The Black Room with the White Line: Volume 4 - Weiss, Pendleton
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If one were to tell you of a particular room, modestly furnished with a table, a chair, a lamp offering some scant lighting, you would think little of such a place. Surely, you would not. Even with much of the room draped in deep shadows, such that the concrete walls, the concrete floor, the concrete ceiling, each can hardly be seen at all, you would think little of it. Even with one whole side a deep abyss, impenetrable, you might not think twice. You may wonder at such a place, its purpose, the fear it instills, but only temporarily. What would strike you is the thick line of reflective…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
If one were to tell you of a particular room, modestly furnished with a table, a chair, a lamp offering some scant lighting, you would think little of such a place. Surely, you would not. Even with much of the room draped in deep shadows, such that the concrete walls, the concrete floor, the concrete ceiling, each can hardly be seen at all, you would think little of it. Even with one whole side a deep abyss, impenetrable, you might not think twice. You may wonder at such a place, its purpose, the fear it instills, but only temporarily. What would strike you is the thick line of reflective tape, a white line that stands out brilliantly within its dim surroundings, begging the question of what might happen if you cross it. But such a place cannot be real, can it? In short, Hope It's Fiction. Here is the mysterious novel mentioned in previous stories from that old, misty country - a tale that explores the titular name and the horrors that occur within.
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Autorenporträt
Even as a young child, Pendleton Weiss exhibited signs of being the melancholic, creative type. Intelligent and shy, he kept to myself throughout school; never partied in college and graduation came upon him during one of his country's economic lows. Thus, he found very mundane work not at all in line with his degrees. For a full seven years, for the lack of a vehicle, he walked five miles to work at the early hours between two and five AM, with little but his own pocket flashlight to guide him along the dark trail. This gave him plenty of time to stir his creative juices and grew his appreciation of horror, one beyond the simple affinity for the creature features of his young. The repetition - day after day - walking that same path until its twists and turns became second nature; every change became inescapably noticeable, revealing the effects of weather, alterations for landscaping projects, or another lonesome traveler out during those grim hours. There was plenty of time to fester and plenty of imagery to corrupt.