Books with title Widdershins

Logicide! Heretic! Everyone knows cats can't talk. Everyone except Niclas, a halfwit slum boy who's just landed a new job as a talking cat's man-servant. But this is Laburnum and the age of Rationalism. Here, the Academy's Inquisition takes illogical happenings very seriously. Locking people up, throwing away keys, that sort of thing. And it's not just the Crimson Men Niclas and his new master have to worry about. A man with no name has come to the capital in search of the Black Science - they call him Witchhunter.

Logicide! Heretic!Behold, the city of Laburnum, where all the gods are dead.The all-seeing Academy has outlawed faith and superstition. Those caught whispering about unreasonable things quickly disappear.But in this cruel city dripping with lies and conspiracy, an aristocrat and a slum boy are about to have their fates wound together by a mysterious cat. They will soon discover the dark underworld behind their city's curtain — and that evil has more than one face.Pure Dickensian Voodoo.Widdershins is a dystopian thrill-ride of top hats, politics, misfits and blood magic, from a striking new voice in fantasy.

Logicide! Heretic!Behold, the city of Laburnum, where all the gods are dead.The all-seeing Academy has outlawed faith and superstition. Those caught whispering about unreasonable things quickly disappear.But in this cruel city dripping with lies and conspiracy, an aristocrat and a slum boy are about to have their fates wound together by a mysterious cat. They will soon discover the dark underworld behind their city's curtain — and that evil has more than one face.Pure Dickensian Voodoo.Widdershins is a dystopian thrill-ride of top hats, politics, misfits and blood magic, from a striking new voice in fantasy.

A collection of eight marvellous stories of the supernatural. The stories are: The Beckoning Fair One, Phantas, Rooum, Benlian, Io, The Accident, The Cigarette Case, & Hic Jacket.Excerpt: ...off!" he ordered me. "I'll send for you again when I want you!" He thrust me out. "An asylum, Mr. Benlian," I thought as I crossed the yard, "is the place for you!" You see, I didn't know him then, and that he wasn't to be judged as an ordinary man is. Just you wait till you see.... And straight away, I found myself vowing that I'd have nothing more to do with him. I found myself resolving that, as if I were making up my mind not to smoke or drink-and (I don't know why) with a similar sense that I was depriving myself of something. But, somehow, I forgot, and within a month he'd been in several times to see me, and once or twice had fetched me in to see his statue. In two months I was in an extraordinary state of mind about him. I was familiar with him in a way, but at the same time I didn't know one scrap more about him. Because I'm a fool (oh, yes, I know quite well, now, what I am) you'll think I'm talking folly if I even begin to tell you what sort of a man he was. I don't mean just his knowledge (though I think he knew everything-sciences, languages, and all that) for it was far more than that. Somehow, when he was there, he had me all restless and uneasy; and when he wasn't there I was (there's only the one word for it) jealous-as jealous as if he'd been a girl! Even yet I can't make it out.... And he knew how unsettled he'd got me; and I'll tell you how I found that out. Straight out one night, when he was sitting up in my place, he asked me: "Do you like me, Pudgie?" (I forgot to say that I'd told him they used to call me Pudgie at home, because I was little and fat; it was odd, the number of things I told him that I wouldn't have told anybody else.) "Do you like me, Pudgie?" he said. As for my answer, I don't know how it spurted out. I was much more surprised than he was, for I really didn't intend it. It was for all the world as if somebody else was talking with my mouth. "I loathe and adore you!" it came; and then I looked round,...

The three or four "To Let" boards had stood within the low paling as long as the inhabitants of the little triangular "Square" could remember, and if they had ever been vertical it was a very long time ago. They now overhung the palings each at its own angle, and resembled nothing so much as a row of wooden choppers, ever in the act of falling upon some passer-by, yet never cutting off a tenant for the old house from the stream of his fellows. Not that there was ever any great "stream" through the square; the stream passed a furlong and more away, beyond the intricacy of tenements and alleys and byways that had sprung up since the old house had been built, hemming it in completely; and probably the house itself was only suffered to stand pending the falling-in of a lease or two, when doubtless a clearance would be made of the whole neighbourhood.It was of bloomy old red brick, and built into its walls were the crowns and clasped hands and other insignia of insurance companies long since defunct. The children of the secluded square had swung upon the low gate at the end of the entrance-alley until little more than the solid top bar of it remained, and the alley itself ran past boarded basement windows on which tramps had chalked their cryptic marks. The path was washed and worn uneven by the spilling of water from the eaves of the encroaching next house, and cats and dogs had made the approach their own. The chances of a tenant did not seem such as to warrant the keeping of the "To Let" boards in a state of legibility and repair, and as a matter of fact they were not so kept.

Logicide! Heretic! Everyone knows cats can't talk. Everyone except Niclas, a halfwit slum boy who's just landed a new job as a talking cat's man servant.But this is Laburnum and the age of Rationalism. Here, the Academy's Inquisition takes illogical happenings very seriously. Locking people up, throwing away keys, that sort of thing.And it's not just the Crimson Men Niclas and his new master have to worry about. A man with no name has come to the capital in search of the Black Science - They call him Witchhunter.

George Oliver Onions was a 20th century British writer. Onions published over 40 novels and short story collections. Before becoming a writer Onions was a commercial artist. His first edition novels had full color paintings painted by him on their dust jackets. . In 1913 he legally changed his name to George Oliver but continued to use Oliver Onions as his pen name. Onions wrote detective stories, science fiction, ghost stories and historical fiction. Widdershins is his best know work about ghosts. The novella The Beckoning Fair is included. This novella is considered to be one of the best psychological horror fiction stories ever written. A struggling writer moves into rooms in a vacant house in hopes that the isolation will help him concentrate. His art and his sanity are jeopardized. A feminine spirit gradually possesses him. The story can also be viewed as a psychotic breakdown culminating in murder and a catatonic state. Onions often writes about the connection between creativity and insanity. This is a great book not to be read by the faint of heart.