Monday, 29 December 2025

New bunch of book scares coming at you


Well, how about that. Christmas was coming, we blinked, and it’s gone already. But never mind, there’s always next December. Meanwhile, at the time of this writing, New Year is yet to arrive ... but with it, as always, will come a whole new wave of dark fiction that I’m now finding myself getting psyched about.

Today, therefore, I’m going to do my usual thing and focus on 30 new book titles - 10 CRIME, 10 THRILLERS and 10 HORRORS - due out between now and June that I am particularly interested in. 

So, without further ado ... 

30 PROSPECTIVE DARK FICTION CRACKERS


I haven’t read all of these books yet, so I can’t offer any reviews here. As always, I’ll let the publishers do the talking by reprinting the blurb from the back of each book. I cannot stress that enough: these are NOT Finch recommendations. I’m simply listing a bunch of forthcoming titles for the first half of 2026, in order of publication, that I am really liking the look of.

Obviously there’ll be many more titles than these hitting the shops between now and midsummer, and if there are any shockingly obvious absentees from this little lot, please feel free to post about them in the Comments.

Let’s go ...  


CRIME


1 ANATOMY OF AN ALIBI 
by Ashley Elston 
(Jan 13: eb, hb and Audible)

Two women. One dead husband. And only one alibi...

Camille Bayliss suspects her husband Ben hides a dark secret. But as he tracks her every move, she cannot prove it.

Aubrey Price believes lawyer Ben Bayliss knows the truth about the night that wrecked her life a decade ago. But she needs a way in.

When Camille and Aubrey meet, they hatch a plan.

For twelve hours, Aubrey will take Camille’s place. Ben will track the wrong woman, Camille can spy on Ben, and both women will get their answers.

Except the next morning, Ben is found murdered.

Two women need an airtight alibi, but only one of them has it. And one false step is all it takes for everything to come undone...


2 FORBIDDEN WATERS 
by Rob Parker 
(Jan 15: eb, hb and Audible)

It starts with the knife. Found at the bottom of a hidden lake in the Norfolk Broads, covered in blood and heart tissue so fresh the water hasn’t yet washed it all away. What salvage diver Cam Killick has found is a murder weapon from a very recent crime - but how do you solve a murder without a body?

The remoteness of the setting is itself a clue. Only a handful of people know the location of the lake, let alone how to access it. But no sooner have Cam and DS Claire Rogers started working through this ready-made suspect pool than one of them disappears.

The ripples from Cam’s discovery have disturbed a dangerous predator, one who knows the water even better than Cam himself. The question now is what they want - and how many more people will die before Cam can stop them?


3 HER COLD JUSTICE 
by Robert Dugoni 
(Jan 27: eb, pb, hb and Audible)

In a quiet South Seattle neighborhood, a suspected drug smuggler and his girlfriend are murdered in their home. When a young man named Michael Westbrook is accused of the brutal double homicide, his uncle JP Harrison turns to Keera Duggan to defend him. JP is Keera’s trusted investigator, and he desperately needs Keera to save his nephew against escalating odds.

The evidence is circumstantial―Michael worked with one of the victims, drugs were found in his possession, and he bolted from authorities. Ruthless star prosecutor Anh Tran has gotten convictions on much less. With the testimony of two prison informants, the case looks grave. But Keera never concedes defeat. To free her client, she must dig deep before Tran crushes both of them.

As the investigation gets more twisted with each new find, Keera is swept up in a mystery with far-reaching consequences. This case isn’t just murder. It’s looking like a conspiracy. And getting justice for Michael could be the most dangerous promise Keera has ever made.


4 A PRETENDER’S MURDER 
by Christopher Huang 
(Jan 27: Audible, Feb 24: eb, Mar 19: pb)

The year is 1925. A labyrinth of roads and rails spirals out from the bones of a nearly forgotten settlement. Londinium. Once the far-flung edge of the vast Roman Empire, it is now the seat of a greater one.

Few have given more for the Empire than Colonel Hadrian Russell. Robbed of his four sons by the Great War, he now holds court as the acting president of the Britannia, a prestigious soldiers-only club in London. But when the Colonel is shot and thrown out the club’s front window, it seems the shadows of the Great War may extend further than previously thought.

Lieutenant Eric Peterkin, newly installed secretary at the Britannia, finds himself thrust into the role of detective after Scotland Yard points fingers at friends he knows are innocent. But is the true murderer an unknown spy? Or a recently resurfaced friend of the Colonel’s dead sons? Or is it one of the Colonel’s four widowed daughters-in-law, who by all appearances paid him complete devotion?

Accusations from personal betrayal to wartime espionage mount among the suspects as Eric’s investigation draws him back to scenes and sites of a war he’s sought to leave behind. From the greening fields of Flanders and the springtime streets of Paris to the sterile wards of a Swiss sanatorium, and back to the Britannia itself, Eric finds that even myths leave behind bones.


5 WOLF HOUR 
by Jo Nesbø 
(Feb 12: pb)

The hunt is on to catch an unstoppable killer.

When a small-time crook is shot down in the streets of Minneapolis, all signs point to a lone wolf, a sniper who has vanished into thin air.

But when the shooter strikes again, maverick detective Bob Oz is called in to crack the case. He does not think this victim will be the last.

As the body count rises, Oz suspects something even more sinister is at play. And the closer he gets to the truth, the more disturbed he becomes. Because this serial killer reminds him of someone dangerous: himself.


6 SILENT TIES 
by Leigh Russell 
(Feb 26: eb and pb)

Geraldine’s judgment is sharp. But this case cuts deeper than most.

When Peter Selby vanishes after reporting a suspicious encounter, few take notice – until a man is found brutally stabbed in a quiet York suburb. Detectives Geraldine Steel and Ariadne Croft begin to investigate, but what looks like a random act of violence soon unravels into a dark and deeply personal mystery. As they dig into the lives of the victims, the emotional landscape grows increasingly fractured.

Peter’s wife is guarded, their daughter erratic and angry. The second victim’s family are cold, evasive, and seemingly determined to keep the past buried. Then a second disappearance throws everything into chaos. With each revelation, the detectives uncover layers of resentment, betrayal, and psychological trauma lurking behind the neat façades of domestic life.

Under mounting pressure, and with Ariadne in growing danger, Geraldine must navigate a maze of fractured relationships and shifting motives before the killer strikes again. Taut, unsettling, and emotionally charged, this psychological crime thriller exposes the darkness beneath the surface – and the human cost of secrets left to fester.
by Tim Weaver 
(Feb 28: eb, hb and Audible)

THE WOMEN WHO DISAPPEARED

Before he was a missing persons investigator, David Raker was a journalist – and there’s one story that still haunts him. The Lost Women.

Eighteen years ago, on the Cornish coast, three women were filming a documentary about a missing student…until they vanished too. With no bodies and no leads, the disappearances remain unsolved.

THE PATIENT WHO VANISHED

Today, Raker is hired to crack an impossible mystery. Following a car accident, Preston Stewart has surgery on his face. The operation is a success.

But when the dressings are removed, Preston’s wife realises something is very wrong. The man under the bandages is not her husband.

THE CLOCK IS TICKING

Raker and his ally, former detective Colm Healy, begin digging into Preston’s disappearance – and discover a horrifying connection to the lost women.

But there’s something even worse. The men only have 48 hours to solve both cases – or everything that matters to them and everyone they love is in danger…


8 LAST ONE OUT 
by Jane Harper 
(Apr 23: eb, hb and Audible)

He had been here, that was clear from the marks in the dust. And he had been alone.

In a dying town, Ro Crowley waits for her son on the evening of his twenty-first birthday.

Sam never comes home. His footprints in the dust of three abandoned houses offer the only clue to his final movements. One set in. One set out.

Five long years later, Ro returns to Carralon Ridge for the annual memorial of Sam’s disappearance. The skeletal community is now an echo of itself, having fractured under the pressure of the coal mine operating on its outskirts.

But Ro still wants answers. Only a few people remain. If the truth is to be found in that town, does it lie among them?'


9 YOU CAN RUN 
by Alex North 
(May 7: eb and pb)

YOU CAN RUN

Police called to a crime scene on a quiet suburban street are shocked to find a woman being held captive.

YOU CAN HIDE

When the remains of more victims are discovered, it seems that the notorious Red River Killer, who has been abducting women for twenty years, has finally been identified.

BUT HE’S STILL OUT THERE

DI Will Turner leads the investigation. The killer may be running, but he’s certainly not hiding - and the hunt for his next victim is very much underway . . .
by Michael Connelly 
(May 19: eb, hb and Audible)

Sworn to protect a scenic island meant to be far from the evils of the mainland, Detective Sergeant Stilwell can feel danger closing in.

Detective Sergeant Stilwell knows that his posting on Catalina Island is no paradise, but to most residents, it seems blissfully separated-by twenty-two miles of ocean-from the troubles of Los Angeles County. But now a threat is coming to his safe haven.

Acting on a tip from a confidential informant, Stilwell and his deputies watch a plane land in the middle of the night at the Airport in the Sky, a remote airstrip in the mountains. A duffel bag of drugs is dropped and the deputies move in, but things quickly go sideways. While Stilwell chases the fleeing pickup man into the mountainside brush, shots are fired on the runway and the plane flies off.

An internal inquiry follows, putting Stilwell on the bench until he is cleared of responsibility for the disastrous operation. But he is determined to find out who brought deadly violence to his island, and begins his own secret investigation into the drug deal gone wrong.

While under orders to remain in the sheriff’s substation, he finds in the lost-and-found a valuable backpack that was never claimed. He traces it to a woman who disappeared while hiking on the island four years ago. But then why was the pack only turned in two months back? Now thoroughly intrigued, he follows the mystery all the way to the LAPD’s Open-Unsolved Unit and Detective Renée Ballard.

Stilwell and Ballard work the case from both sides of the channel, and soon realize they are on the trail of a criminal who revels in taunting the authorities. Meanwhile, frustrated at being shut out of an investigation on his own island, Stilwell risks his already shaky standing in the department to pursue a case whose reach is wider than he ever imagine.



THRILLER


1 THE WIND WITCH MURDERS 
by Casey Dunn 
(Jan 6: eb and hb)

Arkansas, 1999. Eighteen-year-old Raven Moore has spent her entire life trying to outrun her mother’s dark reputation. Twelve years ago, two bodies were found burned in a field at the base of the Hill, and Raven's mother, Deanne—the woman they called the Wind Witch—was convicted of their murders.

Three days ago, Deanne died in an asylum, without ever speaking a word in her own defense.

Then, at the funeral, a stranger appears with a red feather in his hand. He knows things about Raven’s mother that no one in Silverfield will speak aloud. Things about the Hill People—a community rumoured to practice witchcraft who vanished the day Deanne was locked away.

Things about the wind, and blood, and the gift that runs in Raven’s veins…whether she believes in it or not.

Raised by her fiercely religious grandmother to fear everything her mother represented, Raven’s life has been built on secrets and doubt. But when the past reaches out to claim her, she must choose: remain in the world that has always feared her, or step into the legacy her mother left behind.

Because the wind remembers what everyone else has forgotten. And some murders were never what they seemed…
by Rachel Hawkins 
(Jan 6: eb and Audible)

It was the trial that swept the nation
But her story isn't finished yet . . .

St Medard’s Bay, Alabama, is famous for three things: the deadly hurricanes that regularly sweep into town, the century-old Rosalie Inn that has survived every one, and Lo Bailey, the local girl accused of murdering her lover in 1984.

When hotel owner Geneva hears a true crime writer is in town to research the Landon Fitzroy case, she’s less interested in solving a whodunnit than the business it could bring the Rosalie Inn. But August Fletcher doesn’t come alone: with him is none other than Lo Bailey herself, returned to her hometown to clear her name once and for all.

But the closer Geneva gets to Lo and August, the more she wonders if Lo is actually back to settle old scores. And as another monster storm approaches, she learns that the truth about what really happened to Landon is not the only secret Lo is keeping...
by Paul Finch 
(Jan 15: eb, pb and Audible)

It’s the perfect way to end the weekend-long Murder Tour. 

Black Tarn Lodge would seem to offer everything even for visitors who aren’t dark tourists, but when a motley bunch of horror hounds and True Crime buffs arrive to spend the night, it could not be more ideal. Not only is it a magnificent Gothic mansion nestling deep in the remote Forest of Bowland, it once belonged to late British horror movie legend, Edgar Karnwood, and is now filled with costumes and mementoes from his many films.

Offering elegant dinners, vintage wines and the screening of a legendary lost film in the deceased star’s private cinema, it’s a sensational way to finish the Tour. Until night falls and a thick fog isolates the house from the rest of the world. Until the guests’ phones go missing. Until, one by one, they start vanishing.

When a body is found, it looks as if someone fell from the roof. Or was he pushed? Totally cut off, no one can leave or even call for help. Even worse, no one here really knows anyone else. But they’re going to have to work out who they can trust soon. Because whoever lies at the heart of this evil, he or she plainly isn’t finished yet.
by Don Winslow 
(Jan 29: eb, hb and Audible)

Six all-new short novels written with the trademark literary style, trenchant wit, and incisive characterization that have made Don Winslow “America’s greatest living crime writer” (Providence Journal) ...

The multi-million-dollar casino heist is impossible―it can’t be done. That’s what makes it irresistible to a legendary robber facing the rest of his life in prison for his “Final Score.” 

An ambitious, hard-working college-bound teenager has a side job delivering illegal booze to “The Sunday List” until a crooked cop, a seductive customer, and a fake guru threaten to end his dreams. 

Two wise guys tell each other a “True Story” over breakfast at a diner. It’s all bullshit and laughs until someone else has to pick up the cheque. 

An otherwise honest patrolman has to make an excruciating choice between his loyalty to the job and his love for a ne’er-do-well cousin in “The North Wing.” 

The entitled, substance-addicted movie star that surfer/PI Boone Daniels and his crew are hired to babysit in “The Lunch Break” is a problem. She also has a problem―someone wants her dead. 

Finally, the one terrible, momentary mistake that a devoted family man makes sends him to prison and on a “Collision” course between the man he wants to be and the killer he’s forced to become to survive.


5 TARGET ECHO 
by Alex Shaw 
(Feb 2: eb, Feb 3: hb and pb)

Elite Ukrainian assassin Ruslan Akulov, aka Wolf Six, is a ghost. A weapon for hire forged in the fires of conflict and tempered by experience. Known by both the underworld and international intelligence agencies, he works alone, guided only by the next mission and his unwavering commitment to his personal kill code.

So when a routine contract in Argentina turns from simple to chaotic in the squeeze of a trigger, Akulov is thrown into a complex web of deceit and dangerous tests of loyalty. Akulov had heard of the French intelligence operative Sophie Racine – her reputation and skills are world-class, but when her business becomes his problem, Wolf Six must quickly learn to work with others.

Thrust into a high-stakes partnership with Racine and an old comrade he believed was dead, Wolf Six must stop a deadly conspiracy to reignite a defunct Basque terrorist movement. The ‘explosive’ trail leads from the turbulent streets of Buenos Aires, via the Colombian cartels, to the elegant boulevards of Madrid.

Akulov and his allies must stop a new wave of terror attacks before countless innocent lives are lost…


6 A VIOLENT MASTERPIECE 
by Jordan Harper 
(Apr 28: hb, Jun 4: pb)

Los Angeles, right now. America with its back up against the wall. This Frankenstein’s monster of crimes and lurid dreams sewn together into something like a city.

A city ready to explode: A Hollywood paedophile is arrested, and is ready to tear down the city to get his freedom. A young woman goes missing - and men in black rubber gloves who look like cops clean out her apartment in the middle of the night. And the serial killer known as the LA Ripper is on the loose, leaving tragic/graphic/brutal crime scenes in his wake. 

Three people trying to keep their heads above the dirty water will find themselves coming together to unite these strands into one enormous, unspeakable crime ...

JAKE DEAL is a gonzo live-streaming nightcrawler, beaming the city’s chaos straight to his audience of blood-hungry subscribers, giving them the view from the top of the mushroom cloud - until a job he can’t refuse drags him back into his old life of Hollywood glamour, drugs, sex and sleaze. Armed with cameras and hidden mics, he’ll infiltrate private clubs, gather high-class dirt - and stumble onto a conspiracy woven into the centre of LA’s most powerful men, who call themselves "The Kids in the Candy Store."

DOUG GIBSON is a street lawyer, who fights for his clients against the army of cops, prosecutors and judges - he is the knife they bring to the gunfight. But when he’s hired by a Hollywood paedo ready to sell out his friends for a chance for freedom, he’ll take on a fight bigger than he could have imagined. And when his client "commits suicide" in prison, Gibson will have to stop being a weapon - and become a warrior.

KARA DELGADO works for an underground private concierge company - a make-a-wish foundation for the terminally rich. She scores drugs, makes connections, and plans multi-million dollar sex parties. She has learned the secret truth of this world: there are no rules, only prices. Her best friend Phoebe has gone missing, and Kara’s the only person who knows that Phoebe’s place was wiped clean of evidence by men in black rubber gloves. But when she begins to unravel the mystery of what happened to Phoebe, and its connection to the killer known as the LA Ripper, it will drag her into the dark heart of the city.

As Jake, Doug and Kara all investigate these crimes, they'll encounter ketamine-addled sitcom stars, bloody riots, homeless gangsters, a killer cop on death row, secret vaults in Beverly Hills, tech-bro orgies, medical cannibals, true crime junkies, private security wet-work teams, reality shows, street takeovers, car chases, coyotes, a sadistic Tarzan, and a three day, fifty million dollar wedding, before everything is revealed and they must each make their choice about how to fight back in this violent world before the bloody, blazing conclusion ...


7 A RIVER RED WITH BLOOD 
by John Connolly 
(May 7: eb and hb)

The players call it the Game, and its aim is simple: to abduct and kill a stranger without getting caught. They’re very good at it. They've been playing it for a long time. And they can keep playing so long as everyone stick to the rules: No Killing Close to Home and No Killing Outside the Game.

But those rules have been broken.

When the drowned body of a troubled teenager is recovered from a river in Maine’s Kennebec Valley, and a young woman disappears from a small rural town, they draw the attention of the private investigator named Charlie Parker.

Now Parker will be forced to confront a band of men without morality and without loyalty, not even to one another, in a place where the very darkness is alive.

Because something has emerged from the shadows, something very bad.

And it wants revenge.


8 LIAR LIAR 
by Luca Veste 
(Jun 4: eb, pb and Audible)

When you’ve lost the trust of everyone around you, where do you turn?

Once hailed as Liverpool’s finest detective, Mark Fletcher brought a serial killer to justice and earned the city’s admiration. But when it’s revealed he falsified evidence in past cases, his legacy is shattered – and so is his life.

Now disgraced and spiralling, Fletcher wakes up in a hotel room with no memory of the last 24 hours… and a dead body beside him.

The evidence says he did it. His instincts say otherwise.

Hunted by the force he once served, Fletcher must uncover the truth – not just to clear his name, but to survive. Because someone wants him silenced, and they’ll stop at nothing to finish what they started…


9 ONE OF THE FAMILY 
by Mark Edwards 
(Jun 18: eb, hb and Audible)

One of the family is dead.
One of the family is missing.
And one of the family might just be the killer...


Patrick couldn’t believe his luck when Holly fell for him. She’s wickedly funny, beautiful, and with an intimidatingly successful father, Charles.

So when she invites him to Charles’ mansion for a New Year’s break in Scotland, all he’s hoping is that they’ll accept him as one of the family.

But everything feels a little off. Whispers in hallways. Rumours of a body that got found nearby the previous year. And something very strange about Charles’ new girlfriend.

Every family has secrets, and Patrick tells himself all he needs to do is survive the next few days.

But then the first body is found, and Patrick realises that all he needs to do is really survive the next few days…
by Phil Lecomber 
(Jun 23: eb and pb)

Four years after bringing the infamous child-killer known as the Nursery Butcher to justice – and still haunted by the brutal vengeance exacted by the psychopath’s ruthless allies – Cockney private eye George Harley is finally back in business, operating a new detective agency in the heart of London’s Soho. Harley and his new assistant Bunty are presented with their first case when a distressed father engages them to investigate the disappearance of his daughter, who has run away from home to join a cabaret troupe led by the notorious ‘Queen of Depravity’ Ilse Blau, now in London after being driven out by the Nazis from Weimar-era Berlin.

But in Harley’s liminal world, things are never straightforward, and the detective soon finds himself embroiled in another pitch-dark scenario, with London’s decadent, thrill-seeking gentry on one side and West End mobsters and wide-boys in search of easy cash on the other. When he discovers that a six-year-old has been kidnapped from an orphanage, Harley is convinced his old nemesis has somehow broken out of the lunatic asylum and is back on the streets of London, up to his old tricks.

Set in 1933 and following on from the events of Midnight Streets, this second instalment in the Piccadilly Noir series sees George Harley return to the frowzy alleyways and sleazy nightclubs of the UK capital in search of answers – no matter how uncomfortable they might turn out to be. But when he becomes ensnared in the mind games of a wily femme fatale, and finds himself up against ruthless Glaswegian gangsters, well-connected occultists, and undercover SS agents, those answers become increasingly hard to find.



HORROR


1 WITCH CRAFT 
edited by Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan 
(Jan 20: hb)

An impressive new anthology of horror stories exploring what it means to be ‘witch’, including the rediscovery and reclaiming of that power, its links to nature, and witchcraft mythology from around the world from editors Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan.

The full list of featured authors: Eugen Bacon, David Barnett, Melissa Bobe, Gabriella Buba, Mark Chadbourn, Eliza Chan, Aveline Fletcher, Helen Grant, Muriel Gray, Kay Hanifen, Lisa L. Hannett, Damien Kelly, Amanda Mason, Alison Moore, Buhlebethu Sukoluhle Mpofu, Angela Slatter and Ally Wilkes.
by Ramsey Campbell
(Feb 17: eb and pb)

A new edition of this classic exploration of malevolent dreams and monstrous forces, from the master of horror ...

“The dreams are getting stronger,” Guilda Kent said. “My dreams and everyone else’s. We’ve allowed them to grow stronger by trying to explain them away, don’t you understand? Dreaming isn’t a state of mind, but we scientists have lulled people into thinking it is. It isn’t a state of mind, it’s a state of being. The dream place, the collective unconscious… I call it the dream thing. It’s alive, I’m sure it is. It wants to feed on what we call reality, feed on it so it can take its place. We’ve given it that strength, we even helped it gain a hold. That time at Oxford let it break through…”

Five people take part in a study of precognitive dreaming, but the future they all dream of is a nightmare. Eleven years later, the dream creature they released creeps into all their lives in shapes they don’t realise are dreams. If it brings the five together again, far worse will be loosed on the world. Can Molly Wolfe, one of the dreamers, track down everyone involved in time to stop it, or is her search doomed to help it achieve its inhuman aim? Is she too unaware of the way the dream creature has insinuated itself into her life?

by Catriona Ward 
(Feb 19: eb, hb and Audible)

The Nowhere Children are expecting you...

High in the mountains sits Nowhere, a verdant valley surrounded by walls of rock. People have lived at Nowhere for centuries, though never for long, and rarely happily. Its last owner was its most famous: movie star Leaf Winham, who built Nowhere House as a refuge to hide from his fame... and to hide his crimes. Only when Nowhere House went up in flames were the graves discovered, the last resting places of lost young men who would never go home.

Years later, Nowhere valley has become a sanctuary for runaway children, a place where adults cannot enter. Drawn by this promise, fourteen-year-old Riley pulls her brother Oliver from his bed in the middle of the night, hoping to find a new family. But the Nowhere Children are fierce in defending their valley and their secrets. For something dark lives in the ruins of Nowhere House, something that asks a terrible price for sanctuary...


SCRATCH MOSS 
by David Barnett 
(Mar 5: eb, pb and Audible)

1865. Coal lies beneath Scratch Moss Manor and Sir Henry Brody is determined to get to it. But something else lurks below, something dark and evil.

1905. Reverend George Ackman has never known such godless people as those of Scratch Moss. But if not God, what do they believe in?

1945. Arthur works for the Coal Commission, visiting privately-owned pits ahead of their nationalisation. On his visit to Scratch Moss, he finds only misery and death.

1985. The miners have lost. Thatcher reigns supreme. And in the shattered community of Scratch Moss, rumours resurface about Red Clogs, a terrible presence in the land below.

2025. Divorced, fifty-something writer Joe returns to his hometown of Scratch Moss for the funeral of his father. Soon the memories of Joe’s teenage years, and the horror that blighted the community, come flooding back....
by T. Kingfisher 
(Mar 26: eb, hb and Audible)

Something darker than the devil stalks the North Carolina woods.

The year is 1899 and Sonia Wilson is a scientific illustrator without work, prospects or hope. When the reclusive Dr. Halder offers her a position illustrating his vast collection of insects, Sonia jumps at the chance to move to his North Carolina manor house and put her talents to use.

But soon enough she finds that there are darker things at work in the Carolina woods.

What happened to her predecessor, Halder’s wife?

Why are animals acting so strangely?

And what is behind the peculiar local whispers about ‘blood thieves’?

With the aid of the housekeeper and a local healer, Sonia discovers that Halder’s entomological studies have taken him down a dark road full of parasitic maggots that burrow into human flesh – and that his monstrous experiments may grow to encompass his newest illustrator . . .


MONUMENTAL 
by Adam Nevill 
(Apr 2: eb)

Disaster strikes quickly and without warning. What should have been a glorious weekend of kayaking and camping in a secluded beauty spot is transformed by a scream, the first crisis initiating a deadly momentum that accelerates as the valley reveals itself to Marcus and his five companions.

They’re trespassing on strictly private land. There’s only one way out. An escape route closed until the next high tide fills the estuary. In twelve hours’ time.

Recreation becomes survival.

Marooned, unable to summon help, harassed by dire and worsening circumstances, the ties that bind the expedition are stretched taut. If they snap, vital cooperation will unravel and the group members’ damning secrets will be revealed.

Only the most courageous and committed have any chance against the area’s inhabitants. But is any mind strong enough to endure a confrontation with the most hideous revelation of all? An ancient evil that coils beneath the valley’s sinister folklore.


by Ronald Malfi 
(Apr 14: eb and hb)

The residents of Mariner’s Cove are changing…

In the aftermath of a violent storm, a collective obsession is rapidly developing among the people of this quaint suburban neighborhood. Random, everyday items left scattered upon the lawns, the streets, and the shoreline all seem to call out to them. There is an item for almost everyone, and each item has a certain hold over the person who finds it—a hold that soon turns into unwavering infatuation. They hide their items from each other, obsess over them, and they will do anything—anything—to protect them.

The collective hum of bees’ wings...

A young boy finds himself the possessor of a strange and inexplicable power. Is the arrival of this power linked to the increasingly odd and dangerous behavior of the residents of Mariner’s Cove? Has he been granted this power in order to thwart whatever is about to happen in this small, bayside community, or is there a more sinister purpose?

All hail the Dragon...

All eyes are on him now.

The residents of Mariner’s Cove are watching.

They move as one, like a solitary organism, and will do anything to succeed in their single-minded purpose.

They will not be stopped.


8 HEX HOUSE 
by Amy Jane Stewart 
(Apr 28: eb and pb)

A woman in the woods alone is never the beginning of the story. It’s usually the end.

ELLY

Elly is running. Pregnant and still in her wedding dress, she flees the cottage that her new husband, Ethan, has rented for their wedding night. Because he’s not what people think he is, and she knows that one day he’ll hurt her in a way she can’t fix.

Freezing and alone in the woods in the dead of night, she accepts that she’s going to die. But just as she has given up all hope, a house appears out of nowhere, and a woman beckons her in. Welcome to Hex House. A place that can only be found by those who truly need it. A place that teaches broken women how to access a power more beautiful and more horrifying than anything they could have imagined.

SIOBHAN

Edinburgh, present day: Siobhan’s life is in ruins. Once a promising documentary filmmaker, she has given up on her dream, and kept all the terrifying footage she has of Hex House hidden away. She tries to erase all the horrors she witnessed with drugs and alcohol, and spends her time toying with a man in increasingly feral and dangerous ways. Her brother won’t speak to her, and she ignores the scar on her stomach that never fully heals

But despite everything, always, she feels the presence of that place.

And she knows, deep down, that she has to return.


9 HOUSE OF FLIES 
by Graham Masterton 
(May 7: pb)

IF YOU SEE THEM, RUN...

A clergyman is murdered in his bed in the dead of night, triggering a chilling chain of events, each more bizarre and unnerving than the last - brutal killings, corpses vanishing, decomposed bodies digging their way out of graves.

These shocking events seem unconnected but, at each scene, people report witnessing swarms of flies - hundreds, thousands, even millions of them.

As DI Patel and DS Pardoe hunt for the mastermind behind these atrocious crimes, they are forced to ask: is this person human - or is all of this linked to the mysterious figure caught on CCTV, running at speed without moving its legs?

And can they stop the swarm before they themselves are consumed?


10 THE SUMMER FUN MASSACRE 
by Craig DiLouie 
(Jun 16: eb and Audible)

SUMMER 1983. A blood-soaked summer camp counsellor is found staggering down a country road. The sole survivor of a horrific massacre, Mary tells a nightmare of a masked maniac wielding an old skinning knife. Arriving too late to help, her boyfriend Tom Bailey is plagued by guilt.

SUMMER 1992. The camp reopens as Camp Summer Fun. Now a sheriff’s deputy, Tom doubts this is a good idea, but the camp has been refurbished, the counsellors hired, and the little campers are on the way. Responding to reports of a blood-curdling howl near the camp, he again arrives too late to save anyone except a single brutalized teen. The killer nowhere to be found.

Hoping to catch the killer and finally right his mistakes, Tom reconnects with Mary. She's convinced that the killer is not human but instead a rural legend known as the Hungry Hare.

The sheriff wants the case closed, but refuses to believe in folklore. Mary dreams of revenge for her friends. And Tom hunts for any traces of the killer: real or fictional. But the murderer could be closer to home than anyone expects.

The Hare is coming and is so, so hungry…

Monday, 15 December 2025

See in the season with a festive spook story


Okay, it’s that time of year again. Best wishes of the season to all you regular readers of this column, and those who only pop in now and then. As always in mid-December, my Christmas present to you folks, if you’ll accept it, is a brand-new festive horror story, which is entirely free to read. I won’t go on about the Christmas custom of telling each other ghost and horror stories – we all know the background to that by now. Let’s just get into the action.


Here, for your delectation, is …


DARKEST TIME OF THE YEAR


“I don’t suppose you’ve heard that story,” Uncle Henry said, “about the pub barman who died very bizarrely one Christmas Eve when he tried to climb up a chimney?”
    I frowned. “I don’t think I have.”
    He lapsed into thought. Briefly, there was only the spitting of the holly logs in the fireplace, and the ongoing rumble of laughter from other parts of his spacious suburban home. I waited, the firelight refracting through our brandies, casting wavering reddish sprites on the panelled walls of his study, glinting on the prettily hung evergreens. Aunt Juliet always went out of her way to turn their home into an atmospheric shrine when the festive time of year came around.
    “It’s just …” Uncle Henry said, “that question Cousin Jennifer posed during dinner. About why do we tell ghost stories at Christmas.”
    “Presumably because we’re more receptive to them?” I replied.
    He eyed me with mild surprise. “Good answer, Milo. Keep going.”
    “Well … isn’t it a continuation of the old pagan tradition? You know … spirit worship? That sort of thing?”
    His face fell. “That’s a bit of guff, if you don’t mind my saying.”
    “Oh?”
    “I don’t doubt there are some lingering remnants of those ancient beliefs. But all this ‘Christmas was invented to replace the pagan festival’ is wishful thinking by empty vessels with ‘New Age’ stamped on them. The truth is that many cultures in the Ancient World had their winter festivals: Saturnalia, Midvinterblot. There was no reason why the early Christians couldn’t have one too. It didn’t need to have been pieced together to replace the others. But there’s the rub. Why the depths of winter? We’re fairly certain that Christ was born sometime in September, so why celebrate it in late December? Why were any of these feasts celebrated at such an inhospitable time?”
    “Isn’t it all about the end of one year and the coming of the next?’ I replied. ‘A rebirth, so to speak?”
    “There’s no sign of a rebirth in December. You want my opinion, Milo … it’s not about life, it’s about death. And darkness.”
    I listened, intrigued.
    “December is the deadest part of the year,” he added. “And the darkest. If it wasn’t for Christmas, it would be a terrible time for all of us.”
     “So …” I tried to follow his logic. “It’s the time of year that conjures the spirits rather than Christmas itself?”
    “Everything is frozen and rotting, daylight is scarce … so doesn’t it go without saying that evil is abroad?”
    “And that’s why our own Church declared it the most joyful time of year?” I said. “To counteract all this?”
    He nodded. “I’d agree that many pagan customs were absorbed into Christmas, though I suspect this was a prolonged and accidental process. But I don’t think the whys or wherefores are relevant. Take Santa Claus. Whatever he started out as … the menacing druidic figure, the Spirit of Winter, Old Father Christmas as he was called in medieval times, who heralded wild days of feasting and debauchery, or even Odin, the Norse god who rode across the winter sky with a pack of devilish dogs instead of reindeers and reaped the souls of the unworthy rather than refused to give them presents … he is what he’s now become: the genial gift-giver we all grew up with. And that underlines what I’m talking about: the way the glorious Christmas feast is a beacon of light at the darkest time of the year.”
    I followed him but sensed there was more to come.
    Uncle Henry was my mother’s older brother by twenty years. I’d always known him as an avuncular and responsible adult, and of course very well educated. He was Professor Emeritus of Medieval Studies at Lancaster University, and even now, at seventy-five, there was something reassuring about his portly, tweed-clad figure. But beneath that conventional, conservative façade, I’d long known there was a man who’d travelled, a man who’d seen and done many things that he wouldn’t always talk about. So, it was a little disconcerting to see how serious he’d become.
    “All this is connected to the barman in the chimney?” I wondered.
    He pursed his kips. “The truth is, Milo, I don’t know. That was a tale I heard some time in my youth. I’ve no idea which pub it was supposed to have taken place in or whereabouts in the country. But some chap, a barman, as you say … an athletic, wiry fellow, he must have been – apparently had this party trick, where he would work his way up the chimney in the hostelry’s main taproom …”
    “He’d literally climb up the chimney?” I said.
    “Only to about halfway, at which point he’d crawl across a narrow horizontal passage, formerly an old bacon-smoking gallery, which by this time was bricked in and inaccessible from anywhere else in the building, and then descend again via the chimney in the snug.” Uncle Henry paused. “It can’t have been to the landlord’s pleasure. I imagine he’d bring clouds of soot back down with him. But apparently, it was a popular spectacle among pub patrons. Somehow or other, it would encourage them all to buy extra drinks. No doubt, the devil-may-care barman, filthy or not, was treated to several.”
    “I see,” I said. “And where does the ghostly bit come in?”
    “Well …” he sat back, “as I understand, and I repeat that I heard this story second-hand, so I can’t give firm guarantees … one Christmas Eve, the pub was full and the barman was encouraged to perform his famous trick. Which he did. However, on this occasion he didn’t descend again. Down either of the two chimneys.”
    “What had happened?” I asked.
    “I’ve no idea. At a guess, he’d got stuck somewhere. At first, they joked about it and called rude names up after him. But in due course they became concerned. Mainly because he didn’t call insults back. Or in fact make any sound at all. They shoved an old clothes-prop up there, but it encountered no obstruction. Someone then hit on the idea of lighting the fire, to smoke him out.”
    “Good lord,” I said, half-laughing at the sheer lunacy of that.
    My uncle remained serious. “They were inebriated, remember. So, it was long after they’d got a good old blaze going when someone else arrived in the pub, someone in a soberer state, who had them douse the flames. Even after they’d put the fire out, though, the missing barman didn’t reappear. And my understanding is that this was the end of the matter. Basically, he was never seen again.”
    As before, I half-laughed, though it was noticeable that Uncle Henry didn’t.
    “Are you serious?” I asked him.
    “I’m afraid I am.”
    “And they all just accepted this?”
    “As I say, Milo, I’ve no actual facts. This was some time in the mid-nineteenth century. If it happened now, the Fire Brigade would be called, and the place dismantled brick by brick. But nothing of that sort seems to have happened … which may of course mean the whole thing’s a load of nonsense. A Victorian urban myth if you like.”
    “It’s a horrible tale, even so.”
    He nodded and sipped his brandy. “It’s not impossible there was a secret exit, and for some reason best known to himself, the barman wanted to disappear. Most commentators, though, were convinced that he’d found his last resting place up there, wedged in, smothered by the smoke, and within a few months presumably, cured and crisped like an overlarge bacon joint … which is where the really eerie part of the story starts.”
    I’d sensed we were getting to the crux of it.
    “Rumour had it,” he added, “that from this moment on, every Christmas Eve, once the pub had thrown out the last of its patrons and everyone was in bed, the missing barman would re-emerge from under one of the two chimney breasts, a smoke-blackened effigy of the person he’d once been. They’d hear him walking unsteadily along the pub corridors, sometimes trying doors, other times stopping where he stood, just waiting there in the darkness, listening.”
    An ember spat loudly in the fireplace, making the pair of us jump.
I swilled some brandy. “I’m surprised you didn’t mention this over dinner, when the rest of us were telling ghost stories.”
    He nodded slightly, his gaze elsewhere. “That’s because this is only background detail … and may be irrelevant to the rather personal experience I’m about to relate.”
    “Personal experience?”
    “So personal that I’ve always kept it to myself.” He eyed me, but without his customary twinkle. “But seeing as you’re my favourite nephew, Milo, and I’m now an old chap and have this burgeoning need to unload it …’
    “And it concerns this particular pub?” I asked.
    “I make no claim to that.”
    “But I thought –”
    He raised a hand. “Best to hear me out. We can discuss the possibilities later.”
    I shrugged and gestured for him to continue.
    He swirled the liquor in his snifter. “It was Christmas Eve, 1978. The same night I was taken ill on the West Coast main line …”

*

I’d been feeling unwell all day, hot-skinned and weary, a constant low-level headache churning between my temples. As such, the conference I’d been attending at Birkbeck had dragged interminably. When I got back to Euston late that afternoon, I was engulfed in chaotic crowds all seeking last-minute connections home for the holiday. Needless to say, my train, the 4-15 to Glasgow, was full, every seat taken. But I must have looked so under the weather that a young lady stood up for me. Now, you know me. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have countenanced a woman standing for a chap, but I barely even thought about it; just slumped down in a half-swoon, shoving my briefcase under my legs. But my ordeal was far from over even then. In that day, most of the West Coast main line services were stopping trains, and by that, I mean they stopped at near enough every station, so, even though I was only travelling as far north as Lancaster, I could still expect a good five hours’ worth of journey time.
    If I’m honest, I don’t remember much about that train ride. I was in and out of sleep, though I never felt rested. After what seemed like endless hours, I felt quite feverish. I might even have been semi-delirious. Even when I realised that the train was stationary, and that we’d come to my stop, I was slow to react, scrabbling for my case, swaying to my feet. Fortunately, there were several people disembarking, so there was no danger that I wouldn’t get off in time. But when I was down on the platform, dimly aware that snowflakes were now falling – big heavy wet ones slapping the top of my head – it struck me there wasn’t a canopy, which meant that I wasn’t where I’d thought I was.
    It seemed I’d disembarked somewhere in that woe-begotten industrial hinterland between Greater Manchester and Lancashire. A township called Stockridge. Formerly a mass of factories and coal mines, though by this time declining. Of course, I only realised what I’d done when the train was pulling out again. Groggy as I was, it came as a horrible shock, and worse was to follow: when I was able to focus on the platform clock, it told me that it was now after nine in the evening, and I had a terrible feeling that there’d be no further journeys north from Stockridge that night.
    An elderly station guard confirmed this. “There might be a Ribble service from the bus station,” he told me. “But I can’t be sure.”
    It sounded anything but promising, especially as he then provided the most complex and convoluted set of directions I’d ever heard.
    My headache had now worsened. It was all I could do to get down the station stairs onto the forecourt. Stockridge Railway Station, it seemed, was in an elevated position just off a sloping main road, which passed it by downhill, before swinging leftward under an arched bridge. Of course, the main road I’d alighted on now thronged with Christmas Eve revellers, and all the while, the sleet fell. In the teeth of that noisy crowd, in all that cold, with head pounding, it was already impossible to work out which way I should go for the bus station, if I’d ever known at all. Here and there, though, I spied the open doorways to pubs, one of which stood directly across the road. It was an odd-looking building. Built from black brick, but tall and narrow, sandwiched against the railway bridge by other equally tall and dingy edifices. It was called The Traveller’s Rest, a name displayed in gold-painted calligraphy on a stone plaque above the entrance.
    Inside of course, it was packed to capacity. To be fair to the hardworking, hard-drinking men and women of Stockridge, the mood was jovial rather than volatile, though the crammed, claustrophobic atmosphere was difficult to deal with for a man in my condition.
    “Eh?” the barmaid said, certain she’d misheard me. “A cup of tea?”
    “Well, actually,” I said, “yes, but … I’m afraid I’m rather unwell.”
    “Too much drink, is it, dearie?”
    “No … it’s just …” I barely understood what I was saying, myself. “A cup of tea would be nice … if that’s possible.”
    She was an older lady, as I recall. Nicely made up, wearing Christmas tree ear pendants and a circlet of tinsel around her bouffant hairstyle. I remember her coming around the bar and guiding me by my elbow to a corner. Even sitting down, I found myself crammed between strangers. They were all good-natured, but they were roaring drunk too, and when a cup of tea was placed alongside me, they pushed it away, offering me beer or spirits instead, or even drags on their cigarettes. That’s an important point to remember; this was decades before the smoking ban was introduced, so the entire place was smoggy. Back then, even those of us who didn’t smoke were so thoroughly used to it that we barely noticed. Later on, though, this detail will become important …

*

“Why did the barmaid put you in the corner?” I asked. “Surely, she could see you were ill?”
    He shrugged. “Different time, different place, Milo. The 1970s were a rough and ready decade, during which people were expected to fend for themselves. But on top of that, she was busy. It was late evening by this time, and I can’t stress how rammed full that pub was. The Christmas music had reached ear-numbing volume as well … and mostly they were songs you still hear now: Merry Xmas Everybody, I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday.”
    “At least you were spared Wham!” I intruded.
    “What? Oh, yes …” He half-smiled, though even this was an effort for him; these recollections were proving problematic. “One small advantage, I suppose.”

*

When the landlord came to see me, he was a big, bluff, middle-aged chap, bullnecked, square-shouldered, his thinning grey hair shaved to bristles. Interchangeable with so many other pub landlords in that era, I suppose; not the sort to show much concern for his fellow men. Not when he had a pub full of riotous boozers to contend with.
    I remember hearing the barmaid asking what they were going to do with me.
    “You sure he’s not just leathered?” the landlord asked.
    “Can’t smell it on him if he is,” she replied.
    “This is all we need,” he grumbled. “Any reason why we can’t just put him in a taxi?”
    “I don’t know if he’s got any money, and we can’t be searching his pockets, Mal.”
    “Do we know where he’s come from?”
    “No. Can’t get any sense out of him. Just keeps saying he’s ill. Should we call an ambulance?”
    “I’m sure they’ll be delighted if we do that,” he replied. “They’re running all over town like blue-arsed flies at present, picking up the pieces of good will to all men.”
    The barmaid leaned down. “Listen, dearie …” She took my arm. “Let’s take you upstairs. We’ve got two or three spare rooms. We don’t usually rent them out on Christmas Eve, but perhaps if you just lie down for a bit … you know, in the peace and quiet. And if you end up feeling better, you can make your way down and head for home. There’ll be no charge or anything.”
    The landlord took my other arm, and they eased me to my feet. I made no resistance, but I must have been near enough a deadweight. My legs were wobbling, my head swimming. That whole downstairs area was a kaleidoscope of laughing faces, tatty Christmas decorations and sloshing beer.
    “Do you think we should?” the barmaid asked, as they hustled me through the mob.
    “Doesn’t look like we’ve any choice,” the landlord replied.
    “I mean, the state of this chap … he’s burning up.”
    “Dawn, my love … the more out of it he is, the better for him.”
    In retrospect, that comment meant much more than I realised at the time.

*

Uncle Henry jammed the poker into the fire, then added a couple of fresh logs.
    “Have you ever been knocked unconscious, Milo?” he asked. “I mean really knocked unconscious? I don’t mean falling slowly asleep when you’re in bed or even being anaesthetized on an operating table. I mean … like when you take a blow to the head, and in the blink of an eye you’ve lost quite a few minutes?”
    “I think so,” I replied. “It was a school rugby match. I was on the receiving end of a very high tackle. It sparked me out. One minute I was crashing through the defensive line with the ball in hand, the next I was lying on my back looking at the sky and the blank faces of both teams as they crowded around me.”
    He nodded. “Okay, well yes, that’s what it was like. Though at least you were still on the rugby field. In my case, the immediate transference from one reality to another was far more extreme …”

*

Remember, I was embroiled in the noisy chaos of the pub’s main bar. But then, like a thunderclap, it was pitch dark and silent. And I mean silent. There was no sound at all. A whole range of confusions hit me at once. Where was I? How had I ended up here? And yet somehow, I understood that a considerable time, possibly many hours, had passed since I’d last been conscious.
    I realised that I was lying on top of a bed, the mattress firm but the blankets musty. I was also cold. Not bitterly cold. I’d later realise that there was a lingering warmth in there from a central heating system that hadn’t been deactivated for very long, but it wasn’t enough to hold off the chill now spreading through me from my sweat-damp clothing. If nothing else, that meant my fever had broken. Temporarily as it later transpired, but at the time it granted me some minor respite. I sat up on the bed, a faint, pale light seeping through what looked like a curtain on the wall to my right. As the room became dimly visible, I saw that the bed occupied the majority of it, though there was one other item of furniture: a small table in the far righthand corner, with what might have been my briefcase on top of it. A single door stood in the lefthand corner. At which moment a sudden reverberation commenced …
    It wasn’t an earthquake, more a dull juddering, but the bed, a horrible old iron-famed thing, clanked and clattered. A lightshow then followed, passing left to right on the other side of the window, flickering and glimmering through the cloth. I got up, lurched over there, and yanked the curtain back. 
    Not ten feet beyond the grimy glass, a freight train comprising many boxcars was chugging past along the West Coast main line. Once the train had gone, the outdoor light dwindled back to the vague ethereal glow of previously. Moonbeams, I realised, glinting off the paper-thin layer of snow covering the sleepers and the gravel, and the jumbled angular shapes of the town’s rooftops.
    Obviously, I was still in the pub, in one of its upper rooms, but this didn’t enthuse me.
    The simple of act of stumbling to the window had reminded me that I wasn’t functioning at full power. I tottered away, letting the dusty drape fall back, and found myself sitting on the bed in a semi-nauseous state. Already, a new headache was forming, and from the all-encompassing silence, both inside and outside the building, I guessed that it was now much later in the night than either I or my rescuers had intended.
    But I knew that I couldn’t stay here.
    I took a moment to gather my strength, rise to my feet, and lumber to the bedroom door. Here, I felt for a light-switch, found one and threw it, but nothing happened. Cursing under my breath, I opened the door on abyssal blackness. I waited on my night-vision adjusting again. It did so, but only in a minuscule way, the pale light leaking through the curtain finally creating enough of a smudge on the drably papered wall opposite my open door to indicate that I was in a room off a passage.
    I listened again. Still, there was no sound. No vehicles, no raucous singing.
    I ventured leftward, the darkness engulfing me, and so feeling my way along the wall with my fingertips. If I was on level with the railway, I must have ascended at least a couple of flights of stairs to get here. The last thing I needed was to plunge back down one of them, and so I halted every half-yard or so, probing ahead with my foot.
    Delicate as I was feeling, a sudden madness of frustration overtook me.
    This situation couldn’t stand.
    Apart from anything else, Juliet would be out of her mind. There were no mobile phones in those days, remember. The thought of my wife fighting panic as she went first to Lancaster Railway Station, only to be told that all the trains had now been and gone, then enquiring with the police, who’d have no idea who or where I was, was appalling. It was the last straw.
    “Hello?” I shouted. “Can anyone hear me?”
    On that narrow corridor, high up, it had zero effect. I pictured my weak, wavering voice bouncing around those narrow confines before absorbing into the heavy iron and stone of this age-old, industrial structure. I blundered recklessly forward, all light falling behind me, and only by pure fluke, came to a teetering standstill at the top of one of those stairways.
    “Hello?” I projected as loudly as I could, my lungs hurting. “I’m sorry to disturb you … but you haven’t forgotten me, have you? I need to get home!’
    Feeble though my voice was, it resounded again and again through what seemed like a multilayered labyrinth of passages and rooms below, and while you may think that was satisfying inasmuch as help might have been summoned, it didn’t comfort me. To start with, it now struck me that the landlord himself might not be in the best mood to be woken like this. He’d already proved himself a gruff character, though I needn’t have worried about that at least, because no one responded, either to call upstairs to ask how I was or even to tell me shut up and wait until morning.
    Again, all I heard was a dead, stony silence.
    Surely, I thought, the landlord sleeps on these premises? Wasn’t that the normal way? Unless he was just a manager? But weren’t pub managers supposed to live on-site too?
    Good lord, they hadn’t left me here alone?
    I was still pondering the implications of this, perched at the top of that unlit staircase, when I finally heard something. A dull thud, I thought, followed by a muffled scraping sound. Like a door forced open or a table being shoved over. There was no doubt that it had come from downstairs, but again, I didn’t like it. Wouldn’t a normal person have simply shouted up to me? Another sound followed below, this one fainter – another thud, semi-inaudible.
    I had no real clue as to what it signified and yet was discouraged from calling down again. A much louder impact sounded: a hefty clunk, with an echo attached. I pictured someone drunk, stumbling about in a darkened space. Slowly, I retreated along the passage.
    When I reached the door to my room, I waited again. The sounds continued, progressively more violent – I imagined tables and chairs being hurled around – the cacophony suddenly transforming into a recognisable clomping of hefty but awkward feet on a stairway. It wasn’t the stairway connecting to this higher floor – I knew that much, the sounds weren’t loud enough – but this meant that whoever this was, he was now ascending.
    I re-entered the bedroom and closed the door behind me, only to find that there was no lock. I scrabbled around the doorknob and up and down the jamb, to no gain. Re-opening the door by a couple of inches, I listened again. Another angry impact sounded from what was possibly the next floor down. I closed the door and went to the window, dragging the curtain all the way back. The same desolate scene greeted me: the overarching darkness, the thin snowfall glinting from the railway tracks. The window itself was a sash window set into one of those heavy, old-fashioned casements. The dirt of ages was compacted in its corners, and when I ran my fingers along its lower shelf, they brushed though the husks of flies and bluebottles. I tried to lift the central panel, but there was no budging it.
    I moved back across the room, and for what seemed the umpteenth time, risked cracking the door open. More chaotic thudding and banging sounded on the floor directly below, only to resolve itself into an another irregular but distinct pattern: one short blow following another, following another, following another. Another ascent was in progress.
    Look, I’m sorry, I almost shouted, I didn’t mean to disturb …
    The feet halted again, as if whoever it was had read my thoughts, and was now listening, seeking to discover my exact position. I closed the door quietly and with no lock to activate, cast around for anything I could use. The table came into view. I threw my briefcase onto the bed and grabbed hold of it. Manhandling it towards the door, I tilted it, jamming two of its four legs against a protruding floorboard, and the edge of its upper surface under the doorknob. Hopefully, I’d created an immovable object. It seemed ridiculous; why did I need to do this? But now another bang sounded, this one quite clearly on this higher level of the building. Icy sweat stood on my brow as I heard the approach of heavy but uncoordinated feet. Frantic, I went at the window again, but it was still impossible to lift the main panel. The ancient fixture had warped over the years and fused into place.
    I turned and stared again at my own door, on the other side of which those clumping, lumbering feet now stopped. There was a ghastly, ear-piercing silence.
    I wanted to shout out a warning, a threat even. Go away, or …
    Or what?
    I was a thirty-year-old academic without a fighting bone in my body, and in a thoroughly weakened state.
    The doorknob turned. Only slightly, but I heard it squeak. With a click, the catch disengaged, and the door shifted inward half an inch before the table-barricade bit, locking it in place. The pressure on the other side eased. A second silence – a pondering silence – followed. And then there was a massive, reverberating blow, as if a bulky, ungainly body had flung itself forward. The table legs groaned against the floorboards, but held – for now.
    You want to know what the worst thing was about that moment?
    Not so much the determination of the assault upon my bedroom door. Blow followed blow, each one full-blooded, everything the assailant had thrown into them, but more frightening to me was that, for all the banging and thumping, there wasn’t a single sound from that person: not such much as a gasp or grunt of effort.
    There was, though, a strange smell. It struck me fleetingly, but it was distinctive. I’ve already said the reek of cigarettes pervaded that building. But this was much stronger, as if something other than tobacco, something thicker and denser, had been burned, or roasted … or smoked. And it was this that made my mind up.
    With gunshot reports, the two table legs fractured but I’d already I grabbed my briefcase, which was heavy with documentation, and swung it around three hundred and sixty degrees, launching it at the central pane of the window. Glass exploded outward in myriad shards.
    The next thing, my right foot was crunching dead flies on the shelf. My left followed, and then I’d stooped outside and was standing upright on the snow-covered sill, the frozen air enveloping me. Numerous blades of glass remained in the frame and might have gashed me, but this was no concern. Nor was it a concern that I wasn’t exactly on level with the railway lines, which lay a good seven feet below. As the bedroom door erupted inward, I stepped into mid-air anyway. It wasn’t a huge distance, I suppose, and even then, the drop was cushioned by a mass of dead, snow-caked vegetation.
    I waded out of it onto the gravel, slipping and tripping as I tottered across one set of rails after another, only stopping to look back when I was halfway over.
    Initially, I was unable to pick out the window I’d escaped through. All I could see was a cliff-face of black, shadowy brickwork. But then, when I did, there was something there in that jagged mouth, peering back at me. I squinted to see better, and it was just coming in to focus when I was struck by this sudden, overwhelming wall of sound: the most hair-raising, ear-blasting siren call, followed by a wave of blinding light, which flooded over me from both in front and behind …
    You might consider that I’d been very unfortunate to find myself in this predicament on Christmas Eve. But at this particular moment the opposite was true. I’d stumbled blindly away from that hellish building and had halted to look back while standing, quite unintentionally but very fortuitously, between two sets of different railway lines. The freight trains that then came thundering past, one in either direction, missed me by centimetres. All that said, the combo of dazzle and cacophony were so apocalyptic that my senses literally folded in on themselves, and I collapsed into oblivion.

*

“You’ll recall that when I was thirty years old, I was diagnosed with meningitis,” my uncle said. “I was hospitalised for several weeks. This incident was the first onset of that.”
    I watched him, awaiting more.
    “I mean, it should have been obvious to me that night,” he said, “the way I was blacking out, that it wasn’t simply a cold or flu. When I fell unconscious after leaving the building, it again lasted for several hours. I was found on Christmas morning, lying insensible on the West Coast main line. When you were knocked out, Milo, you woke up to see a group of concerned rugby players. In my case, it was a bunch of concerned railwaymen.”
    “At least you were found,” I replied. “You must have been frozen stiff.”
    “Yes.” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose I was lucky on that count too.”
    “But, surely …” I said, “that wasn’t the end of the matter?”
    “No, it wasn’t.” He sat back, cupping his brandy to his ample belly. “The whole incident caused a minor fuss. The landlord of The Traveller’s Rest, a chap called Malcolm Brazenhurst, was deemed to be at fault under the Health and Safety Act of 1974. As pub landlord, he was investigated for having neglected the safety of a guest. He insisted that he hadn’t abandoned me, saying that after he’d closed up for the night, he’d tried to rouse me but had found me in a comatose state. Several times, he said he’d tried to ring the emergency services only to find that they were too busy to take his call. He thus made his way on foot to Stockridge Infirmary to try and get advice, but had got caught up in chaos when he got there. Whether he did that, I have no idea. I was too ill to pay much heed to the actual enquiry.”
    He stared again into the flames.
    “And?” I said, “the business with that other person?”
    “An hallucination,” my uncle replied. “Visual, audible and even olfactory. According to the doctor under whose care I was placed, such episodes were not uncommon to people in my condition, and they had it on absolute authority that there’d been no one else in the building with me.”
    “Not even some drunk?” I suggested. “Who’d fallen asleep in one of the toilets and the pub staff had missed him.”
    “That’s not impossible,” he conceded, “but there was no evidence of it. In any case, I didn’t enquire too hard. I wanted to put the whole thing behind me. Several years later, though, I found myself in Stockridge again, where I had an appointment at the local Technical College. On the day in question, I had some spare time, and so I strolled through the town to the railway station … where I was shocked to find the pub nothing more now than a flame-blackened wall, with tarpaulins over the windows and a steel shutter where the front door had been. When I spoke to the woman in the shop next door, she explained that there’d been a huge fire two or three months earlier, which had gutted the place. When I pressed her for further information, she became conspiratorial, telling me that there’d been talk of it being ‘an insurance job’. Apparently, Mr Brazenhurst had been ‘a rum character’.
    “When I asked if Brazenhurst or any of his staff had been injured, she replied that there was ‘summat peculiar in that, an’ all’. It seems the fire had broken out during the night, not long after the landlord had locked up. The fire investigators concluded that some faulty plug had sparked into the upholstery of the pub furniture. To the shop lady’s mind though, the fire had still raged with uncommon speed and ferocity. And then there was that business with the poor victim…”
    “Victim?” I asked, feeling strangely uneasy.
    Uncle Henry nodded. “She explained that one person had died in the blaze, mainly because no one had known he was in there. The Fire Brigade only found him after quenching the flames. Brazenhurst, of course, denied any knowledge.”
    “Another drunk?” I said. “Left in the toilets?”
    Uncle Henry eyed me without humour. “Perhaps the same one?” He gazed at the hearth again. “It’s not totally implausible. But according to the shop lady, it was difficult for them to take the investigation further. Whoever this person was, it was impossible to identify him.”
    “That badly burned?” I said.
    “Very much so. When the Fire Brigade located him, he resembled, to use her exact phrase … ‘nothing human’.”

***

Thanks for your attention, folks. If you’ve enjoyed this one, perhaps you’ll be interested in two collections of Christmas-themed ghost and horror stories of mine, published over the last few years: THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE and IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER. 

If you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for SPARROWHAWK, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England. 

In the meantime, once again, Happy Christmas to all.