It comes with the postman. But it's more than just another piece of mail. Its clover is a red so deep it's almost black. As black as the darkest sin. Inside its pages are images, unspeakably vivid, that exploit your deepest, most secret fears . . . burning images of horror that will live in your mind forever. It is a book without a title or a return address, but it can summon forth an ancient rage. A rage for lust. A rage to kill. And the postage due is a price no mortal can ever pay . . .