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Specters In Coal Dust
Specters In Coal Dust

Our Price: $18.95
Sale Price: $9.50
Savings: $9.45
Pages: 138
Trim: 6.5 x 9.5
Format: Paperback
ISBN-13: 978-0-9829937-1-2


Edited by Michael Knost

The depth and darkness of the coalmine has been described as the blackest of black, the loneliest of lonely, and the coldest of cold. American miners have tunneled the earth’s bowels for the black diamond since the early 1700s, and unexplained tales of ghosts and specters have made their way to the surface with nearly every load of anthracite.

An eerie collection of coal camp stories from some of the horror genre’s finest storytellers, Specters in Coal Dust will leave you cold, lonely, and gasping for air.

“Then in the trees on the mountain-side of the property, she could hear a breeze picking up, but after only a few seconds she knew it wasn’t wind at all, but breathing, difficult breathing, from lungs that never could get enough air. Dark figures appeared in the spaces between scattered trees, carrying lanterns that did nothing to illuminate them.” — from Steve Rasnic Tem’s "Old Men on Porches."

Stories and Contributors:

In the Valley of Love and Delight, Gary A. Braunbeck

Breathe My Name, Christopher Golden

Holding the Line, Tom Piccirilli

Old Men on Porches, Steve Rasnic Tem

Something You Need to Know, Elizabeth Massie

The Fall of the Mountain King, Lee Thomas

Anniversary, Ronald Kelly

Centralia Is Still Burning, Bev Vincent

The Shoogling Jenny, William Meikle

A Sprinkling of Ashes, Nate Southard

Riding the Bull Moose Special, Joshua Reynolds

A Hymn for Celia, Barbara Jo Fleming

Pushing Coal, Michael Bracken

The Hungry Earth, Brian J. Hatcher

“As a boy, Tommy had told his dad to be careful down there, worried that if they dug too deep, the miners might break through into Hell. His mother had still been making him go to church in Wheeling every Sunday back then, and Hell presented a special terror for him. His father and the other miners would come back with their clothes caked with black dust, faces painted with the same crap that filled their saliva when they’d spit, and Tommy worried they might one day encounter demons down there.” — from Christopher Golden’s "Breathe My Name."