That accounts for my having the dress, but it don't account for the piece that you left sticking to the rose-bush under Mrs. Lander's bed-room winder, which piece I took off that morning, and which piece I matched with the dress after you pitched it at me over them bannisters; it was an awful scragly tear, and it fitted to a T.

Many horror writers cry that it’s the Curse of Categorization that keeps horror trapped in the literary cellar, and readily point to the publishers on whom they are all too willing to lay blame. Here’s a Muppet News Flash: it isn’t only publishers who categorize our fiction; it’s also the readers, the editors, and even (sometimes especially) the writers.

Honour hath three Things in it: The Vantage Ground to doe Good: The approach to Kings and principall Persons: And the Raiſing of a Mans owne Fortunes.

Ya'll folk forget about the street number.