The Eldritch Arms
Bifford Stone doesn't follow protocol. He follows hunches, and the occasional cosmic entity that refuses to leave him alone.
The portals to the Beyond are opening. Ghouls are amassing in dimensional rifts. And Stone realizes the terrible truth–every seal he creates, every escape he makes, flips the cosmic circuit back. The portals reopen. Reality fractures at the edges. And Stone finally understands that some doors can only be locked from one side.
He wore a lime-green leisure suit, the kind not seen since sometime around the end of the disco era. He had on a black silk shirt with a wing-shaped collar folded over the ruff of the suit jacket. The top three buttons of the shirt were unfastened, revealing a well-toned but hirsute chest. A large gold medallion with a scarlet stone in the center hung from a gold chain around his neck. He carried a small leather attaché case.
He was tall. Six-three, maybe six-four. With broad shoulders and a head full of dark brown hair with a slight, natural curl. His eyes were blue, but the green of the leisure suit reflected in them, giving them a sea-green cast. He had the kind of face you saw chiseled on statues in a museum, but no statue ever sported a mustache as spectacular as the one adorning his upper lip.
“The scientific term for it is paraskevidekatriaphobia,” he said.
horror with a touch of humor
Biff Stone is impossible not to like
