Other Kingdoms
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To begin with, my name is not Arthur Black. My family name is White. My given name is Alexander. The publisher of my twenty-seven novels decided that Alexander White was not an appropriate name for the author of the MIDNIGHT series—choice selections such as MIDNIGHT BLOOD THIRST and MIDNIGHT FLESH HUNGER. Among twenty-four other tasteful items. Accordingly, he gave me the name of Arthur Black. I went along with it. I needed the money. At three thousand dollars a shot—later three-five—I managed to squeeze by.
Despite the questionable tenor of my thirty-year oeuvre, I hesitated to write this book. Why? Because it’s true. No matter the wonders and indescribable terrors (which I have nonetheless attempted to describe, anyway), every incident is factual. You will, undoubtedly, question that statement. Rereading my manuscript, I am tempted to question it myself. Yet my account is true; I swear it. Forget the MIDNIGHT series (assuming you have had the poor judgment and loose change to actually read them). This is not (is not, I emphasize) fiction. Bizarre, incredible, bone-chilling though it may be (and I have tried not to overstate the more grotesque elements), there is not a doubt in my mind that they all took place in the year 1918, when I was eighteen years old.