Enoch Coffin is a proud inhabitant of Massachusetts, an artist following in the footsteps of local legend Richard Upton Pickman.

Coffin is an artist with a singular quest: to capture in paint, or ink, or clay -- however he might -- sights that no mortal has ever portrayed in art before...and lived to exhibit. His quest will take him throughout actual New England locations, and that other New England of H. P. Lovecraft, where his models will be doomed souls, ravening ghouls, and entities from beyond the veil.

Individually acclaimed for their weird fiction, in this collection of short stories authors W. H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas collaborate to paint the portrait of a character every bit as fascinating and unique as the subjects of his artistic encounters.

With haunting illustrations on the front and back cover by renowned illustrator Santiago Caruso and interior illustrations accompanying every story by illustrator Clint Leduc, Encounters with Enoch Coffin is anticipated to be one of the best-selling Dark Regions Press titles of 2013.

Read more about Encounters with Enoch Coffin at: http://www.darkregions.com/books/encounters-with-enoch-coffin-by-

Launching for preorder on 02/19/2013

w-h-pugmire-and-jeffrey-thomas

Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

Encounters with Enoch Coffin by W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas features twelve original interior illustrations by artist Clint Leduc accompanying each story.

Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

Matter of Truth and Death

I. The cry of the beast was the combined final roar of every last dinosaur at the moment of mass extinction. The forlorn moan of a pod of sperm whales dying on the floor of the ocean. The howl of a hurricane at its vertex of strength, before its long diminishment. The long, single cry of the beast was all of these sounds at once, and yet even those comparisons could not capture its haunting resonance, its unearthly essence. He had no idea how large the creature was, but it must be colossal, and yet there was something skeletal, wasted, in its aspect. It rested on all four weirdly-bent, bony limbs, its emaciated body the same color as the rock upon which it was perched; a grayish-green, as if it were a chameleon that had changed its hue to blend in. The only other color was a white cloth or gauze wrapped around its hairless head, completely concealing its face. But as it called out, the depression of its elongated open mouth could be seen through the material that bound and blinded it. The roughly-shaped block of green stone the beast squatted upon was the last in a string of similar blocks of varying sizes. He was not sure how many of these crude blocks there were, but all of them hung in the sky in defiance of earthly law, like fragments of an exploded moon in orbit around a globe. Yet above and below, instead of the blackness of

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space, there was only churning white mist. Against all this formlessness, only these hovering blocks. Maybe they were not fragments of something destroyed, however, so much as pieces yet to be assembled. Assembled into what, though? So then, could it also be that the beast was not so much wasted away, as yet to be given its substance? Not crying out in impending death, but wailing in despair for not knowing what its final form must be? As he gazed upon the floating chain of blocks, he noticed that there were odd symbols engraved into their surfaces, marks he had at first taken to be natural fissures. He could not decipher their meaning, but he sensed a potency in the carvings. What beings had incised these vast symbols, and how had they managed it with the rocks hanging in the void as they did? How gigantic must these entities be? Larger, perhaps, even than the wretched titan that crouched on the very last of the suspended fragments? As if in answer to his question, he saw two immense arms emerge from the boiling, glowing mists. Two impossibly gigantic arms reaching toward the first in the string of suspended greenish blocks. His heart thudded in awe, for this being did indeed dwarf the enormous howling beast. It must be a god, with the powers of destruction and creation in those ten spread fingers. And as he breathlessly watched, those hands took hold of the first hovering rock. They gripped it with such strength that the fingers dug deeply into the substance of the block. That substance proved malleable in the god-like entitys grasp. The two clutching hands squeezed, squeezed tighter, until the gray-green block was squashed and lost its form. Consequently, the odd glyphs carved into the surface lost their form as well.

Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

With the symbols thus obliterated, a spell was broken and the vision faded from view, swallowed in the mists. But in the final moments before even that luminous fog lifted from his eyes and Enoch Coffin returned to himself, he realized that the two gigantic hands that had crushed the block of clay had been his own.

II. Enoch Coffin roused from the self-induced trance of his waking dream to find himself again in his artists studio, seated at a heavy wooden worktable much spattered with old paint. His hands rested on the tabletop in front of him, and in them he had crushed a large blob of oil-based greenish clay, extra pliable from the warmth of his skin. He smiled in satisfaction, and still holding the mass of clay he rose from the table and turned toward a raised cement base he had molded in the center of the attics floor. Upon this makeshift pedestal crouched an odd figure, as large as himself. It was a bent-backed thing, with weird crooked limbs like those of a dog a dog with human hands and feet. But the figure was merely an outline suggested by lengths of copper wire, its curved spine a bent piece of rebar, rooted in the cement block to support the wire skeleton. The head was merely suggested by several loops of the wire, a cloth draped over it. The artist knelt down as if genuflecting and began pressing the clay around the right foot and lower leg of the framework. With sensuous strokes his thumbs smoothed the warm clay, which had the feel of human skin. And still he was smiling. Looking up at the veiled head, Enoch said in an arch, satisfied tone, One obstacle removed. One step
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closer to you. When I finally stand before you on your pedestal, Ill tear that mask from your face and know you. Still shaping the artificial flesh with his skillful fingers, Enoch glanced behind him at the large package of clay resting atop the table. Tomorrow he would sit and concentrate on the vision again, focus on that image of the beast perched upon the last in a whole archipelago of clay blocks. Once more his dream self would slip through the weave of the curtain that separated this world from that other, and the mere vision would be replaced with awesome reality. At least, as much of a representation of that other reality as his human mind could process. But he had never let his human mind limit him in the pursuit of his art. Each hovering block was etched with a binding spell, to keep the wailing prisoner isolated. But one by one he would eliminate those obstacles that separated him from his model. And with each block he destroyed in that world, when he returned he would add another mass of clay to the barren skeleton. The beast was the feral avatar of a Faceless God a wild aspect of that god, which the god itself had imprisoned. Yet Enoch Coffin felt like a god himself, making Adam from the dust of the ground. He did not believe that this entity had no face, but only a hidden face. He was determined to see it -- and reproduce it.

III.

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With his concerns now returned to purely terrestrial matters, Enoch was prepared to leave his abode to take dinner and perhaps some carnal dessert at the apartment of a lady friend who ran a gallery on Newbury Street, and had even set upon his head his floppybrimmed slouch hat so as to embark, when a figure stepped across the threshold of his attic studio unannounced. Enoch had witnessed -- had conjured, both in his art and literally -- many sinister things, and so he did not startle easily. His reaction to seeing this figure admit itself into his private sanctuary, then, was not one of fear but of anger. Will Ashman! he exclaimed. What the hell do you think youre doing, letting yourself into my home this way? The uninvited guest was an attractive young man with a tall, slender build, who looked as though he should move with a dancers grace. Instead, he nearly collided with a small table by the door holding a lamp and a stack of sketchbooks. Ashman corrected himself with a little chuckle, but almost tipped back on his heels in so doing. He caught himself, staggered, and replied, Sorry, my friend, very sorry. I did ring the bell, you know. The bell hasnt worked in decades. I knocked, too. Ashman had caught sight of a large unframed canvas leaning against a wall, and stumbled toward it to bend down and take a closer look. His expression twisted with confusion, then disgust. Its perverse, your obsession with capturing ugliness so beautifully. If I didnt hear your knocks, that doesnt give you the right to let yourself in here.

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Ashman straightened up again, grinning. That will teach you not to lock your door in Boston. So it shall. Now if youll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. Oh! So rude! But I know, shh, I know its I who am rude. Yes. So terrible, am I. So drunk, are you. Forgive me, Enoch, Ashman replied, with his smile now twitching almost imperceptibly. I suppose Im still mourning. Enoch was mindful of a row of steel sculpting implements close by his hand, some with arrow-like tips and others with little hooks like dental probes. He had known that their exchange would soon turn to this matter, and he was wary. In a calmer tone, he said, Im sorry about your wife, Will. Sorry? Sorry, are you? What are you sorry for, exactly, Enoch? Im sorry that she killed herself, of course. Did you love Shoshana? Will, dont talk foolishly. She was only a model to me. Oh! And did she know that? But of course she did. Maybe that sad knowledge prompted her decision, eh?

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Enoch lost his calm tone when he replied, Im sure your own difficulties had a lot more to do with her decision, Will, and your difficulties existed long before I met the two of you, so I wont have you laying Shoshanas suicide at my door. Ashman cackled wildly, then clamped his hand over his mouth. Sorrysorrybut what an image you just put into my head! Me laying Shoshanas dead body at your doorstep. You should paint that, dont you think? Better yet, let me exhume her for you, maybe in a few years when shes more like the rest of the things you paint, and she can model for you once more! You must leave this instant, Will, Enoch said in his most composed tone of voice. It was also his darkest, grimmest tone of voice. Ashman ignored him, moving as Enoch had feared to the skeletal framework upon its crude pedestal. He didnt touch it, however, and didnt even remark upon it. To his laymans eyes, it was too insubstantial a form as yet to register as anything. Instead, the man went on, As further proof of your perversity, in the painting of my dear wife I commissioned yes, I introduced you to her myself, didnt I? in that painting you made the beautiful Shoshana appear ugly, haunted, close to madness. I painted what I saw in her. It was a mirror she couldnt handle. Do you know she slashed your canvas to ribbons before she slashed her own flesh? Enoch made an involuntary sound of pain.

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W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

Ah! But did you groan that way when you found out Shoshana was dead, or is it only your painting you mourn? Ashman held his arms out wide. Why not me, Enoch? Why not you, what? Why havent you asked to paint me? I didnt ask to paint your wife; you paid me, as you just stated. Why not paint me now? All right, Ill pay you, then! Paint mepaint me as you see me, too! You wouldnt like what I see. Ashman had already begun opening the front of his shirt. A button tore free and clattered across the attics ancient floorboards. Why wont you paint me? the man sobbed the words now, undoing his belt and the front of his trousers. As Enoch watched the young man remove the remainder of his clothing, and once again spread wide his arms as if crucified to an invisible cross, the truth dawned on him at last. How could he have missed it before? Will Ashman wasnt jealous that the artist had taken his wife as a lover. He was jealous that Enoch hadnt taken him as his lover, instead. At the same time he took in this truth, he took in Ashmans wasted form. Had he always been this emaciated, or was it a result of his anguish? The man standing before him, wracked with sobs, was little more than a skeleton himself. The handsome features of his face had belied his actual condition. Hideous, arent I? Ashman blubbered. Do I repulse you?
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No, Enoch stated, and he meant his words. I find you terribly beautiful, actually. The nude figure dropped to his knees, and now held his arms toward the artist in supplication. Then make me your model! Memake me! Enoch acted on inspiration then, upon the artists instincts he trusted more than he trusted conscious thought. After all, though of course much purposeful decision-making was part of each artwork he produced, Enoch Coffin also believed very much in intuition, and in the providence of the happy accident. Such gifts as seemed to be given him by unknown powers he could almost credit as his collaborators. What Enoch did was dig his hands into the open package of clay on his worktable, soften and warm a glob of it between his squeezing palms, and then approach his kneeling visitor. He reached out and smeared the greenish clay upon Will Ashmans face. Ashman closed his eyes and smiled rapturously, letting out a little sigh at the contact of the others hands. My poor, poor golem, Enoch cooed, next smearing the clay down Ashmans neck, his shoulders, across his hairless chest. Yes, Ashman whimpered. Yes! Before he had approached Ashman, and unknown to him, Enoch had pocketed one of his steel sculpting tools, one of those with a sharp little hook at its tip. With Ashmans eyes still closed and partially sealed by the sticky membrane of clay across his face, he didnt see Enoch raise this implement now and poise its tip over his forehead. Ashman gasped loudly when the tip bit into his flesh. As Enoch carved through the clay and into

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Ashmans flesh, he was reminded of the binding spells engraved on the archipelago of floating blocks in that other realm. The three symbols he inscribed, however, spelled out the Hebrew word emet, or truth. Ashman groaned in pleasure, not pain, as thin trickles of blood oozed from his new clay skin where it had been wounded. He lowered himself onto his back on the bare floorboards. And Enoch Coffin lowered over him, forgetting his dinner plans, forgetting his former disgust for his visitor. Happy accidents, and all that.

IV. That howl, more lonely than the bleat of a foghorn turned to a deafening volume, cut through the swirling white masses of fog that filled this world. Enoch stood upon one of the hovering blocks of stone and smiled with satisfaction at how much closer he was drawing to that beast on the final block, each time he willed himself into this realm. And each time he came here now, he felt more in control of his abilities, no longer becoming overwhelmed and forgetting himself. He could see, this time, that the bandages that blinded and masked the semi-human crouching beast were stained through with spots of blood. Was this a new development, or had he been too distant previously to make out this detail? No longer suffering disorientation, he was not surprised when he directed his gaze to the block upon which he stood, and soon saw two vast hands reach out to take hold of it. These were his hands, his godly appendages, and he watched them crush the malleable

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block between them. One more stone removed from the barrier between him and his prize. One step nearer to what lay behind that gauze, like a corpses winding sheet hiding his model from him.

V. Much of the sculptures body was complete now, though its copper skeleton was just barely concealed beneath its gaunt form. All that remained, really, was its shoulders and head, which was still only a series of wire hoops. Enoch felt exultant in his work; he could sense the power of the clay as he shaped it in his hands, caressed it smooth with his fingertips. It was the blood that had made the clay more potent. For after he had removed the bloodied material from Ashmans face and upper body, he had returned it to the batch of clay on his worktable. For several days now Enoch hadnt heard anything from Will Ashman. He was relieved, as he had feared the man would cling to him like an orphaned child after that one feverish night in this loft. On the other hand, he found it odd, and finally a bit worrisome. He hadnt wanted to acknowledge that he might have played any kind of part in the suicide of Shoshana Ashman, but if her husband were to do himself in likewise, Enoch wouldnt be able to deny his contribution. And so, reluctant as he was to do so, when he wrapped up work on the sculpture he broke down and phoned Ashmans office. His secretary, however, informed Enoch that the man had called in sick for three days straight. Enoch next called Ashmans home, but there was no answer. More reluctant than ever, nevertheless he left his house in the early evening to look in on his former patron.

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VI. Enoch Coffins house was located toward the bottom of the hill on Charter Street in Bostons North End, three stories tall including the attic that contained his studio, fronted in weathered dark shingles that looked like bark, and wedged tightly between taller brick row houses. Directly across the street was the extreme tip of Copps Hill Burying Ground, the resting place of Cotton Mather. Enoch enjoyed having quiet neighbors, and wished they were all dead on his side of the street as well. He had never liked automobiles, and one of the benefits of city life was the public transportation, but as it happened the Ashmans owned a condominium in one of the brick row houses on narrow, one-way Sheafe Street, only a few blocks away. Thus, Enoch thrust his hands into the pockets of his brown suede jacket, the brim of his hat pulled low as if to shade his eyes though it was already dusk, and set forth on foot. When Enoch arrived at the building he rang the bell, which he heard distantly inside, and when no reply came he knocked loudly. Again his efforts went unrewarded, so he tried the door and found it locked. Irritated that Ashman followed his own advice, and feeling that he had at least made an effort to look in on the man, Enoch had started to turn away when he heard the door crack open behind him. He looked back and saw Ashmans eye at the opening, glittering at him in the darkness that had filled this thin alley-like street. Ashman recognized him from his hat, if not the face it shaded, and held the door wider, gesturing for Enoch to enter. If he spoke, it was too faintly for the artist to hear.

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Ashman escorted Enoch into a parlor, and right away the artist could see that his painting of Shoshana was gone from the wall where it had hung. The light in the room was low. Ashman wore a silk kimono-style robe, but its front was open and he wore nothing underneath. It was not just the shadowed lighting, Enoch was sure, that made the mans ribs stand out like rungs in a ladder, his pelvis jut as if to tear through his dry yellow skin. The mans cheeks were sunken shockingly, his sockets pools of ink, and whatever good looks he had retained mere days ago had dissipated. The Hebrew word for truth still showed on his forehead, black with crusted blood. Your office said you were sick, Enoch said. Get thee to a doctor, man. A doctor? When Ashman spoke, it was in a cracked wheeze. It isnt illness at work in me, or even grief, and you know that, Enoch; I can see it in your face. Its your black magic at work in me. I performed no black magic on you. I took pity on you with a little nonsense no more. You pity me, do you? Ashman sounded like he wanted to sob but hadnt the strength. Everything is just material for your art, isnt it? Love. Blood. The soul. Just things you take and use without regard for their source. What can I do to help you? Its that statue in your den of sin, isnt it? You didnt mention it before.

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But I understand now. I see that wire figure in my dreams. It turns its empty head toward me, and looks at me without a face, and reaches out to me. I know what it wants. It wants my flesh. Enoch could say nothing to deny Ashmans words. Ashman continued, What can you do for me, you ask? You can destroy that monstrosity. I cant. Cant, or you refuse? I refuse to destroy my art. Then youll destroy me. Nonsense. Ill take you to a doctor myself. Come and stay with me until youre well. Sleep and food will do you good, and Ill keep you away from the drink thats turning your mind to mush. Ashman chuckled, a sound like broken bones clattering in his throat. Ah, good doctor Enoch. Always the best of friends! He gestured to the wounds on his forehead. Im Jewish, so I know that a golem is brought to life with this inscription. But do you also know how to shut the golem down? You erase one of these symbols and change the word truth to the word death. Did you know that part, too, Enoch? Did you? I told you, it was only meant as play.

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Play, hm? Ashman dipped into the shadows beside a sofa, and when he straightened he held a shotgun in both hands. Enoch took a step back. Will, dont be crude this is beneath you. Home defense, Ashman explained. To protect my art collection, of course. You know I cant destroy my artwork, but Ill help you in any way I can. Well, I admire your dedication to your craft. I guess you not only value it above the lives of your friends, but above your own life as well. Then the only other way you can help me is to get out. Get out, Enoch. Youve cursed me enough. Will Go! Ashman rasped, thrusting the shotgun barrel toward him. So Enoch Coffin backed out of the room, and Ashman didnt follow. Before he let himself out into the narrow brick chasm of Sheafe Street, Enoch heard a pitiful wailing sound come from within the depths of Will Ashmans home, and its strange familiarity made him shudder.

VII. The creature poised in the center of the attic studio, thin as a weirdly anthropomorphic greyhound and crouched as if to spring upon its prey, was now fully clothed in its meager flesh of clay. Except, of course, for the face. Even the back of the misshapen, hairless

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head was covered, but where a face should have been there was still only a gaping, empty hole. A void. Yet last night, Enoch had stood upon and crushed the penultimate block; the last block before the one to which this untamed aspect of the Faceless God had been exiled, stranded as if on a lonely island in that former archipelago of clay. Tonight, Enoch Coffin was determined, when he sent his consciousness, his vital essence his very spirit -- into that realm of mist, he would join the avatar on the same block it perched upon. Surely it couldnt deny him. In that imprisoning pocket universe he had demonstrated the power of a god himself. It had nowhere to flee when he reached out to unveil the howling things visage. As he sat at his worktable with a blood-impregnated lump of clay resting before him, however, and began the mental exercises for sending his astral self into the beyond, he found himself distracted as if an insect buzzed at his ear. That nagging insect was Will Ashman. He hadnt heard from Ashman since he had gone to his home several days earlier, and he had made no further effort to contact the man himself, either. Enoch had tried to help the poor fool, and Ashman had rejected him. What more could he do for him -- aside from destroying his art, which again was out of the question? Irritated, Enoch tried to put the man out of his thoughts, and then to put irritation out of his thoughts as well. He must obtain a clarity of focus, a purity of concentration and purpose. Distraction wouldnt do, not when the object of his quest was so close he could almost touch it.

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VIII. Mist billowed around him, so thick it was as if he were blindfolded, and he felt that he shouldnt move an inch lest he step off the platform upon which he had found himself and plummet. But plummet where? What lay below him? Perhaps only a yawning infinity of nothingness. Nothing but this white ethereal fog. Then came that howl, that despairing wail of unfathomable pain, and even though it shocked Enoch particularly since it originated from directly in front of him at the same time it oriented and grounded him. The terrible cry even seemed to dispel the mist that separated him from its source. As the fog parted like ectoplasmic curtains, the creature was revealed hunkering just a few paces in front of him. The avatar was not colossal after all, but only the size of a man. Or was he the size of a god, himself? It rested on all fours, the bony tips of its long fingers curled into the very material of the greenish-gray block they shared. The things cry was sustained in a single ear-shattering, mind-blasting note of suffering. Under the bandages that completely obscured the front of its ovoid head, there was an elongated depression that was possibly a mouth gaping impossibly wide. The gauze was stretched across this opening like the skin of a drum, and it vibrated with the beasts noise. Furthermore, whereas on his most recent visits the gauze had only been splotched with blood, now the entire front of the bandages had been soaked through with dark red ichor. Enoch had been riding on increasing waves of confidence each time he ventured into this little oblivion that had been created to hold the beast, but now that he was only steps
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away from it he felt as close to a feeling of fear as he would ever admit to. Who was to say the entity would indeed be as cowed and humbled as he had imagined it would be, once he stood directly before it, as if it might view him as its new master? And now, too, hadnt he thoroughly freed it from its bonds? If it didnt destroy him, might it at the very least spring past him, finally liberated, and plunge through the mist into a different plane? Perhaps even the plane in which Enochs own reality existed? If the beast escaped now because of him, would the Faceless God that had caged it here seek to punish him? Imprison him, next, in his own little oblivion? He had come too far to worry about that now; the time for doubt had gone, back when he crushed that first block engraved with its binding spell. And the best way to deal with his fear of the creature was to ignore that fear altogether. So before his nervousness could increase, and his resolve waver, Enoch Coffin strode boldly forward, reached out his hand toward the bandage wound around the head of the skeletal being, and wrenched it away in one sharp motion. With the blood-saturated bandages drooping from his hand like a flayed skin, Enoch Coffin stared at the visage revealed before him and cried out, No! No! But it wasnt horror that had made him cry out, cry out so that the creatures own howl abruptly ceased and his took its place. No, it was anger he felt. Fury at being cheated of his prize. He had hoped to prove that the Faceless God, at least in this bastard incarnation, did indeed possess a face but that no mortal had ever glimpsed it before. So, it was a face he had anticipated uncovering. But not this face.
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Back in his studio he had been distracted. His focus had been compromised. He had polluted the manifestation of this realm with his distorted vision, just as his friends blood had polluted the clay and not enhanced it after all. For the countenance that he had revealed, staring back at him with hopeless eyes in a shockingly skeletal yet still recognizable face, a face with the Hebrew word for death inscribed on its forehead, was that of his friend Will Ashman.

IX. Enoch Coffin was wrenched so abruptly from the fog-filled purgatory that he had to sit at his worktable for a while until he felt less feeble and nauseated. From the corner of his eye, the nearly finished sculpture appeared to twist toward him slightly on its pedestal, but when he looked at it directly it was still, of course. When he had his strength back he rose, but with uncertainty. Should he try calling? And if there were no answer, go to Sheafe Street in person? It was too late to call his friends place of work. At last, Enoch decided to give an innocent-sounding call to the police. Im concerned about my friend, Will Ashman, he explained to a detective he was finally transferred to. I know hes been despondent over the recent suicide of his wife, and he hasnt answered my calls in days. Yeah, Ashman on Sheafe Street, right?

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Yes, thats him. Enoch was not surprised that the detective knew Will Ashmans name, or where he lived, and yet he had to know Im sorry to tell you, sir, but your friend committed suicide, too, a couple nights ago. The phone to his ear, Enoch turned his body to face toward the clay gargoyle again. Oh Will. Poor, poor Will. He sighed. How did he do it? You really want to know? said the policeman. It was a shotgun. Mustve put the barrel under his chin. The guys who responded to the call said he blew his whole face right off. Enoch nodded, staring into the abyss that was the visage of the unfinished statue, and knowing that it would never be finished. In fact, just moments after he completed his phone call, Enoch Coffin set about destroying the tainted piece of artwork altogether.

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Premium Collector's Hardcover Edition

Launching for preorder on 02/19/2013

Includes Ebook Edition Includes DRP Bookmark

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Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

Signed and Limited Hardcover Edition

Mint and first edition Limited to 150 signed and numbered copies worldwide Hand numbered 1-150 Bound in a pewter-colored CM cialux finely woven rayon cloth with a tissue paper backing imported from Italy Signed by both authors Front cover stamped with an emblem of Enoch Coffin's paintbrush in gold foil Spine stamped with title and author names Includes end papers Colored book ribbon Multicolored header 60lb natural vellum stock paper Wrap-around full color dust jacket with matte finish

Launching for preorder on 02/19/2013

Includes Ebook Edition during Preorder Phase

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* Trade Paperback (coming at a later date): 6"x9", full color cover, includes all interior illustrations. * Ebook (coming at a later date): available across all major ebook platforms. Does not include interior illustrations.

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Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas Wilum Hopfrog Pugmire has been writing Lovecraftian weird fiction since he was a young girl in the 1970s. His first American collection was published by Jeffrey Thomas, through his Necropolitan Press, in 1997. Pugmire's books include The Tangled Muse, Some Unknown Gulf of Night, The Strange Dark One, Uncommon Places, The Fungal Stain, and Gathered Dust and Others. In April of this year Arcane Wisdom Press will publish a new collection, Bohemians of Sesqua Valley. Wilum is currently writing his first novel, inspired by Derleth's The Lurker at the Threshold, and he will be working on an Enoch Coffin novel with Jeff in some dim future aeon.

Jeffrey Thomas is the author of such novels as Deadstock, Blue War, Letters from Hades, and The Fall of Hades, and such short story collections as Punktown, Nocturnal Emissions, Thirteen Specimens, and Unholy Dimensions. His stories have appeared in the anthologies The Years Best Fantasy and Horror, The Years Best Horror Stories, Leviathan 3, The Thackery T. Lambshead Pocket Guide to Eccentric & Discredited Diseases, and The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction. Forthcoming from Miskatonic River Press is a role-playing game based upon Thomas universe of Punktown. Thomas is also an artist, and lives in Massachusetts.

Santiago Caruso was born in 1982, in Quilmes, Argentina. He is a symbolist and surreal artist, with an avant-garde concept but rooted in the nineteenth centurys decadentism. Dedicated to the fantastique, metaphysical horror and poetry, he had illustrated books for Libros del Zorro Rojo, Dark Regions Press, Ex Occidente Press, Tordesilhas, Tartarus Press, Random House Mondadori, Planeta and Penguin. His work stands out both for the vigor of its poetry as well as for its technique. Member of the Beinart Surreal Art Collective since 2010, the artwork of Caruso is well represented in galleries and museums of Buenos Aires, United States, United Kingdom, Mexico and Spain.

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Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

Authors: Front & Back Cover Artist: Interior Artist: Editor: ISBN-13: ISBN-10: Page count: Story count: Interior illustrations: Size: Publication date: Deluxe Hardcover pricing: Limited Hardcover pricing: Trade Paperback pricing: Ebook pricing:

W.H Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas Santiago Caruso Clint Leduc Joe Morey 978-1-62641-000-8 1-62641-000-3 270 12 12 6x9 02/19/2013 $99 USD $45 USD $17.95 USD $3.99 USD

Available on DarkRegions.com, Amazon.com, libraries, specialty bookstores and other online vendors.

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Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

This sample was provided by

Dark Regions Press is an independent specialty publisher of horror, dark fiction, fantasy and science fiction, specializing in horror and dark fiction and in business since 1985. We have gained recognition around the world for our creative works in genre fiction and poetry. We were awarded the Horror Writers Association 2010 Specialty Press Award and the Italian 2012 Black Spot award for Excellence in a Foreign Publisher. We produce premium signed hardcover editions for collectors as well as quality trade paperbacks and ebook editions. Our books have received five Bram Stoker Awards from the Horror Writers Association.

We have published hundreds of authors, artists and poets such as Kevin J. Anderson, Bentley Little, Michael D. Resnick, Rick Hautala, Bruce Boston, Robert Frazier, W.H. Pugmire, Simon Strantzas, Jeffrey Thomas, Charlee Jacob, Richard Gavin, Tim Waggoner and hundreds more. Dark Regions Press has been creating specialty books and creative projects for over twenty-seven years.

The press has staff throughout the country working virtually but also has a localized office in Ashland, Oregon from where we ship our orders and maintain the primary components of the business.

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Encounters with Enoch Coffin

W.H. Pugmire and Jeffrey Thomas

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