Out of all the books I own, the ones I've read the most, the ones I cherish and will never, ever part with, are a stack of beaten and dusty horror anthologies. Some of the covers are well done, stylish pieces, professionally illustrated with pictures of werewolves, ghouls and witches. Sharp graphics that juxtapose against the murky depths of the deep blacks. Others are cheap and garish things, leering clowns and vibrant blood. It's quite a collection, there's stories by Shirley Jackson, Robert Bloch, essays on the werewolf trials and a hundred others bits and pieces that I read when I was a kid in Benalla. That's where I first read most of them, in books I borrowed from the small catholic school library and later from the larger one in the town, books I'd read and return, one or two of the stories would stick, sometimes I thought I'd imagined them when I recalled them, but years later I'd find a horror anthology in a second hand place, read through, it...
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