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In These Hallowed Halls: A Dark Academic anthology

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
400 Seiten
Englisch
Titan Bookserschienen am12.09.2023
ENROLLMENT BEGINS NOW A beguiling, sinister collection of 12 dark academia short stories from masters of the genre, including Olivie Blake, M.L. Rio, Susie Yang and more! In these stories, dear student, retribution visits a lothario lecturer; the sinister truth is revealed about a missing professor; a forsaken lover uses a séance for revenge; an obsession blooms about a possible illicit affair; two graduates exhume the secrets of a reclusive scholar; horrors are uncovered in an obscure academic department; five hopeful initiates must complete a murderous task and much more! Featuring brand-new stories from: Olivie Blake M.L. Rio David Bell Susie Yang Layne Fargo J.T. Ellison James Tate Hill Kelly Andrew Phoebe Wynne Kate Weinberg Helen Grant Tori Bovalino Definition of dark academia in English: dark academia 1. An internet subculture concerned with higher education, the arts, and literature, or an idealised version thereof with a focus on the pursuit of knowledge and an exploration of death. 2. A set of aesthetic principles. Scholarly with a gothic edge - tweed blazers, vintage cardigans, scuffed loafers, a worn leather satchel full of brooding poetry. Enthusiasts are usually found in museums and darkened libraries.

Paul Kaneis the award-winning and bestselling author/editor of over 90 books, including the Arrowhead trilogy (gathered together in the sellout Hooded Man omnibus, revolving around a post-apocalyptic version of Robin Hood), The Butterfly Man and Other Stories, Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell, Before, Arcana and Pain Cages (an Amazon #1 bestseller). He is a respected anthologist, editing books such as Beyond Rue Morgue, The Mammoth Book of Body Horror, Hellbound Hearts and Exit Wounds. His website can be found at www.shadow-writer.co.uk and he tweets @PaulKaneShadowmehr
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Produkt

KlappentextENROLLMENT BEGINS NOW A beguiling, sinister collection of 12 dark academia short stories from masters of the genre, including Olivie Blake, M.L. Rio, Susie Yang and more! In these stories, dear student, retribution visits a lothario lecturer; the sinister truth is revealed about a missing professor; a forsaken lover uses a séance for revenge; an obsession blooms about a possible illicit affair; two graduates exhume the secrets of a reclusive scholar; horrors are uncovered in an obscure academic department; five hopeful initiates must complete a murderous task and much more! Featuring brand-new stories from: Olivie Blake M.L. Rio David Bell Susie Yang Layne Fargo J.T. Ellison James Tate Hill Kelly Andrew Phoebe Wynne Kate Weinberg Helen Grant Tori Bovalino Definition of dark academia in English: dark academia 1. An internet subculture concerned with higher education, the arts, and literature, or an idealised version thereof with a focus on the pursuit of knowledge and an exploration of death. 2. A set of aesthetic principles. Scholarly with a gothic edge - tweed blazers, vintage cardigans, scuffed loafers, a worn leather satchel full of brooding poetry. Enthusiasts are usually found in museums and darkened libraries.

Paul Kaneis the award-winning and bestselling author/editor of over 90 books, including the Arrowhead trilogy (gathered together in the sellout Hooded Man omnibus, revolving around a post-apocalyptic version of Robin Hood), The Butterfly Man and Other Stories, Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell, Before, Arcana and Pain Cages (an Amazon #1 bestseller). He is a respected anthologist, editing books such as Beyond Rue Morgue, The Mammoth Book of Body Horror, Hellbound Hearts and Exit Wounds. His website can be found at www.shadow-writer.co.uk and he tweets @PaulKaneShadow
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781803364193
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2023
Erscheinungsdatum12.09.2023
Seiten400 Seiten
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse2572 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.12403864
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe

1000 SHIPS

Kate Weinberg

The window seat had the perfect view across the college quad. Right now, in the late-autumn morning light, it looked too pretty to be real. The paving stones glistened from last night´s rain, the tall sundial column in the centre of the courtyard threw its skinny shadow towards the ivy-fringed archway by the porter´s lodge, and the sun striking off the honey-coloured limestone buildings bathed everything in a golden glow.

Lorna retied the slithery silk dressing gown (which, being his, was baggy around the shoulders and too long) and wrapped it about her bare legs, before leaning back against the folds of the curtain. She could still hear his footsteps echoing down the stairwell beneath. Any moment now he would reach the heavy door that led onto the courtyard, she´d hear the thud of it shutting... and there he was, swallowing up the large courtyard with his long, purposeful gait, the wine-coloured scarf she´d given him for his birthday flying behind him, his dark hair lifting with every stride.

She watched as he paused to turn up the collar of his black coat, against the chill, or perhaps just because; along with the single earring, skinny black jeans and trainers, this was his trademark look. No pipe and tweeds, or corduroy jackets with elbow patches for the forty-year-old, handsome Dr Chris Chase (dubbed Kisschase by most of the student population, although since this latest incident an article had published in one of the student magazines with a headline calling him Dr Death).

Even from this bird´s eye view he emanated his usual confidence. No sign at all that this was judgement day, that his career and reputation were on the line. Not remotely worried, he answered as he leaned down to kiss her goodbye, smelling of toothpaste and aftershave, so that she´d closed her lips, feeling self-conscious of her gritty morning breath, last night´s red wine furring her teeth. They have nothing on me apart from a bit of malicious gossip and some wild accusations from grieving parents. They are barking up the wrong tree. If the old farts could see what I´m looking at right now... he planted little kisses between her breasts, then on her neck, they´d sack me, then have an existential crisis and leave their wives and jobs.

There was no doubt the situation made the sex better, thought Lorna. It felt like they´d started sleeping together ten days ago, rather than ten months. After last night´s debacle, they´d woken up early that morning (they never slept long in his teaching room, it was a single daybed after all) and lying side by side, ran through everything he was planning to say to the board. How Chris had done quite the opposite of putting pressure on this poor young man who was clearly overwhelmed, despite being very gifted, and struggling socially. How he entirely refuted any rumours that he had made this sensitive young person feel worthless or inadequate in class. On the contrary he, Chris, was the one who had urged him to seek professional advice, who had told him to take as much time off his studies as he wanted, to read purely for pleasure. Every college has their own politics, he would tell the old farts. Indeed, he would like to suggest that alongside supporting this unfortunate young man´s family, and student mental health in general, the college would do well to focus less on the mythology around his teaching methods and more on the vested interests within the faculty itself, about who may stand to gain from stirring up scandal around a teacher who had delivered more First-class honours in the last six years running than at any other time in the college´s history.

As he was rehearsing Lorna rolled on top of him, legs straddling his groin, feet flexed and asked him what would happen, worst case, if they decided he had in any way contributed to his suicide? Would the case become criminal - she felt him growing hard beneath her - and if so, could they link it to what happened four years before with the other student? So that when he had lifted himself slightly to jerk her towards him, his fingers biting into her upper arms, she´d felt the thrill of his urgency for her that she hadn´t felt so sharply since the first time they´d fucked.

Now sitting in the window seat, she slid her right hand down the left sleeve of her dressing gown and pressed one of her bruises lightly. It would be a pale violet now, a purple that would deepen and acquire more ochre by the end of the day. Marks like this were commonplace after sex. Did she really like it, his roughness - she had once felt her rib was close to actually cracking - or did she provoke it because she enjoyed his loss of control, the transfer of power in that moment, so different from the omnipotent figure he cut in tutorials and lecture halls? It was a question she asked herself from time to time, with a kind of detached curiosity. As if the answer would be interesting, rather than materially relevant to her choices.

Chris had paused now, at the far side of the quad, to talk to a girl with long dark hair. Just a few steps before reaching the porter´s lodge, at a diagonal towards where she was sitting, where the rose bushes normally bloomed. Lorna leaned forward to get a better view. But she had guessed, somehow, even before she recognised her. Alicia Evans. English fresher. Three weeks into the start of the academic year, and already famous as the new college beauty, with her olive skin and curves, the chain belts that were slung uselessly around her tight, low-hipped jeans, the red gypsy blouses cut too low for the weather.

As a Second Year, Lorna had seen it happen before: the sudden feeding-frenzy around the newcomers, the swift judgements and categorisation, before the adjustment of hierarchy as a kind of composite equation. Beauty; brains (beauty plus brains scored highest; beauty next; brains on its own was a matter of interest rather than sexual power) and then something more amorphous, some quality that had to do with humour or presence or charisma that had its own valency, though no one could rank it easily, that made people flock around, seeking favour.

A few moments ago, Lorna had been anticipating a shower, lathering herself luxuriously with all his gels and soaps. Now she stayed where she was, breathing steamy spots onto the glass, watching them. She remembered the first time she´d used the bathroom in the middle of a tutorial, before the affair started. The shock of the full-length mirror leant against the wall opposite the shower, that felt like a provocation, the way she´d carefully opened his mirrored cabinet and snooped amidst his things. And then the first time they´d made love, two weeks later, her thighs wrapped around his, his hand pressing against the tiles so that, in the reflection of the mirror she could see the piston of his arse, her locked calves, the water sluicing down between his shoulder blades.

Chris had put his satchel down on the paving stones. Now he was moving around to lean against the wall, one foot resting up, as if settling in for a chat. What was he doing? It was a fifteen-minute fast walk to the Dean´s house where the hearing was taking place. What the hell could Alicia, three weeks into starting his classes, need to discuss with him so badly? Or him with her? Lorna felt again for the bruise above her elbow and pressed. Ten seconds, twenty. She applied more pressure, feeling the ache radiate through her arm. Perhaps it was three minutes later - she had stopped counting, to focus on the pain - when he picked up his satchel, and walked out with the same purposeful, forward-leaning stance with which he´d strode into their first group tutorial.

*   *   *

Vilia miretur vulgus. Can anyone tell me what that means? Literally, of course, but also about the mindset of Shakespeare. The kind of man he was?

Dr Chase sat to the side of his desk, on a leather chair, waggling a pen between two fingers.

Of the six students sitting cross-legged on the circular carpet beneath the window seat, no one spoke. They were looking anxiously at the title page of Venus and Adonis, the long narrative poem that they´d been asked to read before the tutorial. Most people, Lorna included, had made pages of notes, read every footnote, consulted books of literary criticism before class. No one had thought to bother with the florid dedication before the poem began. An hour into the tutorial and Lorna, although initially awed like the rest of her cohort, was beginning to dislike him. There was a cold attentiveness to the way he listened to answers, as if nothing could surprise or impress him. You´re not clever; you may be clever; you´re clever, but not original he seemed to be signalling with every chilly appraisal. She disliked herself, too, for how much she wanted to impress, how hard she racked her brains to exhume her schoolgirl knowledge of Latin and the conversational Italian she´d picked up in her year off, waitressing in Sicily. She was fucked if she was going to stick up her hand, like an eighth grader, so she cleared her throat into the silence.

Vulgus means the common people´ I think, she said slowly. And miretur... well it´s a guess, but I´d say some declension of the verb to admire´.

Those cool blue eyes flickering over to her, the slightest of nods.

And vilia, Ms Clay, he asked. Tell us what vilia means. And therefore, what young Will Shakespeare was thinking when he picked this particular quote from Ovid´s Amores to appear on the front page of his...
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Autor

Paul Kaneis the award-winning and bestselling author/editor of over 90 books, including the Arrowhead trilogy (gathered together in the sellout Hooded Man omnibus, revolving around a post-apocalyptic version of Robin Hood), The Butterfly Man and Other Stories, Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell, Before, Arcana and Pain Cages (an Amazon #1 bestseller). He is a respected anthologist, editing books such as Beyond Rue Morgue, The Mammoth Book of Body Horror, Hellbound Hearts and Exit Wounds. His website can be found at www.shadow-writer.co.uk and he tweets @PaulKaneShadow