Well ... the spooky season beckons. Long, dark nights, misty mornings, reddening leaves in the still and silent woods. October is upon us with all the eeriness it promises. Halloween isn’t far off, the night of goblins, sprites and other mischievous spirits, followed closely by Bonfire Night, when we celebrate the long ago death of a traitor with drinking, feasting and the annual, ritual burning of his effigy. And then we’re into the Ghosting Season proper, autumn transitioning into winter, the landscape dead and frozen, Christmas the only light in the long darkness ahead, though Christmas itself of course is intricately interwoven with terrors of a very specific sort.
Myself, I’m seeing in these scary months with two special collections of stories: Volume 17 in the TERROR TALES series, which, somewhat appropriately after that melodramatic intro, is TERROR TALES OF CHRISTMAS, and a bunch of my short chillers, IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT.
Keep on reading for artwork, full tables of contents, back cover blurbs for both, and of course those ever popular juicy snippets.
First up …
Ah, Christmas! A holy feast, and a riot of fun and frolics. Candy canes, mistletoe, firelight glinting on the tinsel. But it’s an eerie time too, the woodlands dead and filled with frost, the darkness of the longest night unending. Old enmities resurface, ancestors return, dire warnings echo from beyond, and ancient beings lurk in the grey and icy mist, measuring men by the goodness of their souls, and often finding them wanting …
The savage hunt in Île de la Cité
The cannibal hag of Altstadt
The patchwork horror of Alsace
The festive impalement in Prague
The uninvited guest at Stanwick
The murderous toys of St Petersburg
The dark tormentor in the Tower of London
Includes terrifying tales by Peter Coleborn, Joanna Corrance, Raven Dane, Steve Duffy, Jan Edwards, Paul Finch, Christopher Harman, Sheila Hodgson, Keris McDonald, Reggie Oliver, Tony Richards, Rosie Seymour, Sarah Singleton, Benjamin Kurt Unsworth, Ian Whates and Gavin Williams.
Its publisher of course, is the indefatigable TELOS PUBLISHING, while the cover art is always provided by the way-too-talented Neil Williams.
The Silver Key by Reggie Oliver
The Blackest Christmas
Little Lotte by Keris McDonald
Hans the Scarecrow
Table Manners by Joanna Corrance
Sermon of the Dead
Come, Follow! by Sheila Hodgson
The Mistletoe Bride
Nine by Jan Edwards
The Christmas Hunt
The Last to be Found by Christopher Harman
On a Dark Christmas Knight
The Butterfly House by Ian Whates
The Nutcracker
The Door in the Door by Sarah Singleton
The Christmas Haunting
The Children in the Woods by Tony Richards
Slaughter of the Innocents
Palfreyman’s End by Steve Duffy
The Bloody Feast of Stephen
The Grotto by Gavin Williams
Elfland
The Mistle Thrush by Rosie Seymour
The Sodder Mystery
Polaroids by Peter Coleborn
The Yule Cat
Final Farewell from an Ice Cold Heart
by Benjamin Kurt Unsworth
Premonition
All That Glisters by Raven Dane
Special Kinds of Ghosts
The Icy Realm by Paul Finch
TERROR TALES OF CHRISTMAS is available for pre-order right now. But just in case you’re still not persuaded, check out, as promised, some juicy excerpts …
‘There were musical boxes, and all kinds of mechanical toys: furry drumming monkeys, capering clowns, brightly coloured birds under glass domes that twittered when you wound them up to set them going. They were all in immaculate condition, but, even then, I recognised that they were antiques. They were not the toys of my time; they were the relics of childhoods long gone, ghosts of infancies past. I’m sorry, I’m being fanciful. I wondered at them, I even coveted them, but I did not quite like them …’
‘Saplings have been jammed between the rock faces overhead to create beams, and from iron hooks hang sides of meat, and garlands of hands, and limbs ending in small, pale feet. Smoke wreathes upward from a low fire, over which a cauldron is suspended. A heap of blue-green entrails sits on a platter …’
‘He blundered round and plunged back the way he’d come … only to rebound from a huge, solid object. Alex tottered away, winded. But when he wiped the flakes from his eyes, he saw that it wasn’t a tree trunk, as he’d thought. It was a figure. Covered in snow, but standing stock-still in the grey-white murk, the face under its pulled-up hood completely wrapped with ragged old scarfs. Alex might have been more horrified had he not now been so agonised by the chill. The grotesque shape remained motionless, towering over him …’
For those who aren’t aware (and shame on you!), TERROR TALES has been running for fifteen years now, and is a series of themed horror anthologies, each title speaking for itself. They are crammed not just with original fiction from some of the best horror writers around, but contain the odd classic reprint here and there (generally those that readers are not overly familiar with) and also hit us with a range of ‘true’ tales of terror, anecdotes drawn from real history, legend and folklore.
The series originally commenced way back in 2011 with TERROR TALES OF THE LAKE DISTRICT, and it proceeded that way for quite a few years, each new volume focussing on a different corner of the British Isles. They are not entirely folk horror-oriented, though folklore is a regular theme throughout, but all the stories stay absolutely loyal to the title of the book in which they appear. If, for example, you acquire a copy of TERROR TALES OF CORNWALL, all the stories you’ll read in there concern Cornwall. I think you get the picture.
However, not every entry in the series now is built on a specific geographic location. Sometimes we’ve thrown the net wider. We’ve had TERROR TALES OF THE SEASIDE, for example, TERROR TALES OF THE OCEAN, and last year, to coincide with World Fantasy, we published TERROR TALES OF CHAOS.
This hasn’t been, as some have suggested, exclusively a commercial decision. The books have sold well all over regardless of their particular locations, but the wider an anthology’s scope, the more writers you interest and the wider the range of subject matter. That doesn’t mean that we won’t visit more locations in the UK in the future. Of course we will. There are several we’ve yet to explore. But if we go further out into the world as well, and further into culture, the options become limitless.
Anyway, on an even more personal note, now onto my second collection of stories in this second half of 2026, and one you might already be aware of …
This is the first collection of my short fiction to hit the bookshelves in quite some time. It’s been published by BLACK SHUCK BOOKS, and again is available for order right now.
I may be better known professionally as a crime or thriller writer, but I’ve always had a love of horror fiction, particularly short form horror, and I continue to write horror stories whenever my schedule permits. (It’s also been stated that I tend to bring a lot of horror into my crime novels … well, guilty as charged; I make no apology for that).
Therefore, in IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT, I’m delighted to be able to get some more of my horror out there. It contains five chillers, four of which are reprints, though most current readers are unlikely to be familiar with them, and one brand new novella.
Enough hyperbole, though. Here, for your delectation, are some more excerpts …
‘There were owls in these woods; if one of them would only hoot now – give voice to itself in the warm darkness – it might make him jump, but at least it would provide companionship of a sort. Not that he was really lacking in that. There were all sorts of nocturnal creatures in this environment. These woods were teeming. The leopard could take its pick. Why would it come after him?
“There is no leopard,” he told himself through tight-locked teeth, striding forcefully on. That boss-clown, or whatever he’d been, had insisted on it. That fat, shifty-looking hobo of a boss-clown, who’d been greased with a sweat of inexplicable fear …’
‘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 …
‘They were side-on to the motionless shapes, none of whom were actually distinguishable because they were covered by crumpled polythene sheets. But even in the dimness of the tent, it could be seen that the one at the far end was about six feet tall and of solid, heavy build, while the one in the middle was somewhat shorter, about five and a half feet, and the one at the nearest end shorter still, no more than two and a half. Still, they didn’t move, though that was hardly surprising. Even before Phil stepped forward and tore away the sheeting, it was obvious they weren’t real figures, just crude, granite effigies.’
Lorraine yanked back her hood. “What the heck is this?”
‘Cameron walked up to it, fascinated. Many country towns in England maintained their stocks as curiosities for visitors. Here and there on lonely crossroads, there was even a gallows or gibbet, a leftover fragment of the arcane past. But seldom, if ever, had he heard of a pillory being preserved. Felons would have been forced to stand here for hours at a time, sometimes days if their offence was deemed serious enough, and local people would shower them with rotten food and animal dung. Of course, it was debatable whether or not this was an original. If so, it might be the very same structure on which Alice Fairwood was beaten to death in 1634, though in truth it looked too new for that. Its wood was smooth and solid, and in keeping with the rest of the village style, had been painted black. Its ironwork – its hinges, the steel facings within the clamps – bore no mark of corrosion.
A replica then. But an impressive one all the same …’
‘Clearly, Insect hadn’t realised that his target was armoured under his anorak. The bastard now lowered his weapon and with a hoglike chuckle, advanced until he was only a couple of feet away. At which point Haygarth snatched out with his one good hand, hooking his Winchester’s trigger guard, so that it fell forward, then plunging its trigger. The flash was blinding, the boom ear-shattering, and where his assailant’s right foot had been, all that remained was a chunky mass of red, meaty pulp.
The guy remained upright for a second, rigid with disbelief, before a protracted, wailing scream broke from his mask. He tottered and fell heavily onto his buttocks, his pistol, a SIG Sauer 226, flirting from his grasp, bouncing towards Haygarth who caught it cleanly, swung it round and fired a single shot through the middle of the skew-whiff insect mask.
Bone and bloody hair spattered both sides of the corridor …’
There you go. As I’ve already said, you can acquire TERROR TALES OF CHRISTMAS and IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT by following the links.
Enjoy the spooky season ahead. Happy ghost and goblin hunting.
The picture at the top of today's blogpost comes to us from its creator, Martina Stokow / PublicDomainPictures.net
‘There were musical boxes, and all kinds of mechanical toys: furry drumming monkeys, capering clowns, brightly coloured birds under glass domes that twittered when you wound them up to set them going. They were all in immaculate condition, but, even then, I recognised that they were antiques. They were not the toys of my time; they were the relics of childhoods long gone, ghosts of infancies past. I’m sorry, I’m being fanciful. I wondered at them, I even coveted them, but I did not quite like them …’
The Silver Key
Reggie Oliver
‘Saplings have been jammed between the rock faces overhead to create beams, and from iron hooks hang sides of meat, and garlands of hands, and limbs ending in small, pale feet. Smoke wreathes upward from a low fire, over which a cauldron is suspended. A heap of blue-green entrails sits on a platter …’
Little Lotte
Keris McDonald
‘He blundered round and plunged back the way he’d come … only to rebound from a huge, solid object. Alex tottered away, winded. But when he wiped the flakes from his eyes, he saw that it wasn’t a tree trunk, as he’d thought. It was a figure. Covered in snow, but standing stock-still in the grey-white murk, the face under its pulled-up hood completely wrapped with ragged old scarfs. Alex might have been more horrified had he not now been so agonised by the chill. The grotesque shape remained motionless, towering over him …’
The Icy Realm
Paul Finch
For those who aren’t aware (and shame on you!), TERROR TALES has been running for fifteen years now, and is a series of themed horror anthologies, each title speaking for itself. They are crammed not just with original fiction from some of the best horror writers around, but contain the odd classic reprint here and there (generally those that readers are not overly familiar with) and also hit us with a range of ‘true’ tales of terror, anecdotes drawn from real history, legend and folklore.
This hasn’t been, as some have suggested, exclusively a commercial decision. The books have sold well all over regardless of their particular locations, but the wider an anthology’s scope, the more writers you interest and the wider the range of subject matter. That doesn’t mean that we won’t visit more locations in the UK in the future. Of course we will. There are several we’ve yet to explore. But if we go further out into the world as well, and further into culture, the options become limitless.
Anyway, on an even more personal note, now onto my second collection of stories in this second half of 2026, and one you might already be aware of …
This is the first collection of my short fiction to hit the bookshelves in quite some time. It’s been published by BLACK SHUCK BOOKS, and again is available for order right now.
I may be better known professionally as a crime or thriller writer, but I’ve always had a love of horror fiction, particularly short form horror, and I continue to write horror stories whenever my schedule permits. (It’s also been stated that I tend to bring a lot of horror into my crime novels … well, guilty as charged; I make no apology for that).
Therefore, in IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT, I’m delighted to be able to get some more of my horror out there. It contains five chillers, four of which are reprints, though most current readers are unlikely to be familiar with them, and one brand new novella.
Enough hyperbole, though. Here, for your delectation, are some more excerpts …
‘There were owls in these woods; if one of them would only hoot now – give voice to itself in the warm darkness – it might make him jump, but at least it would provide companionship of a sort. Not that he was really lacking in that. There were all sorts of nocturnal creatures in this environment. These woods were teeming. The leopard could take its pick. Why would it come after him?
“There is no leopard,” he told himself through tight-locked teeth, striding forcefully on. That boss-clown, or whatever he’d been, had insisted on it. That fat, shifty-looking hobo of a boss-clown, who’d been greased with a sweat of inexplicable fear …’
In the Forest of the Night
‘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 …
Down in the Dying Rooms
‘They were side-on to the motionless shapes, none of whom were actually distinguishable because they were covered by crumpled polythene sheets. But even in the dimness of the tent, it could be seen that the one at the far end was about six feet tall and of solid, heavy build, while the one in the middle was somewhat shorter, about five and a half feet, and the one at the nearest end shorter still, no more than two and a half. Still, they didn’t move, though that was hardly surprising. Even before Phil stepped forward and tore away the sheeting, it was obvious they weren’t real figures, just crude, granite effigies.’
Lorraine yanked back her hood. “What the heck is this?”
House of the Hag
‘Cameron walked up to it, fascinated. Many country towns in England maintained their stocks as curiosities for visitors. Here and there on lonely crossroads, there was even a gallows or gibbet, a leftover fragment of the arcane past. But seldom, if ever, had he heard of a pillory being preserved. Felons would have been forced to stand here for hours at a time, sometimes days if their offence was deemed serious enough, and local people would shower them with rotten food and animal dung. Of course, it was debatable whether or not this was an original. If so, it might be the very same structure on which Alice Fairwood was beaten to death in 1634, though in truth it looked too new for that. Its wood was smooth and solid, and in keeping with the rest of the village style, had been painted black. Its ironwork – its hinges, the steel facings within the clamps – bore no mark of corrosion.
A replica then. But an impressive one all the same …’
Words
‘Clearly, Insect hadn’t realised that his target was armoured under his anorak. The bastard now lowered his weapon and with a hoglike chuckle, advanced until he was only a couple of feet away. At which point Haygarth snatched out with his one good hand, hooking his Winchester’s trigger guard, so that it fell forward, then plunging its trigger. The flash was blinding, the boom ear-shattering, and where his assailant’s right foot had been, all that remained was a chunky mass of red, meaty pulp.
The guy remained upright for a second, rigid with disbelief, before a protracted, wailing scream broke from his mask. He tottered and fell heavily onto his buttocks, his pistol, a SIG Sauer 226, flirting from his grasp, bouncing towards Haygarth who caught it cleanly, swung it round and fired a single shot through the middle of the skew-whiff insect mask.
Bone and bloody hair spattered both sides of the corridor …’
Beyond the Sea of Pain
There you go. As I’ve already said, you can acquire TERROR TALES OF CHRISTMAS and IN THE FOREST OF THE NIGHT by following the links.
Enjoy the spooky season ahead. Happy ghost and goblin hunting.
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