Black Light by Elizabeth Hand
By Elizabeth Hand
The privileged daughter of well-known tv actors, Charlotte, "Lit," Moylan is able to take pleasure in one final wild fling earlier than collage and maturity. in truth, the full idyllic hamlet of Kamensic, ny, is able to social gathering, for mythical avant-garde movie director--and Lit's godfather--Alex Kern is coming again to reopen his exceptional mansion, Bolerium. however it won't be simply any social gathering. It'll be the development of all time.
The entire city is invited, old and young, recognized and imprecise. yet different, extra hectic visitors are arriving, too--seen on the edges of the woodland, on the margins of the evening. Kern's connections expand some distance past Hollywood, past even the trendy age . . . and in Bolerium's echoing halls a fearsome war of words is accumulating, among historic powers of the darkness and people sworn to prevent them at any expense, irrespective of what--or who--the sacrifice...even an blameless woman.
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The privileged daughter of recognized tv actors, Charlotte, "Lit," Moylan is able to get pleasure from one final wild fling ahead of university and maturity. in truth, the entire idyllic hamlet of Kamensic, long island, is able to social gathering, for mythical avant-garde movie director--and Lit's godfather--Alex Kern is coming again to reopen his marvelous mansion, Bolerium. however it won't be simply any get together. It'll be the development of all time.
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Extra info for Black Light
Gangrenous molds took to the foundations before the roofs were fairly nailed down. Mud crept up their sides and paint fell away in long white slashes. Some terrible plague seemed to overtake them one by one. They were rented to families of gaunt hollow-eyed and darkskinned people, not Mellungeons and not exactly anything else, who reproduced with such frightening prolificness that their entire lives appeared devoted to the production of the ragged line of scions which shoeless and tattered sat for hours at a time on the porch edges, themselves not unlike the victims of some terrible disaster, and stared out across the blighted land with expressions of neither hope nor wonder nor despair.
The drinkers would pause, liquid tilting in their glasses, the structure would shudder violently, a broom would fall, a bottle, and the inn would slowly right itself and assume once more its normal reeling equipoise. The drinkers would raise their glasses, talk would begin again. Remarks alluding to the eccentricities of the inn were made only outside the building. To them the inn was animate as any old ship to her crew and it bred an atmosphere such as few could boast, a solidarity due largely to its very precariousness.
You’ns get in here. We goin to Knoxville, proud to hep ye out. Sylder presented them each with a welcoming smile as they climbed in and studied each in turn his face under the domelight. He dropped into the Hopper—the steep twin fork road—without braking. The little one between him and Tipton squealed once and then hushed with her hand clapped over her mouth as they swerved across the pike and shot out into blackness, the lights slapping across the upper reaches of trees standing sharply up the side of the hollow.