“We serve the King of Eight Legged Things,” is what Tibermay’s grandfather always told her. He’d tug her ears and send her on her way with an acorn of honey to leave as a tithe at the tree at the heart of the forest. Rumour has it, the spoils are taken by the squirrels anyway. Tibermay looks at the old cobwebs in the trees and makes a decision: she will not tithe for the King. The King is dead, she thinks, and no one should live in fear of a legend. Tibermay is not afraid, not until the King comes for his tithe when she least expects it.
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Thirteen subdued spooky tales
An ephemeral collection of wonders, terrors, and experiments in low-key horror — small slivers of darkness written over thirteen months. The collection has been described as quietly creepy.
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