WHEN I ENTERED
Armand Beasley's library that night for what would be the first and last
time, it inspired the awe I always felt in the presence of a gret mass of books. The
myriad shelves held a wealth of volumes, each with its subtle secrets and echoes of the
past, and I was humbled to realise that I would only ever know a minute fraction of
them in my liftetime.
But on that night I also got an inkling of the horrors books can hold, the spine-tingling
evil of any truly good thing gone bad. For under Beasley's gilded morocco spines and
original dust jackets lurked deadly secrets one of which nearly sent me to
the great library in the sky.
Reprinted with permission
Copyright © 1997
by Julie Kaewert