False Memory: A Novel

By Dean Koontz

No fan of Dean Koontz or of mental suspense should want to pass over this outstanding novel of the human mind’s ability to torment—and destroy—itself.
It’s an apprehension extra paralyzing than falling. extra terrifying than absolute darkness. extra scary than something you could think. It’s the only worry you can't break out regardless of the place you run . . . regardless of the place you hide.
It’s the terror of your self. It’s genuine. it may well ensue to you. And dealing with it may be deadly.
False Memory . . . worry to your mind.

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After which get him out of her existence endlessly. If she stuck a stranger, which appeared hugely not going, she could have evidence for the police. As deeply mortifying because it will be to give up a tape of her personal rape into proof, she could do what she needs to. Returning to the desk for her glass of wine, she puzzled what if…what if… What if upon waking she felt used and sore, felt the insidious heat of semen, and but the tape confirmed her on my own in mattress, tossing both in ecstasy or in terror, like a madwoman in a healthy? as if her customer have been an entity—call him Incubus—who forged no mirrored image in mirrors and left no picture on videotape. Nonsense. the reality was once in the market, however it wasn’t supernatural. She raised the glass of Merlot for a sip—and took 1/2 it in a single thick swallow. 28 Like a shrine to Martha Stewart, goddess of the fashionable American domestic. flooring lamps with fringed silk colours. monstrous armchairs with footstools, dealing with one another throughout a tea desk. Needlepoint pillows at the chairs. The living-room fire to 1 facet. This was once Martie’s favourite spot in the home. Many nights up to now 3 years, she and Dusty had sat right here with books, quietly studying, every one misplaced in a separate fiction, but as intimate as though they'd been keeping fingers and looking at into every one other’s eyes. Now her legs have been drawn up at the chair, and he or she was once grew to become a little bit to her left, sans e-book. She sat relatively nonetheless, in a languid perspective, which should have gave the impression of the posture of serenity, while in truth she was once now not quite a bit serene as emotionally exhausted. within the different chair, Dusty attempted to settle again in an assumption of calm attention and research, yet he slid again and again to the sting of his seat. sometimes halted through embarrassment, extra frequently silenced simply because she couldn’t support pausing to wonder on the bizarre info of her personal demented habit, Martie stated her ordeal briefly installments, resuming her tale while Dusty lightly inspired her with questions. The very sight of Dusty calmed her and gave her desire, yet Martie occasionally couldn't meet his eyes. She gazed into the chilly fire as though hypnotic flames licked the ceramic logs. unusually, the ornamental set of brass fire instruments didn’t alarm her. A small shovel. Pointed tongs. A poker. just a twinkling of an eye in the past, the sight of the poker by myself could have plucked arpeggios of terror from her harp-string nerves. Embers of tension remained aglow in her, yet instantly she used to be extra petrified of one other crippling panic assault than of her power to do violence. even if she stated the assault in all its gaudy element, she couldn’t express the way it felt. certainly, she had trouble remembering the entire depth of her terror, which appeared to have occurred to a different Martie Rhodes, to a bothered character that had in brief risen from the muck of her psyche and had now submerged back. every now and then, Dusty noisily rattled the ice in his Scotch to get her consciousness. while she checked out him, he raised his drink, reminding her to pattern her serving.

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