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Description:

Who am I?

For those of you who have yet to make my acquaintance, please allow me to introduce myself. I am the Imaginary Friend.

You remember—I’m the one you conjure up for conversation when you’re consumed with loneliness, greed or visions of imminent doom. Whether you are a new acquaintance or an old friend, I trust that you
will find the accounts in this volume to be exceptionally... curious. In the interest of full disclosure, however, I must warn you that some of these tales are quite unsettling—even more so than in my first collection.

Are you sufficiently intrigued, dear reader? Then please, read on...

“Indulge in Gifford’s tawdry tales of deliciously wicked woe and let the Imaginary Friend ply your subconscious with evil twists. You’ll dream dark the whole night through."
—John Everson, Author, Covenant and Sacrifice

"Gifford returns with a vengeance! One of the best collections of horror fiction at any level I-ve seen in ages."
— Lawrence Dagstine, Author, Fresh Blood

"P.S. Gifford serves up a second helping of genuinely spooky tales, with the Imaginary Friend serving as a worthy guide. These are the kinds of stories that chill to the bone as you read them and lurk in the corners of your mind long after that."
— Alicia Benson, Author, The First Vampire: A Novel of Samson & Delilah

"Mr. Gifford fiendishly channels the Imaginary Friend, giving over his ears, his masterful pen, and his devilish wit to magically weave the tapestry of our nightmares. Don't be fooled by the inviting rug in front of the warm and cozy fireplace; it's only a matter of time before the Imaginary Friend tells YOUR story!"
Deanna Crews, Assistant Program Director, HyperiCon Speculative Fiction Convention

Excerpt:

I finally managed to catch the title of the book she had been reading; it was an old horror anthology. The poetic sense of circumstances amused me, and I could not help but laugh aloud. I could only imagine what a late night bus rider’s imagination could conjure up after being fed a diet of horror fiction. Why, to her eyes I might even be the very devil himself! As she quickly descended the stairwell, I too I rose from my seat—and I swear she physically flinched. I followed her down the staircase. She muttered a thank you to the driver, I nodded my thanks to him as well, and with that, we both left the warm sanctuary of the bus.

Still without making any eye contact, she headed left as the bus disappeared into the swirling darkness. Unfortunately, my home was also to the left, and I actually wondered for a moment if I should take the long way home. But the cold night air was once more painfully filling my lungs, and I realized I was being asinine. After all, I had not done anything wrong, and it was merely fate that had brought us together on the last bus of the evening. So after giving her a hundred foot head start, I set off myself.

She must have sensed me walking behind her, for her pace noticeably quickened. Try as I might to increase the distance between us, I found that I somehow managed to keep her within sight. Perhaps this was my subconscious; maybe I was achieving some perverse gratification in her obvious anxiety. The notion that I had instilled fear into a total stranger who enjoyed reading horror was strangely empowering. Even the brusque, icy air did not seem to sting as much while I relished on that satisfying thought.

I watched her slip her gloved hand into her coat pocket and retrieve a mobile phone. She did not stop walking for a moment as she pressed a few keys and placed the phone to her ear. Whom was she calling? A boyfriend? Her father? Or maybe even the police? But so what—I had done nothing wrong...

What happened next was simply unexpected; I have to keep reminding myself that it is true, no matter how surreal it seems. Even as I sit here relaying the story, I find myself second-guessing my memory...

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