Fancy a foray into the tangle of the mind?

Humble apologies for what’s been a massive period of time since I last posted. I can now come clean and admit that my new deal with Avon Books at HarperCollins has been my highest priority this last few months. Yes indeed, for anyone who’s being following my novel-writing career, I’ve finally gone home to HC. I’ll post more detail about this in another blog; suffice to say I’ve had a couple of very tight deadlines to deal with, which have entailed seven-day-a-week writing sessions, so no bloggage was possible in that time. However, we’ve now hit a convenient break, so I’m at last able to talk about something else that I’m rather excited about: IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT.

Before then, I should also mention that I’ll be posting another short Thrillers / Chillers list today. Cool works of dark fiction that I’ve recently read. As usual, that’ll be at the bottom of today’s post. In the meantime, let’s delve …

Into the forest

IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT is a bit of a throwback for me in that it’s a new book, due out on August 27, but it’s a collection of short horror stories rather than a novel. It’s published by the wonderful BLACK SHUCK BOOKS, it runs to about 192 pages and it will comprise four reprints of mine – all of them selected from the lesser-known section of my canon – and a brand new crime/horror novella, BEYOND THE SEA OF PAIN.

I don’t want to say too much more about IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT, except to repeat that it’s published on Aug 27 from BLACK SHUCK BOOKS. But here, just as an appetite-whetter, are five choice segments, one from each story.

IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT

“Hello,” Nick said. “Excuse me, I think I’ve…”
     He was mistaken.
     It wasn’t a person, merely that same lump of statuary that he’d known was here all along. Even in the strange shifting dimness of the forest cathedral, he’d have distinguished it for what it was – an art-deco sculpture, a Grecian nymph or some such thing, eroded now to a soulless effigy – but it was covered at present with pale plastic sheeting, blown on the wind or wound around it by mischievous youngsters. It had briefly possessed a more human outline: defined shoulders, a nodding head.
     Nick snatched the plastic away. It fell to his feet in a crackling heap. There was no comfort to be had beneath. The moonlit face was barely human: cracked, grey, covered with grime and lichen…

DOWN IN THE DYING ROOMS

That final descent was made slowly and stealthily. The steps ran down maybe fifteen feet. They were slippery and very steep.
     Why the hell not? Those brought down here would never be going back up again…
     At the bottom, it was sepulchral in its dankness. The walls were moist and covered with fungus. Broken planks littered the dusty floor. Directly in front of them, an open doorway gave through to a single, straight passage. The light filtering down the stairs revealed the first few yards of that passage, but little else. Vic knew what it looked like. He could envisage it clearly without even stepping into it. It ran for at least a hundred yards, and all the way along it, to the left and right, there were entrances to adjoining rooms – to the dying rooms. And at the far end of it there was a mortuary and a furnace, both black and filled with soot and debris.
     We’ve actually got to go down there, all the way…

HOUSE OF THE HAG

“Lorraine… meet the Bodach – he’s the father.” Phil clapped the first granite figure on its ‘shoulder’, before moving to the second. “Meet the Cailleach, the mum.” He moved to the third. “And last but not least, say hello to this little one, the Nighean. And this isn’t just any old tent, by the way. This is the Tigh na Cailliche, or ‘House of the Hag’… and we are honoured to be inside it.”
     “Yeah, I feel greatly honoured.” Lorraine shook out her wet hair, then dumped her pack on top of the Cailleach’s head and rummaged through it for a towel and her reserve clothing. “Do you want to give me all that again… in English?”
     “It’s a type of shrine.” Phil hunkered down to go through his own gear. “Neolithic in origin. There are several of these up in the Highlands, though the most famous one is a few miles southeast of here… Glen Lyon in Perth and Kinross.”
     Lorraine stripped her waterproofs off. “So, no-one’s going to come and chuck us out?”
     “No-one’s likely to come up here until May at the earliest, I’d say,” he replied. “They’re a bit of a mystery, these things. The names come from Celtic myth, but these effigies are likely to be much older. They probably represent some prehistoric cult…”

WORDS

Another dim bulb came on, showing a large, untenanted room. He’d been right, it was the attic: the ceiling was a heavy wooden framework supported by timber joists, which stood like columns at regular intervals. In its turn this supported other joists above, which held up the sloped masses of roofing thatch. The room was spacious, running the entire length of the upper floor. It was also empty, except for a few bits of furniture in the centre. One of these was a rocking chair with its back turned. A figure was sitting in it.
     The little hairs on Cameron’s arms began to prickle.
     He could only see the back of the figure’s head, which seemed to be covered by a black hood or cowl. It was completely motionless.
     “Are you supposed to be up here?” he asked. “Because you’re making a lot of noise.”
     The figure neither moved nor spoke.
     “Even if you’ve got permission, you’re keeping me awake.”
     Still there was no reply.
     Cameron ventured nearer. Now that he was close, he could see the spread of the figure’s cloaked shoulders; they were immense. He swallowed nervously…

BEYOND THE SEA OF PAIN

Haygarth’s opponents entered behind him. He turned to face them, but turned on his injured leg, and the knee gave way. He still launched two more shots as he went down, the second tagging Devil’s upper left thigh, the gang-leader hitting the deck before he could return fire. His companion, Wolf, darted to the right, shooting wildly. Every shot missed save one, which slammed through Haygarth’s left elbow. That limb was already out of service, but even so, the pain ramrodded into him, sending him dizzy, almost knocking him blind.
     He tried to blot it out as he tracked the fleeing figure with his SIG, Wolf now framed against the huge windows, though before Haygarth could shoot again, the bastard dropped down behind one of those few bits of sizeable furniture remaining. It was a table, already shrouded by a dingy sheet, though Wolf now overturned it, giving himself further concealment. Haygarth shot at the window behind him instead, punching a single hole through the middle of the pane, weakening it just sufficiently for the howling gale outside to force its way inward, bringing down an avalanche of glittering shards all over the crouching figure. Wolf jumped yowling to his feet, fragments gleaning all over him, some of them clearly embedded, though the pain of that didn’t last, because Haygarth’s next shot hit him cleanly in the head, blowing off its top like a dustbin lid…

***

So, there we go. Full steam ahead to August 27. On which subject, it would be completely remiss of me not to mention that BLACK SHUCK will be launching three other single-author collections on the same day. They are LULLABIES FOR THE LOST by Mia Dalia, BIOGRAPHIES OF VALIANT DRUNKEN TIGERS by Laura Mauro and DOWN WE GO TOGETHER by Tracy Fahey (which I have already read, and which is truly excellent).

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

Works of dark literature that I have recently read, massively enjoyed and heartily recommend.

THE TROUBLED DEEP 

by Rob Parker (2025)

When a former SBS diver uncovers a long-submerged vehicle deep in the Norfolk Broads, a dormant conspiracy is reawakened and a very dangerous group goes back into action … Ingenious crime thriller from the ever-reliable Rob Parker. Amazing underwater sequences alternate with high stakes action and suspense, while the scenic Broads are brought vividly to life. Excellent plotting, superior writing. A five-star romp through England’s mysterious backwaters.

CHILDGRAVE 

by Ken Greenhall (1981)

A lovelorn New York photographer is unnerved when portraits of his infant daughter start depicting phantom figures, a mystery that lures him upstate to a remote community harbouring horrific secrets … A literary horror novel par excellence, ultimately striking at the extremes of religious mania, but at the same time a chilling study of bewitchment. Too slow a burner for some, too emotionally complex for others, but exquisitely written, with a slow-dawning atmosphere of evil that gradually becomes overwhelming.

VINE STREET 

by Dominic Nolan (2021)

Two Soho detectives hunt an elusive serial killer over a period of several decades, London and the whole of society gradually transforming around them … Epic slice of British Noir, ultra hardboiled and delving deeply, not just into the realms of ‘real world’ policing, but also the seedy clubs and dives of London’s West End gangland during and after the war. Award-winning blend of complex character-work, hard-arse cop thriller and vivid, authentic mystery.

THE THIRD GRAVE 

by David Case (1981)

An Egyptologist is summoned to rural Devon to translate an ancient manuscript, only to find that it contains more than forbidden lore … Vintage David Case, a traditional horror concept given a wildly original spin. A bit heavy on the dialogue / exposition, while regular philosophical musings also slow the pace, but elegantly written and nicely capturing the tone and feel of horror fiction’s ‘golden age’. Gets fingernail-gnawingly scary towards the end, which surely forgives all.