![]() ![]() But Pike was gorier than Stine, and also much sexier. Pike’s books were aesthetically familiar: neon-scrawled titles, gasping blondes menaced by skeletal figures. These stories both frightened me and filled me with a strange, giggly delight, a feeling I’d recognize in later years when I was finally tall enough to go on the good roller coasters.Īfter exhausting the Stine catalogue, the next step was Christopher Pike. I couldn’t, today, describe for you the plot of a single Fear Street book, but certain images have stayed fresh in my mind: a skull with a two-headed snake inside, a locker-room shower hot enough to scald flesh. ![]() Stine piled between us, so whoever finished her book could simply throw it back and grab a fresh one. One of my happiest memories is of a school read-in, when the girls in my class sat in a circle on the floor with what seemed to be the complete works of R.L. I was a pulp horror fan as far back as I can remember. ![]()
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