A series designed to reprint all 119 of The SPIDER novels along with their digitally restored covers and the original interior illustrations from the pulp magazines of the 1930's-1940's.
In a world of nightmares, you don't want a hero that shoots webs-you need a hero that shoots FIRST!
Tales of the Backveld (2002) Francis H. Sibson Editor — Dwyane H. Olson Cover Artist — Sabastian Van Esch Introduction — Dwyane H. Olson Pages — 31
Edited by Tom Roberts
Distributed at Pulpcon 33 - July 2004
Articles, images and fiction
John Blake and Miranda Sugarman dated in high school, but after graduation they went their separate ways: he stayed in New York City and became a private investigator while she moved to the midwest and settled down to a safe, respectable life as an eye doctor. Or so he thought -- until the day, ten years later, when he opened the Daily News and saw Miranda's photo staring out at him under the headline "STRIPPER MURDERED." John wants to find out how Miranda ended up stripping for a living. What happened to Miranda's college roommate, Jocelyn, who also dropped out when Miranda did? And just how was Miranda involved with small-time drug dealer Murco Khachadurian? The closer John gets to the answers, the more dangerous and violent the case becomes, until a bloody assault on someone close to him leads John to a shocking discovery and a shattering face-off with the person responsible.
Richard Aleas is the pseudonym of a Shamus Award-nominated mystery writer who lives in New York City. --
Lawrence Fremont, the wealthy department store owner who had been missing for over a week, was running blindly, stumbling, palitating with fright. In the gloomy dusk of the bleak autumn afternoon, his face appeared weird, distorted; and his mouth hung open, drawing in great gulps of air. Wild, terror stricken eyes burned from sockets that were sunk deep in the folds of his scabrous, unwholesome flesh. It was evident that he was wounded in some way, for there was blood on the pavement where he had run, and blood was dripping down from under his coat. The blood splashed in great gobules to the sidewalk. There was a knife sticking out from his ribs.
Over the heads of the crowd that had gathered in replused fascination, Wentworth looked in the direction from which Fremont had run. His blood froze. For there, marching down the street in leprous ranks, came what used to be men. Black hoods covered their faces, and their skin hung in taters from arms held out to scratch the crowd...
