Wormwood

In an old car rocking down a North Carolina highway with the radio on so loud you can’t hear the music. . . Behind a dusty Georgia carny show. . . In a mausoleum in Baton Rouge, or in an alley in Calcutta. . . Here wanderers come to rest, the lost and lonely press their bodies up against each other, the heat rises, flesh yields, bones are bared, blood spills. This is the landscape of today’s most brilliant young horror writer, Poppy Z. Brite.

Now, in a collection that sings like cutting edge rock ’n’ roll and shows the deft touch of a master storyteller, Poppy Z. Brite weaves her unique spell of the sensual, the frightening, and the forbidden. . .