The attic was mostly empty but toward the south wall was a queer arrangment of chains; the ends dangled about seven feet from the floor and had broad iron bands attached. The bands were hinged on one side so they could open and shut. The chains looked red in the yellow light.
He held one of the bands and stroked his finger along the inside and it came away reddish. Rust, he thought; but it didn't flake; it wasn't gritty like rust. It was old, caked blood. . .
Slowly, Peter is mesmerized and begins a journey into madness where a bloodstained god waits to claim the mind and soul of the last of the Lelands.
"I am honestly convinced that Fred Chappell is one of the finest writers of this time, one of the rare and precious few who are truly 'major.'" -- George Garrett, author of Death of the Fox and The Succession....Continua