask you to do the project?

CC: Like POE'S LIGHTHOUSE, it was my idea, another tribute to a writer whose work has been important to me. It was easy to sell, because Gauntlet was the obvious publisher--I never even considered proposing it to anyone else. They've done something like twenty-five Matheson limiteds, after all. They immediately said yes, on the condition that I get Matheson's permission for the volume, which I did.

HD-I: Now about Grace, the story which our readers have just finished. It's darker than most of the other pieces I've read by you, Chris. What compelled you to choose such painful subject matter?

CC: I don't choose the subject matter. The subject matter presents itself to me and insists that I write something about it. I don't know if "Grace" is any darker than most of what I write, really; I always seem to deal with characters who have been battered and abused--sometimes physically, sometimes psychologically, often both. I think the protagonists of MOURN STREET have been through a great deal, too. Many of my stories deal with the same theme: how a broken person somehow manages to survive, to go on. Actually, "Grace" derives to some extent from material leftover from another recent piece of mine, "A Certain Slant of Light," which appears in Michael Kelly's anthology APPARITIONS. That story also features a woman who returns to her childhood home after many years. But after I finished "A Certain Slant of Light" I found that I still had some images and ideas in my mind that didn't quite fit into that story, things that seemed to demand a story of their own. "Grace" is the result.

HD-I: HD-I: Thanks for the story and your time, Chris, and good luck with all your current and future ventures.

CC: Thank you for having me at the Drive-In!



“Triptych: Three Bon-Bons” (short-shorts): The Bleeding Edge, ed. William F. Nolan & Jason V Brock (Cycatrix Press, 2009)

“A Certain Slant of Light” (novella): Apparitions, ed. Michael Kelly (Undertow, 2009)

“The Girl That Nobody Liked” (novella): Dark Discoveries Magazine #13 (Spring 2009)

Midnight on Mourn Street (novel): Earthling Publications, 2008—Stoker Award finalist

Thundershowers at Dusk: Gothic Stories (collection): Rock Village Publishing, 2006

“Darkness, and She Was Alone” (story): Poe’s Lighthouse, ed. Christopher Conlon (Cemetery Dance, 2006)

“Ghost in Autumn” (story): Masques V, ed. J.N. Williamson & Gary Braunbeck (Gauntlet, 2006)

“The Unfinished Music” (novella): The Ghost in the Gazebo, ed. Edward Lodi (Rock Village Publishing, 2003)

“Consummation” (story): 2AM Magazine #2 (Winter 1986)


“He Goes to Funerals”: Death in Common, ed. Rich Ristow (Bandersnatch Books, 2010)

Starkweather Dreams: Landscape With Figures (collection): Creative Guy Publishing, 2009


“ ‘A Certain Slant of Light’...” Christopher Conlon blog (ongoing),

“Buried Treasures: The Twilight Zone’s The Unseen Episodes” (article): Dark Discoveries Magazine #14 (Summer 2009)

“Group Dynamics: John Tomerlin Talks About Charles Beaumont, the Southern California Group, and Writing for The Twilight Zone” (interview): Filmfax #97 (July 2003)

“Young Rod Serling and the Audio Zone of the Mind: The Twilight Zone Creator’s Early Career in Radio” (article, in collaboration with Tony Albarella): Outré #31 (2003)

“The Waiting, Windless Dark”: Introduction to Dark Universe by William F. Nolan (Stealth Press limited, 2001; Leisure Books mass-market, 2003)

“The Many Fathers of Martin Sloan: Twilight Zone’s ‘Walking Distance’” (article): Filmfax #81-2 (Oct. 2000/Jan. 2001)

“Voice from the Twilight Zone”: Introduction to All of Us Are Dying and Other Stories by George Clayton Johnson (Subterranean Press, 1999)

“Southern California Sorcerers”: Introduction to California Sorcery, ed. William F. Nolan & William K. Schafer (Cemetery Dance limited, 1999; Ace mass-market, 2001)


A Sea of Alone: Poems for Alfred Hitchcock (Dark Scribe Press, 2010—forthcoming)

He Is Legend: An Anthology Celebrating Richard Matheson
(Gauntlet limited, 2009; Tor trade, 2010)

Poe’s Lighthouse (Cemetery Dance, 2006)

The Twilight Zone Scripts of Jerry Sohl (Bear Manor Media, 2004)

Filet of Sohl: The Classic Scripts and Stories of Jerry Sohl (Bear Manor Media, 2003)

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