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184 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1986
Two miles west of the Sheeps Mouth lies the town called Rams Horn. When the summer is hot, and a dry wind blows, the smell of the dead river invades the town and lingers on its narrow streets. The Sheep’s ghost becomes a stink, an ooze, a yellow shadow, a broth of unspeakable secrets. It ferments in the blood of those who stand around on street corners and clouds the dreams of those who sleep with their heads beneath the sheets.
Rams Horn is a memory, a lost cause, a carnival of ghosts, an ark of half-forgotten dreams. Sometimes in summer, when the air sparkles with salt and gulls are dancing on the wind, the town seems to lean against the cliffs like a rusting ocean liner, thrown to shore by a storm.
As she tried to untangle herself a thin vapour began to spiral from the sphere and the room glowed with a strange and terrible miasma. She pressed herself against the wall, sobbing and hiding her face in her hands. When she dared to look between her fingers she saw Beelzebub squatting naked on the dining table. His skin was wet, his eyes were scarlet and he held a human skull in one hand. He thrust the skull at Mrs Clancy and grinned. When she covered her face from the sight of it he clasped his slender, shining penis and used it like a drumstick to beat a tattoo upon the skull.
We poison everything we touch. We don’t need a war to destroy ourselves. That’s progress. I’m old. I’m glad. I won’t be here to see the end.