I could probably read creep-inspiring, perfect-for-Halloween books all year, but I'm afraid I'd likely become even more unhinged than I already am. October is always set aside for the darker, more delectable reads that (hopefully) satisfy my need for the disturbing, weird, ominous, and hair-raising; then, of course, there's that sinister pulp fiction that I love so much, the stuff that I call the literary equivalent of comfort food.
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Say what you will, but do it in a nice way.