The Book of Blood (a postscript): On Jerusalem Street a memory and a promise of blood in the air of Number 65, a scent that lingered in the sinuses, and. THE BOOK OF ON JERUSALEM STREET BLOOD (a postscript) woman in the red dress took its place behind the lacquered b. Clive Barker's Books of Blood Volume 5 Contents The Forbidden The Madonna Babel's Children In The Flesh The Forbidden.
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Stealth Press books are published by Stealth Media Corporation. Its trademark CONTENTS. ✦✦✦. BOOK I. The Book of Blood. 3. The Midnight Meat Train. Every body is a book of blood; Wherever we're opened, we're red. Contents The Book of Blood The M idnight Meat T rain The Yattering and Jack Pig Blood. Books of Blood are a series of horror fiction collections written by the British author Clive Barker .. Create a book · Download as PDF · Printable version.
It was a golden foretaste of Heaven. Let America have its simple pleasures, its cartoon mice, its candy-coated castles, its cults and its technologies, he wanted none of it. The greatest wonder of the world was here, hidden in the hills. In the main square of Podujevo the scene was no less animated, and no less inspiring.
The previous winter had claimed her at the age of ninety-four, leaving the city bereft of her fierce opinions and her fiercer proportions. For sixty years Nita had worked with the citizens of Podujevo, always planning for the next contest and improving on the designs, her energies spent on making the next creation more ambitious and more life-like than the last.
Now she was dead, and sorely missed. There was no disorganization in the streets without her, the people were far too disciplined for that, but they were already falling behind schedule, and it was almost seven-twenty-five. She was, in a word, too gentle for the job in hand. It required a leader who was part prophet and part ringmaster, to coax and bully and inspire the citizens into their places.
But for today Podujevo was behindhand; safety-checks were being overlooked; nervous looks replaced the confidence of earlier years. Nevertheless, at six minutes before eight the first limb of Podujevo made its way out of the city to the assembly point, to wait for its fellow. By that time the flanks were already lashed together in Popolac, and armed contingents were awaiting orders in the Town Square. Mick woke promptly at seven, though there was no alarm clock in their simply furnished room at the Hotel Beograd.
A dull morning light whimpered through the thin curtains, not encouraging an early departure. It was a dull day, as he had guessed.
The sky was overcast, and the roofs of Novi Pazar were grey and featureless in the flat morning light. But beyond the roofs, to the east, he could see the hills. There was sun there. He could see shafts of light catching the blue-green of the forest, inviting a visit to their slopes. Today maybe they would go south to Kosovska Mitrovica. And they could drive down the valley of the Ibar, following the road beside the river, where the hills rose wild and shining on either side.
The hills, yes; today he decided they would see the hills. By nine the main bodies of Popolac and Podujevo were substantially assembled. In their allotted districts the limbs of both cities were ready and waiting to join their expectant torsos. Vaslav Jelovsek capped his gloved hands over his eyes and surveyed the sky. The cloud-base had risen in the last hour, no doubt of it, and there were breaks in the clouds to the west; even, on occasion, a few glimpses of the sun.
Mick and Judd breakfasted late on hemendeks — roughly translated as ham and eggs — and several cups of good black coffee. It was brightening up, even in Novi Pazar, and their ambitions were set high. Kosovska Mitrovica by lunchtime, and maybe a visit to the hill-castle of Zvecan in the afternoon. About nine-thirty they motored out of Novi Pazar and took the Srbovac road south to the Ibar valley. Apart from a few birds, they saw no wildlife. Even their infrequent travelling companions petered out altogether after a few miles, and the occasional farmhouse they drove by appeared locked and shuttered up.
Black pigs ran unattended in the yard, with no child to feed them. Washing snapped and billowed on a sagging line, with no washerwoman in sight.
At first this solitary journey through the hills was refreshing in its lack of human contact, but as the morning drew on, an uneasiness grew on them. In front of them, the hills formed an impenetrable line. There was no sign of life ahead; no frail wisp of chimney smoke, no sound of voice or vehicle. They drove on.
The road was deteriorating rapidly, the pot-holes becoming craters, the hummocks feeling like bodies beneath the wheels. A turning: Not a major road, certainly. In fact barely the dirt-track Judd had described the other roads as being, but it was an escape from the endless perspective of the road they were trapped on.
They were beginning to climb now, as the track wound its way up into the hills. The forest closed over them, blotting out the sky, so a shifting patchwork of light and shadow scooted over the bonnet as they drove.
There was birdsong suddenly, vacuous and optimistic, and a smell of new pine and undug earth. A fox crossed the track, up ahead, and watched a long moment as the car grumbled up towards it. Then, with the leisurely stride of a fearless prince, it sauntered away into the trees. This last exit left the city completely deserted.
Not even the sick or the old were neglected on this day; no-one was to be denied the spectacle and the triumph of the contest. Every single citizen, however young or infirm, the blind, the crippled, babes in arms, pregnant women — all made their way up from their proud city to the stamping ground. It was the law that they should attend: No citizen of either city would have missed the chance to see that sight — to experience the thrill of that contest.
So the cities went up into the hills. By noon they were gathered, the citizens of Popolac and Podujevo, in the secret well of the hills, hidden from civilized eyes, to do ancient and ceremonial battle. Tens of thousands of hearts beat faster. Tens of thou-sands of bodies stretched and strained and sweated as the twin cities took their positions. The shadows of the bodies darkened tracts of land the size of small towns; the weight of their feet trampled the grass to a green milk; their movement killed animals, crushed bushes and threw down trees.
The earth literally reverberated with their passage, the hills echoing with the booming din of their steps. In the towering body of Podujevo, a few technical hitches were becoming apparent. A slight flaw in the knitting of the left flank had resulted in a weakness there: It was stiffer than it should be, and the movements were not smooth.
As a result there was considerable strain being put upon that region of the city. It was being dealt with bravely; after all, the contest was intended to press the contestants to their limits. But breaking point was closer than anyone would have dared to admit. The citizens were not as resilient as they had been in previous contests.
A bad decade for crops had produced bodies less well-nourished, spines less supple, wills less resolute. The badly knitted flank might not have caused an accident in itself, but further weakened by the frailty of the competitors it set a scene for death on an unprecedented scale. Mick shook his head. Too many rock shows had blown his eardrums to hell. The birds were quieter now.
The earth-thunder sounded again. Through his Russian-made binoculars Vaslav Jelovsek watched the starting-official raise his pistol. He saw the feather of white smoke rise from the barrel, and a second later heard the sound of the shot across the valley.
He looked up at twin towers of Popolac and Podujevo. Heads in the clouds — well almost. They practically stretched to touch the sky. It was an awesome sight, a breath-stopping, sleep-stabbing sight. Two cities swaying and writhing and preparing to take their first steps towards each other in this ritual battle. Of the two, Podujevo seemed the less stable. There was a slight hesitation as the city raised its left leg to begin its march.
Nothing serious, just a little difficulty in co-ordinating hip and thigh muscles. A couple of steps and the city would find its rhythm; a couple more and its inhabitants would be moving as one creature, one perfect giant set to match its grace and power against its mirror-image. The gunshot had sent flurries of birds up from the trees that banked the hidden valley. They rose up in celebration of the great contest, chattering their excitement as they swooped over the stamping-ground.
He could see the headlines already — exclusive reports of secret manoeuvres in the depths of the Yugoslavian countryside. With luck, he would be the carrier of this news. Podujevo was screaming: Someone buried in the weak flank had died of the strain, and had begun a chain of decay in the system. One man loosed his neighbour and that neighbour loosed his, spreading a cancer of chaos through the body of the city.
The coherence of the towering structure deteriorated with terrifying rapidity as the failure of one part of the anatomy put unendurable pressure on the other. The masterpiece that the good citizens of Podujevo had constructed of their own flesh and blood tottered and then.
The broken flank spewed citizens like a slashed artery spitting blood. Then, with a graceful sloth that made the agonies of the citizens all the more horrible, it bowed towards the earth, all its limbs dissembling as it fell. The huge head, that had brushed the clouds so recently, was flung back on its thick neck. Ten thousand mouths spoke a single scream for its vast mouth, a wordless, infinitely pitiable appeal to the sky. A howl of loss, a howl of anticipation, a howl of puzzlement.
How, that scream demanded, could the day of days end like this, in a welter of falling bodies? It was unmistakably human, though almost deafeningly loud. He looked across at Mick, who was as white as a sheet. It was very close. Judd shook his head. He was prepared for some military spectacle — all the Russian army massed over the next hill. But suddenly, here it was again, fresh-faced.
Maybe the pit itself gaped just over the next horizon, with his mother standing at its lip, inviting him to taste its punishments. Mick got out of the car and crossed in front of it, glancing up the track as he did so. His lover was still sitting behind the wheel, his head in his hands, trying to blot out memories. Judd looked up, slowly. Mick was staring at him like a wildman, his face shining with a sudden, icy sweat. Judd looked past him. A few metres ahead the track had mysteriously darkened, as a tide edged towards the car, a thick, deep tide of blood.
But there was no saner explanation. It was blood, in unendurable abundance, blood without end —And now, in the breeze, there was the flavour of freshly - opened carcasses: The door opened suddenly and he lurched inside, his eyes glazed. Judd reached for the ignition. The tide of blood was already sloshing against the front wheels.
Ahead, the world had been painted red. He could read about the tragedy in a newspaper — he could see the pictures tomorrow when they were grey and grainy. Judd started the car, while beside him Mick began to moan quietly. The VW began to edge forward, nosing through the river of blood, its wheels spinning in the queasy, foaming tide.
Only a few yards away the surviving city of Popolac was recovering from its first convulsions. It stared, with a thousand eyes, at the ruins of its ritual enemy, now spread in a tangle of rope and bodies over the impacted ground, shattered forever.
Popolac staggered back from the sight, its vast legs flattening the forest that bounded the stamping-ground, its arms flailing the air. But it kept its balance, even as a common insanity, woken by the horror at its feet, surged through its sinews and curdled its brain.
The order went out: As it headed into oblivion, its towering form passed between the car and the sun, throwing its cold shadow over the bloody road. Mick saw nothing through his tears, and Judd, his eyes narrowed against the sight he feared seeing around the next bend, only dimly registered that something had blotted the light for a minute.
A cloud, perhaps. A flock of birds. He would have known that this territory was beyond his comprehension; and that there was no healing to be done in this corner of Hell. From now on, like Popolac and its dead twin, they were lost to sanity, and to all hope of life. They rounded the bend, and the ruins of Podujevo came into sight. Their domesticated imaginations had never conceived of a sight so unspeakably brutal. Perhaps in the battlefields of Europe as many corpses had been heaped together: There had been piles of dead as high, but ever so many so recently abundant with life?
There had been cities laid waste as quickly, but ever an entire city lost to the simple dictate of gravity? It was a sight beyond sickness. But reason could find no weakness in the wall. This was true. It was death indeed.
Podujevo had fallen. Thirty-eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five citizens were spread on the ground, or rather flung in ungainly, seeping piles. Those who had not died of the fall, or of suffocation, were dying.
There would be no survivors from that city except that bundle of onlookers that had traipsed out of their homes to watch the contest. Those few Podujevians, the crippled, the sick, the ancient few, were now staring, like Mick and Judd, at the carnage, trying not to believe.
Judd was first out of the car. The ground beneath his suedes was sticky with coagulating gore. He surveyed the carnage. There was no wreckage: Just tens of thousands of fresh bodies, all either naked or dressed in an identical grey serge, men, women and children alike. Some of them, he could see, wore leather harnesses, tightly buckled around their upper chests, and snaking out from these contraptions were lengths of rope, miles and miles of it.
The closer he looked, the more he saw of the extraordinary system of knots and lashings that still held the bodies together. For some reason these people had been tied together, side by side. Others were locked arm in arm, knitted together with threads of rope in a wall of muscle and bone.
Yet others were trussed in a ball, with their heads tucked between their knees. All were in some way connected up with their fellows, tied together as though in some insane collective bondage game. Across the field a solitary man, dressed in a drab overcoat, was walking amongst the bodies with a revolver, dispatching the dying. It was a pitifully inadequate act of mercy, but he went on nevertheless, choosing the suffering children first.
Emptying the revolver, filling it again, emptying it, filling it, emptying it —Mick let go. It felt good to shout, it felt good to sound angry at the man. Maybe he was to blame. It would be a fine thing, just to have someone to blame. He could hear the tears throbbing in his voice. Grey-coat shook his head. Mick began to walk towards him, feeling all the time the eyes of the dead on him. Eyes like black, shining gems set in broken faces: Eyes in heads that had solid howls for voices.
Eyes in heads beyond howls, beyond breath. Thousands of eyes. He reached Grey-coat, whose gun was almost empty. He had taken off his spectacles and thrown them aside. He too was weeping, little jerks ran through his big, ungainly body.
A young man, lying like a flesh swastika, every joint smashed. A child lay under him, her bloody legs poking out like two pink sticks.
Better still he wanted a machine-gun, a flame-thrower, anything to wipe the agony away. Grey-coat had saved the last bullet for himself. The back of his head opened like a dropped egg, the shell of his skull flying off. His body went limp and sank to the ground, the revolver still between his lips. That was what they must do.
On any pretext, for any fragile, cowardly reason, they must go. Get out of the battlefield, get out of the reach of a dying hand with a wound in place of a body.
It was absurd, to think of giving the Last Rites to so many people. It would take an army of priests, a water cannon filled with holy water, a loudspeaker to pronounce the benedictions.
They turned away, together, from the horror, and wrapped their arms around each other, then picked their way through the carnage to the car. It was occupied. Vaslav Jelovsek was sitting behind the wheel, and trying to start the Volkswagen. He turned the ignition key once. Third time the engine caught and the wheels span in the crimson mud as he put her into reverse and backed down the track.
Vaslav saw the Englishmen running towards the car, cursing him. There was no help for it. He had been a referee, he had been responsible for the contest, and the safety of the contestants.
One of the heroic cities had already fallen. He must do everything in his power to prevent Popolac from following its twin. He must chase Popolac, and reason with it. Talk it down out of its terrors with quiet words and promises.
If he failed there would be another disaster the equal of the one in front of him, and his conscience was already broken enough. Mick was still chasing the VW, shouting at Jelovsek. The thief took no notice, concentrating on manoeuvring the car back down the narrow, slippery track.
Mick was losing the chase rapidly. The car had begun to pick up speed. Furious, but without the breath to speak his fury, Mick stood in the road, hands on his knees, heaving and sobbing.
They walked down the track together, away from the field. After a few metres the tide of blood began to peter out. Just a few congealing rivulets dribbled on towards the main road. Mick and Judd followed the bloody tyre marks to the junction. The Srbovac road was empty in both directions. The tyre marks showed a left turn. The people in the farms — they got the hell out while those people went crazy up there.
He was right.
They looked like butchers — splattered with blood. Their faces were shining with grease, their eyes maddened. He pointed along the road. The hills were darker now; the sun had suddenly gone out on their slopes. Mick shrugged. Either way he could see they had a night on the road ahead of them. But he wanted to walk somewhere — anywhere — as long as he put distance between him and the dead. In Popolac a kind of peace reigned.
Instead of a frenzy of panic there was a numbness, a sheep-like acceptance of the world as it was. They were convulsed into one mind, one thought, one ambition. They became, in the space of a few moments, the single-minded giant whose image they had so brilliantly re-created. Popolac turned away into the hills, its legs taking strides half a mile long.
Each man, woman and child in that seething tower was sightless. They saw only through the eyes of the city. And they believed themselves deathless, in their lumbering, relentless strength. Vast and mad and deathless. Two miles along the road Mick and Judd smelt petrol in the air, and a little further along they came upon the VW. It had overturned in the reed-clogged drainage ditch at the side of the road. It had not caught fire. His face was calm in uncons-ciousness.
There seemed to be no sign of injury, except for a small cut or two on his sober face. They gently pulled the thief out of the wreckage and up out of the filth of the ditch on to the road. The man said nothing for a moment. He seemed not to understand. The man shook his head, his authority absolute.
Mick began to see some sense in the story. Like Podujevo. Twin cities. Vaslav Jelovsek seemed to choose to tell the truth.
There was a moment when he hovered between dying with a riddle on his lips, and living long enough to unburden his story. What did it matter if the tale was told now?
There could never be another contest: Vaslav opened his eyes a little. The faces that loomed over him were exhausted and sick. They had suffered, these innocents. They deserved some explanation. They made a body out of their bodies, do you understand? The frame, the muscles, the bone, the eyes, nose, teeth all made of men and women. Vaslav interrupted him, eager to be finished. It took many centuries of practice: One always ambitious to be larger than the other.
Ropes to tie them all together, flawlessly. There was food in its belly The best-sighted sat in the eye-sockets, the best voiced in the mouth and throat. There was a silence. Small clouds passed over the road, soundlessly shedding their mass to the air.
It was as if he realized the true enormity of the fact for the first time. Mick felt this death more acutely than the thousands they had fled from; or rather this death was the key to unlock the anguish he felt for them all.
Whether the man had chosen to tell a fantastic lie as he died, or whether this story was in some way true, Mick felt useless in the face of it. His imagination was too narrow to encompass the idea.
His brain ached with the thought of it, and his compassion cracked under the weight of misery he felt. They stood on the road, while the clouds scudded by, their vague, grey shadows passing over them towards the enigmatic hills.
Popolac could stride no further. It felt exhaustion in every muscle. Here and there in its huge anatomy deaths had occurred; but there was no grieving in the city for its deceased cells. If the dead were in the interior, the corpses were allowed to hang from their harnesses. If they formed the skin of the city they were unbuckled from their positions and released, to plunge into the forest below.
The giant was not capable of pity. It had no ambition but to continue until it ceased. As the sun slunk out of sight Popolac rested, sitting on a small hillock, nursing its huge head in its huge hands. The stars were coming out, with their familiar caution. Night was approaching, mercifully bandaging up the wounds of the day, blinding eyes that had seen too much. Popolac rose to its feet again, and began to move, step by booming step.
It would not be long surely, before fatigue overcame it: But for a space yet it must walk on, each step more agonizingly slow than the last, while the night bloomed black around its head. Mick wanted to bury the car-thief, somewhere on the edge of the forest.
It was cold, and colder by the moment, and they were hungry. But the few houses they passed were all deserted, locked and shuttered, every one. His face was difficult to see the twilight. But his voice was sober with belief.
Judd hated Mick that moment. And this? This was the worst, the most preposterous. The night was cloudless and bitter. They walked on, their collars up against the chill, their feet swollen in their shoes.
Above them the whole sky had become a parade of stars. A triumph of spilled light, from which the eye could make as many patterns as it had patience for. After a while, they slung their tired arms around each other, for comfort and warmth.
There seemed to be no purpose in trying to explain to either the woman or her crippled husband what they had seen. The cottage had no telephone, and there was no sign of a vehicle, so even had they found some way to express themselves, nothing could be done.
With mimes and face-pullings they explained that they were hungry and exhausted. They tried further to explain they were lost, cursing themselves for leaving their phrase-book in the VW.
They ate thick unsalted pea soup and eggs, and occasion-ally smiled their thanks at the woman. Her husband sat beside the fire, making no attempt to talk, or even look at the visitors. They would sleep until morning and then begin the long trek back. By dawn the bodies in the field would be being quantified, identified, parcelled up and dispatched to their families. The air would be full of reassuring noises, cancelling out the moans that still rang in their ears.
There would be helicopters, lorry loads of men organizing the clearing-up operations. Unusual for Barker's early work, this story is unabashedly comic. Pig Blood Blues[ edit ] Former policeman Redman starts working in a borstal , where he uncovers a deadly secret involving a boy named Lacey. Lacey claims that a missing boy named Henessey is not missing, but rather is present in the form of a ghost.
As Redman investigates, he finds that things are not what they seem, and that a giant pig in a sty on the grounds is possessed by Henessey's soul. Terry relies on the soap opera fame of his leading lady, Diane Duvall, to bring in a big audience; however, this is compromised by his affair with Diane and her poor acting skills. A mysterious man with an obscured face, Mr. Lichfield, introduces himself and expresses dissatisfaction with Diane's casting as Viola.
On the day of the final rehearsal, Lichfield confronts Diane and states that his wife, Constantia, will play the role on opening night. Diane removes Lichfield's mask to reveal him as an animated corpse. Lichfield kisses Diane, and she slips into a coma. Constantia takes over the role of Viola while Diane is put in intensive care. Following her "recovery", Terry realises during sex that Diane is undead , just before she kills him. The play opens to a packed house.
When the house lights are extinguished after the performance, the actors realise that the audience consists entirely of ghosts and decaying corpses.
The theatre trustee, newly-dead Tallulah, burns down the theatre. Every living player in the production is killed. Several of the actors and Terry join Mr. Lichfield and Constantia on the road as a repertory company of the undead. In the Hills, the Cities[ edit ] In an isolated rural area of Yugoslavia , two entire cities, Popolac and Podujevo, create massive communal creatures by binding together the bodies of their citizens.
Almost forty thousand people walk as the body of a single giant as tall as a skyscraper. This ritual occurs every ten years, but this time things go wrong and the Podujevo giant collapses, killing tens of thousands of citizens horribly.
In shock, the entire population of Popolac goes mad and becomes the giant they are strapped into. Popolac wanders the hills aimlessly. By nightfall many of the people who make up the giant die from exhaustion, but the giant continues walking.
Mick and Judd, two gay men vacationing in the area, come upon the smashed bodies of the Podujevans in a ravine awash with blood. A local man tries to steal their car to catch up with Popolac and reason with it before it collapses and destroys the people who compose it. The man explains the truth of the situation to Mick and Judd, but they do not believe his story.
They seek shelter at a remote farm, where Popolac blunders into the farmhouse, killing Judd accidentally. Mick and the elderly couple who own the farmhouse are driven mad with fear.
Mick wants to join Popolac. He climbs up the tower of ropes and bodies, and is carried away as it walks into the hills. A line from this story, "stale incense, old sweat, and lies," appears in the song Sin on the album Pretty Hate Machine by the American industrial band Nine Inch Nails. Dread[ edit ] Steve, a young university student, becomes acquainted with an older classmate named Quaid, an intellectual who has a morbid fascination with fear.
Quaid reveals to Steve that he kidnapped a vegetarian classmate of theirs and imprisoned her in a room with merely a steak for sustenance, only releasing her when she finally overcame her dread of eating meat to prevent starvation ; she eats the meat even though it has spoiled.
Steve becomes Quaid's next candidate for his experiments, held captive in a dark, silent room, forcing him to relive a childhood period of deafness that terrified him. Steve is driven insane by this forced sensory deprivation and eventually escapes. Steve then happens into a homeless shelter where he is mistaken for a drug-addicted vagrant and is given new clothes and shoes, but these don't fit him well.
He is mad, pale with shock, and his lips are red and chapped from dehydration. Later, Steve steals a fire axe from the shelter and breaks into Quaid's home. Quaid's experiments, all along, were to try to help him understand the nature of fear in order to cure his own coulrophobia , but he is ironically butchered by Steven, whose ghastly appearance, ill-fitting clothes, and over-sized shoes have given him the appearance of a clown.
This story has been made into a film , with Jackson Rathbone playing Steve. The film's story diverges from the short story and introduces new characters, but retains the same basic concept and story outline. If Satan's minion wins, he gets to rule the Earth. An athlete taking part in the event, Joel, begins to realise the actual stakes of the race when the other runners begin to fall, savaged by some unseen beast.
A satanist politician, Gregory, has made a bargain with Hell on the outcome of the race. Joel does not win due to a struggle with Hell's shape-shifting runner, a demonic familiar who bites off his face. However, during this struggle, the last surviving runner jogs past them to the finishing line.
Hell loses out once again. Gregory is punished for his overconfidence by being gruesomely slain.
She recovers only to find that she has an ability to change people's body shapes with her mind. She accidentally kills her therapist and then — somewhat less accidentally — her husband, simply by willing their bodies into tearing apart or folding in on themselves.
One man becomes obsessed with her and tracks her down. Jacqueline eventually becomes a prostitute , her abilities giving her the power to give men the ultimate sexual experience, albeit one that always proves fatal. She has by now lost control of herself and has to be watched while sleeping in case she unconsciously mutilates her own body. The man eventually makes love to Jacqueline and they willingly die together by her powers.
This story is also published in the book I Shudder at Your Touch. The Skins of the Fathers[ edit ] After his car breaks down in Arizona , a man named Davidson witnesses a bizarre parade of freakish monsters. It turns out that these creatures mated with a woman in a nearby town six years previously, and are intending on reclaiming the child, which they promptly achieve.
Davidson reaches the town, where a posse of gun-toting locals are eager to set out to slay the monsters. Everything goes wrong, however, and Davidson and just a few other survivors end up with a horrific fate; they sink in quicksand which then hardens when they are half-buried, and are left for dead in the burning desert heat. This was used as a scene in the film Lord of Illusions , which was in turn based on "The Last Illusion", a story in volume six.
New Murders in the Rue Morgue[ edit ] Lewis is a year-old man who goes to Paris after his friend, Phillipe, is arrested for butchering a young woman. Phillipe eventually commits suicide in his cell after babbling about an orangutan who committed the murder he had been arrested for. Lewis does not believe it until he sees the primate — dressed like a human, completely shaved, and wielding a razor — for himself.
The beast had been raised by Philippe, a notorious eccentric, as a strange experiment based on Edgar Allan Poe 's classic story.