Robert E. Howard Monday: Pigeons From Hell

The footfalls were resumed. Branner was coming back. He was not running. The tread was even more deliberate and measured than before. Now the stairs began to creak again. A groping hand, moving along the balustrade, came into the bar of moonlight; then another, and a ghastly thrill went through Griswell as he saw that the other hand gripped a hatchet–a hatchet which dripped blackly…

Is it the scariest short story ever written in the English language?  Maybe, maybe not.  But better men than you have soiled themselves trying to read it while alone in the dark.  It’s a grim, nightmarish little piece of Southern Gothic horror about vengeance, voudun, and the taint left by the evils of slavery.

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