Excerpt
The skeleton, the Death’s-image, was in many ways the most important part of the frescoes. It had appeared in them since the times when different gods presided over Paradise, Saints had not yet walked the earth, before the towers of the City had been raised. Corpses remained constant, and in all ages they looked the same.
But Franzesco was remembering the flesh that covered those bones, its fineness and velvet-smoothness. Its color, fair in some places and in others stained almost as dark as his own from the thickness of freckles.
He thought, too, of how the bones in his mother’s fresco looked the same as those of any woman native to the City, how his own would look the same. How much could be forgotten, how much could be stripped away in the eagerness to reveal the expected skull.
About the anthology
A well-told ghost story should send a chill–or a thrill–to your very core. In the erotic landscape of the supernatural, who better to bring that thrill than ethereal spirits, the shades of unfulfilled lovers, or the poltergeists of mischief? Feel the emptiness, the presence, the sense that someone is looking just over your shoulder as you get into bed at night. What haunts will visit you in your sleep? In these seductive stories, characters revisit, or are visited by, old friends who were dying to be lovers, or old lovers of family, or ghosts attracted to strangers.
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