By John F.D. Taff, JG Faherty, Rhoads Brazos, Paul Michael Anderson, Jay Caselberg

There is something that awaits you at the street forward. It lurks within the shadows on the intersection among the right here and the Hereafter. it is your personal death.

It's at this crossroad among of this existence and the following, the place your existence comes face-to-face with the specters, ghosts, haunts and misplaced souls of the useless. And it truly is the following the place they salary conflict to your very soul.

DEATH'S REALM comprises 16 tales of battles among the residing and the lifeless through an acclaimed collection of award-winning sleek masters from the horror and speculative fiction genres.


OMNISCOPIC via Rhoads Brazos
another DAY via John F.D. Taff
HAUNTER via Hank Schwaeble
BURIAL swimsuit by way of John C. Foster
9 by means of Aaron Polson
PENUMBRA via Jay Caselberg
FOXHOLE by way of JG Faherty
DROWNING by way of Gregory L. Norris
the load via Jane Brooks
tougher YOU FALL through Brian Fatah Steele
MIRRORWORLD via Martin Rose
MARCH HAYS by way of Matthew Pegg
HIGH paintings by way of Karen Runge and Simon Dewar
A PIRATE'S RANSOM through Jay O'Shea
TO contact THE useless by way of Paul Michael Anderson
YOU purely DIE as soon as by means of Stephen Graham Jones

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I carry my breath, looking ahead to him to claim, “Relax,” yet he doesn’t say it. taking a look throughout my shoulder I see his faded face, eerily lit via the display screen. His brows are knitted in confusion, as though attempting to untangle whatever sizeable along with his brain. He’s taking a look, i do know, on the snapshot of my backbone. “That cannot be right,” he mumbles to nobody specifically. Then to me, “Leigh, we’re going to copy this one. ” He steps out to reposition me back, then jogs again in the back of the partition. “Just take a deep breath and don’t stream. ” I grit my the teeth. Click-hum— unexpectedly the burden of my physique is just too a lot to hold. I pay attention what seems like a truckload of sweet canes being beaten by means of a wrecking ball. this is often by way of screaming that i feel can be me, and that i consider— soreness seriously isn't adequate observe. It can’t in all probability conceal this. this can be greater than discomfort. It’s diversified. It’s transformative, identity-shaking, disorienting—an absolute, everlasting loss so profound that i could now not be me. It doubles me over, as though gravity has tripled, and while I fall to the tile flooring the levels of grief move by way of in one, tragic, nauseating millisecond. this can be a tectonic shift in every little thing I comprehend to be real approximately my physique, physics, the universe. primary issues approximately me not paintings. From outdoor my physique I pay attention with mounting alarm to the soprano destroy of noises coming from my throat. Then, turning to the sales space, I see Jeff's wild eyes riveted to the reveal in entrance of him and that i observe I’m now not the one one screaming. * * * i'm floating right into a pool of sunshine on wobbly clouds, relocating towards faint sounds of machines. every thing turns out very a long way away—my fingers, my ft, the room, humans. i attempt to converse and my voice is way away. it may well no longer even exist. I don’t bear in mind whatever that isn’t loopy. i do know that something’s flawed, something’s occurred, anything lousy, yet that is all i do know. All i've got is a muscle reminiscence of chilly palms grabbing my backbone from the interior and pulling me down. My wisdom gutters like a candle, and during the uncombed cotton of my brain I pay attention voices—confident and trained voices—and phrases I fight to acknowledge. Catastrophic. surgical procedure. Paralysis. The phrases are musical syllables choreographed like Ziegfeld ladies, harmonized and trilling and glowing round my head. i've got no anchor in time. i've got even much less anchor in that means, they’re simply sounds cascading down staircases donning feathers as I waft out and in between them. occasionally the voices are followed through the noise of machines—staccato ticks, rhythmic beeps. chilly issues bypass around the epidermis of my face or my hand, and that i consider an outstanding squeeze on what may be my arm. Mumbled numbers repeat themselves in my goals. sometimes I pay attention voices i do know. My husband Rob’s calm baritone. pricey associates i need to arrive as much as yet can’t, whispering evenly and occasionally cooing very close to my ear. The nurse who is stopped via to examine on me. My neighbor. those are the voices I pay attention for. they're the sounds that take me back to the fact I’m no longer misplaced. * * * i'm woke up from sleep through chilly strain on my again, then a sharpness that climbs in the course of the heart of me to a poor, icy height.

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