The Pines

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This book is dedicated to the ogre who lived in my bedroom closet. It’s for the wormy things that crawled the floor around my bed at night.

This book is dedicated to Lizzie Borden and the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It’s for Crypt of Horror comics and for the summer wind in the linden trees out front, for “Te Damned Ting.” It’s for evenings when the doorbell rang, and there was no one there.

I wrote this book for hitchhikers who vanish, leaving only their jackets behind, and for dead linemen who prowl the turnpikes. It’s for Te House of the Seven Gables. It’s for “Te Black Cat” and “Te Dunwich Horror” and for all those forbidden, sleepless, childhood nights I spent reading Something Wicked This Way Comes beneath the sheets by flashlight.

And, especially…I wrote this book because of mist-shrouded nights on Owl Creek Bridge, nights when you meet the weeping little boy who tells you he’s lost…and slowly you realize he died long ago.

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