tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3311364182026518902024-03-28T00:41:12.887-07:00Walking in the darkThe mysteries of imagination. Day to day thoughts and fears of a writer in the realms of fantasy, darkness and crime.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger418125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-53533102191054004732024-03-21T04:39:00.000-07:002024-03-22T09:01:04.579-07:00Big news on the dark fiction front - at last<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXM5ztYIhXBngeZbKYw2lCZAasDcNtEie0IH5MCHUWPa1q4ABYv4HJj1Qa2LA9M9og4qQmHB-dbup10ZubTHGeWpyVNRa7lfKKcOdU12rXyGBFlq6UhMg0dlPm-6l4xqi2ceKNwt8D67qfNM1db3EZ1wp7YAsV7GDcKwyfCzWlKyBlQTKfdLJYHOXsj8I/s512/writing%20horror.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="512" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXM5ztYIhXBngeZbKYw2lCZAasDcNtEie0IH5MCHUWPa1q4ABYv4HJj1Qa2LA9M9og4qQmHB-dbup10ZubTHGeWpyVNRa7lfKKcOdU12rXyGBFlq6UhMg0dlPm-6l4xqi2ceKNwt8D67qfNM1db3EZ1wp7YAsV7GDcKwyfCzWlKyBlQTKfdLJYHOXsj8I/w400-h188/writing%20horror.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><b>Humble apologies for the lengthy time lapse since my last blog post. It</b><b>’</b><b>s the usual explanation, I</b><b>’</b><b>m afraid. Busy, busy, busy. So many books to write, so many looming deadlines and all that. However, today is quite important on the blogging front, as I have a major announcement to make regarding my future publishing plans. More about that further down. <br /><br />In addition, because I</b><b>’</b><b>ve been working on several new projects at the same time since this year began, a new crime novel and a new horror novella among them, I thought I</b><b>’</b><b>d cast my eye over ten authors who are well known in the professional field for writing both crime and horror, sometimes at the same time.<br /><br />Just a quick reminder that I haven</b><b>’</b><b>t got time to do my detailed book reviews anymore. Sorry about that, but as I said earlier, there is just too much writing of my own that I need to get on top of. That said, I still read avidly, and so will be shoving in brief, thumbnail reviews or recommendations whenever a novel or collection impresses me. You</b><b>’ll find a few of those at the bottom of today</b><b>’s blog.</b><br /><br />But first of all, my ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Big news</b></div><br />I’m delighted to announce that, after some lengthy negotiating, I have signed a new two-book deal with <b>Thomas & Mercer</b>, who most of you will hopefully recognise as Amazon Publishing. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSMMvEvEed-K1rQIa38lmyUmVSYMOug0YouELk3dh6gUphDxll4WSsnOFXsc4DZdAqy5P_Ainju2wuDpGXw3h_2n0C9yruWDIYl0o2osp5pAFPcKTB-AjtD0lT-VbXM96MCXOVwLtmIIY-iWHXcMKYKZnf2PuFbIl8BwrN5Gn-GjqXYLqh7phtQ-vi80/s210/Thomas&Mercer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="150" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSMMvEvEed-K1rQIa38lmyUmVSYMOug0YouELk3dh6gUphDxll4WSsnOFXsc4DZdAqy5P_Ainju2wuDpGXw3h_2n0C9yruWDIYl0o2osp5pAFPcKTB-AjtD0lT-VbXM96MCXOVwLtmIIY-iWHXcMKYKZnf2PuFbIl8BwrN5Gn-GjqXYLqh7phtQ-vi80/s1600/Thomas&Mercer.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Both of these upcoming novels will be stand-alone crime thrillers, the first one (tentatively) titled <b>DEATH LIST</b>, the second (tentatively) titled <b>THE MURDER TOUR</b>. I say ‘tentatively’ because though both of these projects have now been agreed on with my new publishers, titles are often working-titles at this stage, and are subject to last-minute change usually thanks for forces beyond the author’s control.<br /><br />The first of the two, which I’m very excited about, is scheduled for publication in June 2025, with a final date still to be set for the second. <br /><br />I can’t say too much about the second one yet, but this first one, <b>DEATH LIST</b>, takes us to a brand new location (for me, at least): the Isles of Scilly, the southwestern-most tip of the United Kingdom, and a famously beautiful spot, a group of over 200 islands, only five of them occupied, very rural, very remote, and very tranquil, though with wild Atlantic seas raging on all sides of them, and, buried deep in the Gulf Stream, their climate sometimes more akin to the subtropics than England’s temperate norm, anything can happen here - and in <b>DEATH LIST</b> it will. Trust me, it really will.<br /><br />I’ve been developing this novel over quite a few months, so much so that the writing has been a smooth and enjoyable experience thus far. I trust and hope it will be an enjoyable read.<br /><br />Much more about this one as publication day approaches.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Heck</b></div><br />I need to mention, by the way, because I’m fully aware that I owe it to a lot of my readers, that DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg, my most popular and enduring fictional character to date, does NOT figure in this new deal, though this does NOT mean the next Heck novel will not be appearing in the near future.<br /><br />I’m aware that I’ve promised this before, but I’m absolutely adamant that the next Heck novel, which is already written and edited, will be appearing as soon as it’s possible for me to arrange it. I can’t divulge what kind of conversations I’m having about this at present, but I assure you they are under away.<br /><br />And now, as promised ...<div><br /><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>CRIME WRITERS WHO ARE ALSO HORROR WRITERS</b></div><br />I've often said that crime/thriller fiction and horror fiction, while superficially very different from each other, are also horns on the same evil goat. I love that catch-all phrase, Dark Fiction. To me, it basically means anything scary, disturbing and/or twisted. And that can certainly cover a wealth of sins, ranging even into fantasy, science fiction and literary. Today though, I’m going to focus on ten authors who write (or wrote) both crime and horror fiction, sometimes enclosing them in the same piece of work, but mostly pursuing them as separate disciplines. Either way, giving everything possible on both counts, keeping their ink the deepest shade of red.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGN44_hVin8U5df7HU8u0bgeQ5fATmUHZh02SYTtNiaG5sqTUnLfDzd1RLVmyUOVOJLiiEk74xEF8sq_6xdFqoJY9pn-0vIORJ7QOS57MfSJuBVANXTMrcX5n5ZGJ0s0e4alJl9eBS601QZLfHq3xNdHj9WGqLjG3AGFexat9nJNbE-u010bkyDHN5DF0/s1024/dfpvac1-8a835bf0-70da-4e15-a5bc-f04f359e88eb.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGN44_hVin8U5df7HU8u0bgeQ5fATmUHZh02SYTtNiaG5sqTUnLfDzd1RLVmyUOVOJLiiEk74xEF8sq_6xdFqoJY9pn-0vIORJ7QOS57MfSJuBVANXTMrcX5n5ZGJ0s0e4alJl9eBS601QZLfHq3xNdHj9WGqLjG3AGFexat9nJNbE-u010bkyDHN5DF0/w200-h200/dfpvac1-8a835bf0-70da-4e15-a5bc-f04f359e88eb.png" width="200" /></a></div>I’m purposely leaving out the mixed-genre’s most prominent purveyors. Everyone already knows that <b>Edgar Allan Poe</b> (as illustrated here by the monstrously talented Lewandrowsky), <b>Arthur Conan Doyle</b>, <b>Dennis Wheatley</b>, <b>Bram Stoker</b> and <b>Stephen King</b> happily and successfully double-hatted for decades when it came to producing both crime-thriller and horror fiction, so there’s nothing really to be gained from mentioning them here.</div><div><br />Instead, let’s focus, in no particular order, on ten writers who, while not exactly unknown, may yet to be discovered either by crime or horror fans, or maybe both ...</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVeD1PN4oSoQzMKgtoy9-1oJWKvdAXyM2Isso53H0_qE6f0nBekNAfHYOA2zI9e8DLvOtKe3w9Oq9oEP1VN4ANsCPLgYeffLHLYz7HbC0qy9ELHBNSSPd0S4aYFFNm8xU9tkhT0Z9ak_RUhtjgs77YJpU7dPVO9YR_9kfZVRhR3pXUlqMSpCpjbmBGUdo/s500/9780062484390-uk.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVeD1PN4oSoQzMKgtoy9-1oJWKvdAXyM2Isso53H0_qE6f0nBekNAfHYOA2zI9e8DLvOtKe3w9Oq9oEP1VN4ANsCPLgYeffLHLYz7HbC0qy9ELHBNSSPd0S4aYFFNm8xU9tkhT0Z9ak_RUhtjgs77YJpU7dPVO9YR_9kfZVRhR3pXUlqMSpCpjbmBGUdo/s320/9780062484390-uk.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>1. Agatha Christie</b><br /><br />Hardly unheard of as popular authors go, it may nevertheless surprise many that the official Queen of Crime was also an occasional contributor to the ghost and horror pantheon. Undoubtedly best known for her vast range of crime novels, including the multiple investigations carried out by Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot, <b><i>The Murder of Roger Ackroyd</i></b> (1926) still regarded as one of the best crime novels ever written, she was also a dab hand when it came to penning the spooky stuff. <b><i>Hallowe</i></b><b>’</b><b><i>en Party</i></b> (1969), recently filmed as <b><i>A Haunting in Venice</i></b>, certainly qualifies as a horror novel, as, at a push, does the superlatively titled <b><i>Endless Night</i></b> (1967), while it wouldn’t be much of a leap to proclaim the best-selling crime novel of all time, <i><b>And Then There Were None</b></i> (1939), the prototype slasher tale. However, for pure unadulterated horror, look no further than Christie’s two short story collections, <b><i>The Hound of Death</i></b> (1933) and <b><i>The Last Seance</i></b> (2019), both of which are packed with ghoulish goodies.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEadGQ2OTbXMK53AuyASokq8YO0SblGjmfEO3sdZML1vfkx4_qqR3lX66hk7qGhyZIirLGutBKEsow_QY2tA-msJYH_NrH2uinJpHwa7FoaInEoX2MclhcSDVhPhdZ3w-ny2_4p9ajk-SJMZZNzq0DVPcZcZ4O-vtFF_syP_gZ7r_8VStZAdEJHEcCqk/s500/9780330250818-uk.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="309" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEadGQ2OTbXMK53AuyASokq8YO0SblGjmfEO3sdZML1vfkx4_qqR3lX66hk7qGhyZIirLGutBKEsow_QY2tA-msJYH_NrH2uinJpHwa7FoaInEoX2MclhcSDVhPhdZ3w-ny2_4p9ajk-SJMZZNzq0DVPcZcZ4O-vtFF_syP_gZ7r_8VStZAdEJHEcCqk/s320/9780330250818-uk.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>2. Daphne du Maurier </b><br /><br />When one thinks of Daphne de Maurier these days, one tends automatically to think of classic Gothic melodramas like <i><b>Jamaica Inn</b></i> (1936), <i><b>My Cousin Rachel</b></i> (1951) and <i><b>Frenchman</b></i><b>’</b><i><b>s Creek</b></i> (1941). But Du Maurier also ventured onto the dark side of fiction, often very effectively, regularly blurring the lines between thriller and horror. The most obvious example perhaps is <i><b>Rebecca</b></i> (1938), a psychological thriller in truth, but also famous as the ghost novel without a ghost. Yet, it was in the short form where Du Maurier most often dabbled in grimness. The most ground-breaking of her short stories is probably <i><b>The Birds</b></i> (1952), which we all know so well, but it’s run a close second and third by <b><i>Don</i></b><b>’</b><b><i>t Look Now</i></b> (1971) and <i><b>The Blue Lenses</b></i> (1959).</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpqKOD31NqM9esFcKoA89cmXh21kOk0LdNOFmLUE_yVzZdDYVUPnEV0Orqi5Q3ixWsf7MI_YPUwxSEJwo2cqyc2B4VLRdNJcNbMVjZft8oTux3wTxuKzSnNGATRfdzcKLaoXQFLVMjQjf1IbgucgmgIR33NBuLcR3b8hKthKQcs6_Aj0B8q8kA7pyFlI/s327/Bottoms05cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCpqKOD31NqM9esFcKoA89cmXh21kOk0LdNOFmLUE_yVzZdDYVUPnEV0Orqi5Q3ixWsf7MI_YPUwxSEJwo2cqyc2B4VLRdNJcNbMVjZft8oTux3wTxuKzSnNGATRfdzcKLaoXQFLVMjQjf1IbgucgmgIR33NBuLcR3b8hKthKQcs6_Aj0B8q8kA7pyFlI/s320/Bottoms05cover.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>3. Joe R Lansdale</b><br /><br />It’s often been said that when it comes to Joe R Lansdale’s unique brand of hardboiled Southern Noir, the crime is often indivisible from the horror. At first glance, that’s almost certainly true, Man’s utter inhumanity to his neighbour often lying at the heart of both. It’s certainly the case in searing crime novels like <i><b>The Bottoms</b></i> (2000), <i><b>Cold in July</b></i> (1989) and <i><b>Freezer Burn</b></i> (1999), not to mention the <b><i>Hap and Leonard</i></b> series, in which two very different PIs team up to investigate a range of incredibly brutal crimes. But when he’s doing actual horror, hell ... Lansdale really <i>does</i> horror. <i><b>The Nightrunners</b></i> (1987) and <i><b>Hell</b></i><b>’</b><i><b>s Bounty</b></i> (2016) certainly classify as out-and-out horror novels, while some of Lansdale’s short stories - <b>By Bizarre Hands</b> (1988), <i><b>On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folks</b></i> (1989) and <i><b>Drive-in Date</b></i> (1991), to name but three, are up there among some of the most horrific ever written.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBuBDjNiHPrhLZBnSK8cpU4NLlUwcS8_suKcez1qaqp9cd1oc48WjvGfShhjI64geiw5Dnu4sfrAPjcMCkKOjdyl3ar5UIF0eFJ5T0BN6P2m46qwlXSzsiMKFYeeu1WQRe0pwe3ku96wo-E7uHO5tzVzvLGNIi9rMLWaXU9Hk1CzwcX6REpg1qctaAHKw/s500/snake.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBuBDjNiHPrhLZBnSK8cpU4NLlUwcS8_suKcez1qaqp9cd1oc48WjvGfShhjI64geiw5Dnu4sfrAPjcMCkKOjdyl3ar5UIF0eFJ5T0BN6P2m46qwlXSzsiMKFYeeu1WQRe0pwe3ku96wo-E7uHO5tzVzvLGNIi9rMLWaXU9Hk1CzwcX6REpg1qctaAHKw/w210-h320/snake.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>4. Joyce Carol Oates</b><br /><br />Another true mistress of the macabre is prolific literary author, Joyce Carol Oates, who to date has produced an incredibly diverse range of material, everything from novels to short stories, from stage plays to poetry. However, huge chunks of all of those reside in the darkness. It probably wouldn’t be true to say that Oates favours the traditional type of crime novel, the police procedural or archetypical mystery thriller, but again, crime - and quite often murderous crime - is a regular feature of her work. And as with so many others on this list, her thrillers, which are often strongly psychological, overlap into the world of horror, though all are notable for their deeper than usual analysis of the human condition. Some of her best thrillers to date include the novels, <b><i>Snake Eyes</i></b> (1992) and <i><b>Zombie</b></i> (1995), though perhaps the pick of her horror writing can be found in her short stories. Tales like <b><i>The Ruins of Contracoeur</i></b> (1999) and <i><b>Face</b></i> (2007) are truly chilling.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgc-zb6vL6MIHI9WfZvn5zQzxFtE4nIGLwBoqzBkHbMHXI72wFDPEuzT4hLWL-JhM_hLBEbbfc3VMHmc15cmYLD3Pb1Rizu7vqWzKNtHEX3ar8hZl0S5fw9Qo6v-Uw2e6JDSPaBIhjibDBkJwxYVihb8jnMSw0ErAFNTPFw-jSFMHQB83B-D3B2f6XE0/s375/mayhem.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="251" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsgc-zb6vL6MIHI9WfZvn5zQzxFtE4nIGLwBoqzBkHbMHXI72wFDPEuzT4hLWL-JhM_hLBEbbfc3VMHmc15cmYLD3Pb1Rizu7vqWzKNtHEX3ar8hZl0S5fw9Qo6v-Uw2e6JDSPaBIhjibDBkJwxYVihb8jnMSw0ErAFNTPFw-jSFMHQB83B-D3B2f6XE0/s320/mayhem.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>5. Sarah Pinborough</b><br /><br />Though she is without doubt one of the most popular authors working in genre fiction today, Sarah Pinborough is a writer for whom the term ‘cross-genre’ could have been invented. She made a big name for herself in YA, but has also gone on to win huge acclaim for her adult-themed books, and screenplays. Again, the focus tends to be on the darker side of the human experience, but there is also much of the fantastic to be found in Pinborough’s fiction. Her <b><i>Dog-Faced Gods</i></b> (2011-2013) series, for example, is set in an alternative dystopian Britain, while the <i><b>Fairy Tale</b></i> (2013) series, though dark and transgressive, draws on many popular fairy tales. Meanwhile, her crime novel, <i><b>Mayhem</b></i> (2913), pursues the famous Victorian-era Torso Killer, but again with fantastical elements woven in, while more conventional seeming domestic thrillers like <b><i>Behind Her Eyes</i></b> (2017) and <i><b>Insomnia</b></i> (2022) benefit from unusual and even otherworldly denouements. Pinborough is also a veteran of much straightforward horror, as can be seen in earlier novels like <i><b>The Hidden</b></i> (2004) and <i><b>Breeding Ground</b></i> (2006).</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5p9IPGpUPx-Jl0VKzIzrVnAEHCsqeC0k2cGq45Jwtmpl4njyYSRLTmdIL3CiVIxm_7OJtsjqlcac79_EQKWySA7zCybbPVei4Yzh7P5d6XT2NR9lS5A6z7htQTbGBbllhhTEgBkQtAT-7IPjJoJO4VfFACkqMValnpALgvCyIZvEJ4wu_vI0m87ZBe5U/s1000/psycho.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="673" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5p9IPGpUPx-Jl0VKzIzrVnAEHCsqeC0k2cGq45Jwtmpl4njyYSRLTmdIL3CiVIxm_7OJtsjqlcac79_EQKWySA7zCybbPVei4Yzh7P5d6XT2NR9lS5A6z7htQTbGBbllhhTEgBkQtAT-7IPjJoJO4VfFACkqMValnpALgvCyIZvEJ4wu_vI0m87ZBe5U/s320/psycho.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>6. Robert Bloch</b><br /><br />There was a time when no horror anthology would appear on the bookshelves anywhere without containing at least one Robert Bloch contribution. A writer whose career spanned an amazing 60 years, Bloch was championed as a young author by none other than HP Lovecraft, though he rarely dipped into that specific Lovecraftian brand of cosmic horror, much preferring to focus on twisted psychology and manmade mayhem. That said, Bloch, who produced hundreds of pieces of work during his career, both short stories and novels, wrote a number of books that could only really be described as crime fiction, <i><b>American Gothic</b></i> (1974) for example, or <i><b>Night of the Ripper</b></i> (1984), he also wrote horror novels,<i><b> Psycho</b></i> (1959) perhaps the most obvious (yes, the same one that Hitchcock filmed), though again there was an element of cross-over there. Among his horror short stories, some of the most anthologised and certainly some of the most bone-chilling, include <b><i>Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper</i></b> (1962) and <i><b>The Night Before Christmas</b></i> (1980).<br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbFLWHraVemI9eY4EkdzbeOGZzGTr_ET78nXhFSfMGcoGkam_3ntLwrCy-RcaVlZdniWkJ-XWKuYZsOunza7O2J_fezSamcdrBn5P7iWFt0p22WU_4Bu6qeKmyhIuhu7m3lU6iXCfELi9QPwJbSRqWJQvSlPR9Qtz36iicj-DJCOxceFQMgh3uYCxa54/s287/kiss.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="176" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtbFLWHraVemI9eY4EkdzbeOGZzGTr_ET78nXhFSfMGcoGkam_3ntLwrCy-RcaVlZdniWkJ-XWKuYZsOunza7O2J_fezSamcdrBn5P7iWFt0p22WU_4Bu6qeKmyhIuhu7m3lU6iXCfELi9QPwJbSRqWJQvSlPR9Qtz36iicj-DJCOxceFQMgh3uYCxa54/w196-h320/kiss.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>7. Charles Birkin<br /></b><br />Though Charles Birkin first came to prominence editing the famous <i><b>Creeps</b></i> anthologies of the 1930s, his heyday as a writer was after World War II. He is nearly always remembered as a horror writer, though he produced a huge volume of fiendishly unpleasant short stories, the ‘conte cruels’ as they used to be called, rather than supernatural tales, which straddled both the crime and the horror genres. Birkin was much less interested in ghosts and goblins than he was in mankind’s own capacity for madness and cruelty, often dealing with serial murder, torture and insanity. The great anthologist, Hugh Lamb, said of him: ‘If you are at all sensitive, leave him well alone’. In fact, given that he was writing in a relatively innocent age, many of the fictional situations he conjured up were almost unimaginable. In <i><b>Kiss of Death</b></i> (1964), a jilted lover stricken with leprosy determines to have one last night of passion with the woman who left him at the altar. In <i><b>Green Fingers</b></i> (1965), a concentration gamp guard’s mistress has no idea what he regularly buries in her garden even though it ensures that she wins lots of prizes at the horticultural festival. Much of his work is out of print today, but that’s not because (as is sometimes assumed) he’s been banned; it’s simply that time has moved on. However, many of his collections can still be acquired second-hand, but be warned: they are excessively dark and twisted.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8T3nPJVpFXz2GcnKTA30nrOMEVNK9ZVdWTA-LUQ5a9TaEtUuQTxGYSfXG5HKcEqXxMcFlOQlHlAh1MKMv_8ufC4JLHRVm3hTUHLyV5Ck3cGJTMdsianUWgH16beJHw1nt2z6KpYlklZZMLQIrTsmBP_QZGkJ_aWfF8n05145co74CM0gTmJCCPAdM_40/s2164/whisper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2164" data-original-width="1399" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8T3nPJVpFXz2GcnKTA30nrOMEVNK9ZVdWTA-LUQ5a9TaEtUuQTxGYSfXG5HKcEqXxMcFlOQlHlAh1MKMv_8ufC4JLHRVm3hTUHLyV5Ck3cGJTMdsianUWgH16beJHw1nt2z6KpYlklZZMLQIrTsmBP_QZGkJ_aWfF8n05145co74CM0gTmJCCPAdM_40/s320/whisper.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>8. John Connolly</b><br /><br />The bulk of John Connolly's literary output to date concerns his blue-collar hero, Charlie Parker. There are 21 Parker novels to date (and counting). An ex-cop turned private investigator, Parker’s career appears to walk a tightrope between a Noirish world of gangsters, hitmen and serial killers and the realm of the out-and-out supernatural. Some folks in the world of publishing, conveniently forgetting John Connolly, might tell upcoming wannabes that you just can’t do this, that you can't blend such different genres together so seamlessly. Well, they need to check out outstanding cross-genre novels like <i><b>A Game of Ghosts</b></i> (2017) and <i><b>The Whisperers</b></i> (2010). Connolly has also gone full horror mode with the two collections of short stories he has published to date, <i><b>Nocturnes</b></i> (2004) and <i><b>Night Music</b></i> (2015), in which can be found some exceptional terror tales.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg62fZINeI6XXtd6MxH4urISnl8069wjf7-HpCVLcv2M7HLUN_ru4ix_xFwwACGVS6cwezG-BDz24aoTrCuKJ56k7PXAdil939DcJlmPRYOUabiMqhu1zWO0D8XPaATl5X5TqYfvVeT1V31JybDr84wQ1mL5o45hXpykXWbDfdvfwcGphv72plbgLclNE/s500/cold%20hill.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg62fZINeI6XXtd6MxH4urISnl8069wjf7-HpCVLcv2M7HLUN_ru4ix_xFwwACGVS6cwezG-BDz24aoTrCuKJ56k7PXAdil939DcJlmPRYOUabiMqhu1zWO0D8XPaATl5X5TqYfvVeT1V31JybDr84wQ1mL5o45hXpykXWbDfdvfwcGphv72plbgLclNE/s320/cold%20hill.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>9. Peter James</b><br /><br />Peter James is probably best known these days for his long-running Roy Grace crime series set in Brighton, the tired but good-hearted cop called constantly to investigate complex and often sadistic murder cases. Among the best of these are <i><b>Dead Simple</b></i> (2005) and <i><b>Looking Good Dead </b></i>(2006). The books dwell totally in the real world and are probably among the best examples of modern British detective fiction. But many may not know that James commenced his writing career penning horror, and by that, I mean real horror, as in the unashamedly supernatural variety. Early examples of this, all well worth checking out, include <i><b>Sweet Heart</b></i> (1990) and <i><b>Prophecy</b></i> (1992), though he hasn’t given up on the supernatural stuff yet. Much more recent full-blooded horror novels of his include <i><b>The House on Cold Hill</b></i> (2015) and <i><b>The Secret of Cold Hill </b></i>(2019). James has also published <i><b>A Twist of the Knife</b></i> (2014), a collection of crime and horror shorts containing several exquisite examples of the shortform bone-chiller.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtyoAgzAl8VIGYoSdSHruEmDGvrZBf2pJnQs8Wt7ycxifMevvL3tNSSl9aYvdWDPAo0ZKf3FfCGO8x_FN2lTe4Seg4XJ1bLHJZhg2LZt4r2QM8wqNn6uWeed8-Mc1BbplafPonp4i8qvU7Sy79tY8YmSfQgz_2IWoc6HJ3UjdvrNPQZIq0vAgZfdwkO8/s1597/rosemary.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1597" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtyoAgzAl8VIGYoSdSHruEmDGvrZBf2pJnQs8Wt7ycxifMevvL3tNSSl9aYvdWDPAo0ZKf3FfCGO8x_FN2lTe4Seg4XJ1bLHJZhg2LZt4r2QM8wqNn6uWeed8-Mc1BbplafPonp4i8qvU7Sy79tY8YmSfQgz_2IWoc6HJ3UjdvrNPQZIq0vAgZfdwkO8/s320/rosemary.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>10. Ira Levin</b><br /><br />Beautifully described by Stephen King as ‘the Swiss watchmaker of suspense novels,’ Ira Levin didn’t produce an immense body of work, though what he did turn out was distinguished by its quality. His first novel, <b><i>A Kiss Before Dying</i></b> (1953), which won the Edgar Award, is one of probably only two real crime novels of his, as it follows the career of an amoral young man and his quest to murder his way to the top of a corporate family, while the other, <i><b>Sliver</b></i> (1991), is a creepy murder mystery set in a modern day high-rise, though Levin added to his crime/thriller canon with the famous stage play, <i><b>Deathtrap</b></i> (1978). In horror terms, he will best be remembered for <i><b>Rosemary</b></i><b>’</b><i><b>s Baby</b></i> (1967), which lit the blue touch-paper to an entire cycle of Satanic horror thrillers in the decade that followed. His other horrors were a little more off-the-wall, and perhaps could also be classified as science fiction, <i><b>The Boys From Brazil</b></i> (1976) seeing a war crimes investigator uncover a fiendish plot to clone Adolf Hitler, and more famously, <i><b>The Stepford Wives</b></i> (1972), in which the entire female population of a secluded town is replaced by identical but compliant androids. As you can see, Levin didn’t exactly produce a tidal wave of material, but he is still one of the greats.</div><div><br /><div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS</b></div><br />As I’ve already said, I’ll be inserting these into future blogs whenever I have something to share. There won’t always be as many as this, but it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t at least refer you all to these latest works of dark fiction to have passed through my hands.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfOd4_GCjKndSfoWnMLMuu9B6emYnwNvGqs1pBiit1D-upZ7E2mTyweofrEEU1LVt2B169uPTz08Cvui3h0kLum2dqW9_tPaA97Yim0xA43gpPZYhL32GQeb61MaAt799FBAoltwp_0AN-x4YRGWx4nYtfbMx0rvBqMKFOpwER0YDx4_T9Kzt44y0HuI/s1000/t%20-%20edenwell.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="656" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfOd4_GCjKndSfoWnMLMuu9B6emYnwNvGqs1pBiit1D-upZ7E2mTyweofrEEU1LVt2B169uPTz08Cvui3h0kLum2dqW9_tPaA97Yim0xA43gpPZYhL32GQeb61MaAt799FBAoltwp_0AN-x4YRGWx4nYtfbMx0rvBqMKFOpwER0YDx4_T9Kzt44y0HuI/w131-h200/t%20-%20edenwell.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Others-Edenwell-Verity-M-Holloway/dp/1803363959/ref=sr_1_1?crid=O6W3WQU08998&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.OB2mRiyvZqtUQbSeSO9kWg.dVRAtSefbQJ4Ttl4x89wykQ8S-Z6f9UwwlUUXr7hqAA&dib_tag=se&keywords=others+of+edenwell&qid=1710968001&s=books&sprefix=others+of+edenwell%2Cstripbooks%2C75&sr=1-1">THE OTHERS OF EDENWELL</a> </b><div><b><i>by Verity M Holloway (2023)</i></b><div><br />In 1917, two young misfits, shipped to a remote marshland retreat to keep them out of the trenches, become fearful that something strange and evil is lurking in the woods nearby. Remarkable and dazzling. Triumphant evocation of time and place, laced tight with strangeness and dread. Verity Holloway sets a new high bar for ghost story writers.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72Mp6G2264rt77CL6XuCPs-CbuQdjlEXprTRhS_qot6hl171ywW71HbzrCJ4nH-tsGR2l-3NgXNOf3CSYm31F9YpzHE5uAtqjg5hHRGiptZ5TiinpeaAqki6LOi5QHoaCXwKWm7e5ufgDswVdJBiHfYg2_DRzEz-9J5cN6zjxRUdWGmpJJsjIhyphenhyphen09CrU/s1000/t%20-%20passenger.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="650" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh72Mp6G2264rt77CL6XuCPs-CbuQdjlEXprTRhS_qot6hl171ywW71HbzrCJ4nH-tsGR2l-3NgXNOf3CSYm31F9YpzHE5uAtqjg5hHRGiptZ5TiinpeaAqki6LOi5QHoaCXwKWm7e5ufgDswVdJBiHfYg2_DRzEz-9J5cN6zjxRUdWGmpJJsjIhyphenhyphen09CrU/w130-h200/t%20-%20passenger.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Last-Passenger-nerve-shredding-thriller-McAllister/dp/1529382874/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.IHBEln14YHyNPha4Mm_J7FX5oep9Fu3viSsVT5QD1-HZcO9VGl7u6FiYjuk2aQaDVRM6IBclWkWqAMtMTM7wMtEbsCne3MD6ehv6vzQGFBfQFH-TK52WatOb7UIiO3XnYesQxQoqZBd61KPkIbKO1018nlTuS4lJ4VrG0KFj5OtFuBPKjX6iAaKHBN">THE LAST PASSENGER</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Will Dean (2023)</i></b><br /><br /></div><div>A dead ship on the ocean dark; a conspiracy that seems too incredible to be true. Modern mystery thrillers don’t get much more mysterious or thrilling than this new one from Will Dean. </div><div><br /></div><div>Twists and turns galore fuelled by steadily intensifying terror. You cannot stop reading. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_ax7BytTV0-r28mV0ek10ysJwqESUS0YKGK_IjK039xDqmv4elj98j2Gjo34xPNAffW01rOf93c_NYZmWkdtlZhP7nhWDHciMdee-WLPT14DHLf1_veVS8iJSrfAnU9uCckgB-BpdrnnfWxLZJpcx_0AVbMx1QBVa01-iAkwv_lK2bajOTb_WOkpxL0/s500/t%20-%20meg.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_ax7BytTV0-r28mV0ek10ysJwqESUS0YKGK_IjK039xDqmv4elj98j2Gjo34xPNAffW01rOf93c_NYZmWkdtlZhP7nhWDHciMdee-WLPT14DHLf1_veVS8iJSrfAnU9uCckgB-BpdrnnfWxLZJpcx_0AVbMx1QBVa01-iAkwv_lK2bajOTb_WOkpxL0/w131-h200/t%20-%20meg.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Meg-Hells-Aquarium-Steve-Alten/dp/0765365855/ref=sr_1_1?crid=GAJFW9JIQD8G&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.aO3iPYY_XDo-tUBYiu4rp6CbNDq0kTqfd1Rubv-pLQ4.7dwQN5oKuCqBP_li1jGmz5d16Ehzh-_BdQrRC8BV76Q&dib_tag=se&keywords=MEG%3A+HELL%27S+AQUARIUM+by+Steve+Alten+%282021%29&qid=1710968051&s=books&sprefix=meg+hell%27s+aquarium+by+steve+alten+2021+%2Cstripbooks%2C102&sr=1-1">MEG: HELL'S AQUARIUM</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Steve Alten (2021)</i></b></div><div><br />Another ocean-going roller coaster ride from Steve Alten. Exhilarating terror as primordial horrors battle modern tech in the abyssal depths, with many a cast member chomped. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you like your turquoise seascapes stained with crimson, this one’s for you.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvBgPFYrCdKKxOsm7TIZUvGIQ3b3corTyVnm2hFeJTcwVqjZT_ULpyCA5JznSkzX6E_Cqn4hMh65H315WOfJZTLHWHWXb70ZMSRWIbjfd7uKyCCmZ2EwLiJM_fsRom9zKJrVnAidQoBT_3A-K7DMllOBSZhc3S8LRsQ78NuC5vMisyo4JZ3rt7QQ_sv4/s1842/t%20-%20fremlin.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1842" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvBgPFYrCdKKxOsm7TIZUvGIQ3b3corTyVnm2hFeJTcwVqjZT_ULpyCA5JznSkzX6E_Cqn4hMh65H315WOfJZTLHWHWXb70ZMSRWIbjfd7uKyCCmZ2EwLiJM_fsRom9zKJrVnAidQoBT_3A-K7DMllOBSZhc3S8LRsQ78NuC5vMisyo4JZ3rt7QQ_sv4/w130-h200/t%20-%20fremlin.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Uncle-Paul-master-suspense-Hallett/dp/0571380875/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.MAvx81CvMmzKoygPk0h4PQ.LFd6UBU2R-GUa2NJdIVNBBPHL1zJ5Bu2E47ZZwSETwM&qid=1710968120&sr=1-1">UNCLE PAUL </a></b></div><div><b><i>by Celia Fremlin (1959)</i></b></div><div><br />Deceptively genteel psycho-thriller of the classic era. Celia Fremlin always possessed a devilishly sharp eye for people and places but here piles on the tension and terror. </div><div><br /></div><div>Witty as hell but deliciously dark too. Rises steadily to a nerve-tautening climax and a killer twist.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFj5YKPx5c0TUrhw14EWA_MJJQTgznqXMOj5lVih_od2j7EeSvWCazpw2o_L8ypnrHhTTMKZGb42JF2z9NK29KCg-mqBqtqZ2aNeIrAsVU7hdqOFQc8RyDcbiLwtFAd2CgybKd-I-9ICEdb4_vZZQJ2UaDq8qERHDvjOHUjw6mDsiIdvTa13BtSqOxrU/s500/t%20-%20greig.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="323" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFj5YKPx5c0TUrhw14EWA_MJJQTgznqXMOj5lVih_od2j7EeSvWCazpw2o_L8ypnrHhTTMKZGb42JF2z9NK29KCg-mqBqtqZ2aNeIrAsVU7hdqOFQc8RyDcbiLwtFAd2CgybKd-I-9ICEdb4_vZZQJ2UaDq8qERHDvjOHUjw6mDsiIdvTa13BtSqOxrU/w129-h200/t%20-%20greig.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fathomless-Fatholmess-Greig-Beck/dp/1760780995/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.OhC0_5LQJuzbshzo91CgRt5FjsCbSZj17Dgjq22bK8Y.yFR_5Ry1bDJUSgFUy3dtNKInntxgl9gCGtkMUR5uUvY&qid=1710968164&sr=1-1">FATHOMLESS</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Greig Beck (2018)</i></b></div><div><br />Jaws-type deep sea chiller, as an earthquake opens the door to an underground ocean environment and a beast of nightmare emerges. Impressively written and robustly researched. </div><div><br /></div><div>Quality techno-horror alternates with high adventure as Man’s most ancient nemesis churns him to chum.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qZsy2TH_vfnkCeMKzMuVnIR4xFQFpTlOZWu9CxQ0wv1wJfg7o3-tKWMTtZhS02B5Z5wqb20z1yK3wUBy7bRSH5fLr9w-TiuefT0Tl0aPEMNaU6iy-X4ToV2qM_Xu907x2scbCwFB2BToj4J-4D64QKRmsUw_QMpx3xrKICCQS_HqWbWHfIZFJPKjPUk/s394/t%20-%20blood.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="282" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3qZsy2TH_vfnkCeMKzMuVnIR4xFQFpTlOZWu9CxQ0wv1wJfg7o3-tKWMTtZhS02B5Z5wqb20z1yK3wUBy7bRSH5fLr9w-TiuefT0Tl0aPEMNaU6iy-X4ToV2qM_Xu907x2scbCwFB2BToj4J-4D64QKRmsUw_QMpx3xrKICCQS_HqWbWHfIZFJPKjPUk/w143-h200/t%20-%20blood.jpg" width="143" /></a></div><div><b><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2023/08/blood-wood-review.html">BLOOD WOOD</a> </b></div></div><div><b><i>by Christopher Harman (2023)</i></b></div><div><br /><div>Robert Aickman meets Ramsey Campbell in this jarring collection of off-kilter tales. Suggestion triumphs over exposition, oddball characters lurk, half-seen horrors abound. </div><div><br /></div><div>Beautifully and concisely written, and thick with an atmosphere of doom. Another gorgeously packaged collection of nasty treats from Sarob.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihH0KLSwWfgdXRy1fHeNkoy5aYhWun5_tRFoaoDBEXZeXbhbu3RWyMhq8HNEDCsCnG8tzVqLnInJU7d7nmKwNCigAEqP3HXX88vlzbTOE7rbVh_zDkhEwZ2OQuYl4TPOOTCsj3_217bDSLHC5dHuUoJaQIstOnvGUVgqpZvUAlRirTI2c30vRXygJldGY/s500/t%20-%20malfi.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihH0KLSwWfgdXRy1fHeNkoy5aYhWun5_tRFoaoDBEXZeXbhbu3RWyMhq8HNEDCsCnG8tzVqLnInJU7d7nmKwNCigAEqP3HXX88vlzbTOE7rbVh_zDkhEwZ2OQuYl4TPOOTCsj3_217bDSLHC5dHuUoJaQIstOnvGUVgqpZvUAlRirTI2c30vRXygJldGY/w131-h200/t%20-%20malfi.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Ghostwritten-Ronald-Malfi/dp/1789099595/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.KRdFoWM3l3SEBzIBSYYNa_vizRbV-aRpp1HLVS6hidlmtsSoWmQQgrpLgGzr7Ly4g_VdmBpGAxJ8vvrO9Btd0A.-CpMbhXsL4MUiGQL615nfAPtZRbc_vyUzGPm2Agocwk&qid=1710968298&sr=1-1">GHOSTWRITTEN</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Ronald Malfi (2022)</i></b></div><div><br />Four novellas from Hell’s library. The ‘choose your own path’ adventure novel that morphs into terrifying reality. The gangland brothers whose mission to deliver a forbidden book pits them against nightmarish opponents. The children’s pop-up book that always means death for someone. The book with a mind (and soul) of its own. What else can I say? Malfi delivers again.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsTcT43e20HKPLdUyzL1_TqDOtPgovpfaT15FeeBcLr_AH2ha5-W7rLUR64eNVHPZaqp5NyCVj1MLhUGE5Q1iV5MyxRj_d9QTUpZlj-pZcykrFdEXBbWjk7e9OduDalTfveHaWKyvFRwsaU0m5IotGc51Mbjg5MFKV2pzXlXzXsZ5xIw-i0ZUXmTj-1U/s1000/t%20-%20spirits.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="621" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSsTcT43e20HKPLdUyzL1_TqDOtPgovpfaT15FeeBcLr_AH2ha5-W7rLUR64eNVHPZaqp5NyCVj1MLhUGE5Q1iV5MyxRj_d9QTUpZlj-pZcykrFdEXBbWjk7e9OduDalTfveHaWKyvFRwsaU0m5IotGc51Mbjg5MFKV2pzXlXzXsZ5xIw-i0ZUXmTj-1U/w124-h200/t%20-%20spirits.jpg" width="124" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Winter-Spirits-Ghostly-Frosty-Nights/dp/B0BN7BQDSV/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2G8TDLQT30MR3&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.KZY-COghgtGTrwTjvq0s5NRrR3TL-Hko90-gr6Uuqx6H9b7gCkuOb9B6l8EfNDv5tkO6ybDRU_8rxjfFbr3i5zZXcdaMpEW_3T72YVZ7BhWnIs9fesAsEADYqYSQStJ6UPJjgw2MA9PufbMtyrkpIFCEo8YRA-6_SXupRoU4zYdFNgIuuPeKiZkNnQO6YzLSez6vMlTA_96sNdMY_PpMxBuhX2EGk0rMNELbjxdlgl8.gnoi-9472o-VElWlOekNhFSrdRjsYC-kYO834JLa3w8&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+WINTER+SPIRITS&qid=1710968337&s=books&sprefix=the+winter+spirits+%2Cstripbooks%2C91&sr=1-1">THE WINTER SPIRITS</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Various (2024)</i><br /></b><br /></div><div>A father’s trip into a world of madness to rescue his lost son. The worn-out writer increasingly alarmed by the mysterious entity on the snow-clad roof. The badly behaved children in the Victorian nursery, and the governess who calls on Krampus to tame them. </div><div><br /></div><div>An absorbing trip into traditionally themed festive terror from a host of quality authors.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTK4ncMA06-L4sSWNefjwEgn7EuxOl1szYI1LNo6NN1dy_34grwIBT-4WxpOvgN3au-nylDdL9f6vG29MLuIE2fgospdAxs14WC_HCLor0kY9rEqcj1rc53I8MAfu6RTPGWwoW-V5hzqViUoXRLgYqDMQD1TIr6etUCKXyW0k7vN_mCl_IKi3ufuobnC8/s500/t%20-%20sentinel.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTK4ncMA06-L4sSWNefjwEgn7EuxOl1szYI1LNo6NN1dy_34grwIBT-4WxpOvgN3au-nylDdL9f6vG29MLuIE2fgospdAxs14WC_HCLor0kY9rEqcj1rc53I8MAfu6RTPGWwoW-V5hzqViUoXRLgYqDMQD1TIr6etUCKXyW0k7vN_mCl_IKi3ufuobnC8/w131-h200/t%20-%20sentinel.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sentinel-Jeffrey-Konvitz-ebook/dp/B018HM2B36/ref=sr_1_1?crid=YA4P3IEHF5MG&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.cwMlVno1-n-INyj_MmvQnma6i_HOLsI3eE9td7aMsWeFPPzCSiR36UT3cF1vyrT_uOEUw3mdfh_hXRcA87TA4vDJbaxwv7N8x-gsJQ0n0y4.CZ-TsTQudh1ro6D51YGHDeEYUMyS3x5uzXPP0rWxakQ&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+SENTINEL+by+Jeffrey+Konvitz&qid=1710968428&s=audible&sprefix=the+sentinel+by+jeffrey+konvitz%2Caudible%2C66&sr=1-1-catcorr">THE SENTINEL</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Jeffrey Konvitz (1974)</i></b></div><div><br />Interesting horror novel of yesteryear. Not particularly great writing, but a Satanic chiller which, for once, does not concern itself with possession. </div><div><br /></div><div>Michael Winner’s 1977 adaptation worked in parts but was tasteless and controversial. I’d certainly be interested in seeing a remake, so long as they reduced the shock factor and upped the genuinely eerie mystery. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUvXnYgZ0h3JPTQlqtvyr5YuuXbd3uiAEX6_7FZTDGj9JfVYF0W0qr8rvyQEQoSCYdi4JFR2pV59P20Dwuwcb6_1oXan9CUUwRmnfVarFjV911QgGsCq02wjXTbAx-Fva-v3VQYPYdjrbF7QD_aTnGewWgIAKqmWGzU1cAUFg-gKNt9LMtK5PwdtWhwE/s500/t%20-%20evil.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUvXnYgZ0h3JPTQlqtvyr5YuuXbd3uiAEX6_7FZTDGj9JfVYF0W0qr8rvyQEQoSCYdi4JFR2pV59P20Dwuwcb6_1oXan9CUUwRmnfVarFjV911QgGsCq02wjXTbAx-Fva-v3VQYPYdjrbF7QD_aTnGewWgIAKqmWGzU1cAUFg-gKNt9LMtK5PwdtWhwE/w133-h200/t%20-%20evil.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/New-Evil-Understanding-Emergence-Violent/dp/1633885321/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.4PDsJiyKO2tBqyHaZJcS2g.DSzk-SHRBh94PoXv5Mcgw6RpMBzvIX6fzVNFifkl9WI&qid=1710968496&sr=8-1">THE NEW EVIL</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Michael Stone and Gary Brucato (2019)</i></b></div><div><br />An absolute must for any crime, thriller and even horror writer’s bookshelf. Two eminent psychoanalysts scientifically quantify the nature and meaning of evil in the modern world. A deep dive into modern man’s propensity for viciousness and depravity, illustrated by hundreds of terrifying case studies. </div><div><br /></div><div>Strong stomachs are required, but the quest to pinpoint the causes of and find solutions for the most negative and destructive forces in ‘civilised’ humanity is admirable. Totally absorbing.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9_9nyH4Wdz61pCppvGZz8ltybjNHoKUDQHPhnJMAP_-BGEQ-CLlVo7Q9J97ZW2G1PSbun4lRINVtjqHOF7_7R9va1bdzwMv2Mu0z5DyuN7XlwqRzohup0I5a8JPtprxbggNvadH8_aZMfy5CblrHkOrZKIaj8AsDSV6lW5I55SN3PqeJrwoWe54Q7UM/s1000/t%20-%20endless.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="623" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9_9nyH4Wdz61pCppvGZz8ltybjNHoKUDQHPhnJMAP_-BGEQ-CLlVo7Q9J97ZW2G1PSbun4lRINVtjqHOF7_7R9va1bdzwMv2Mu0z5DyuN7XlwqRzohup0I5a8JPtprxbggNvadH8_aZMfy5CblrHkOrZKIaj8AsDSV6lW5I55SN3PqeJrwoWe54Q7UM/w124-h200/t%20-%20endless.jpg" width="124" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Endless-Night-Agatha-Christie/dp/0008196397/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.DdfYm97YQQw3C76qDqCW_znRw-yhw2gMQttXE9hGNWkEZO1mJQQ_-e0koRG7F-0d8G7F-h7UK5ko2Par1Q4ZgYTdLY-52m-CyHbC7KP_leuPZTDwETPLuvdD1K-kGOyo5ny_3UOwYZ-dRzzphHkzrM3gtPDhGr-Kx6eLVdOIXI6si-4WCkp8qhVsv6YM0gCbWDvvVUUVFI8cRW7M5xzhUZj_tcv6IfD6T80rstb0iwk.-EulzmT-kQrD5QB4t_QkIFdbW-3noOd27sVh56bmkBo&qid=1710968536&sr=8-1">ENDLESS NIGHT</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Agatha Christie (1967)</i></b></div><div><br />An amoral chancer lucks into marriage with a pretty heiress, and together they build the house of their dreams in a stretch of idyllic woodland, which is reputedly cursed. What could go wrong? </div><div><br /></div><div>A famous chiller from Agatha Christie’s moody psychological era. Not as disturbing now as it was in ’67, when unreliable narration wasn’t a thing … but it’s not a long read, so it’s worth your time.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzaJkNLs_Kgtgg0lYBAmPJP6MpXy3dVkgthLMcBmY-tJ8_HxvCxenQMexPTtzxm7au5bTpn1TPfbXMNlbwSoNE88fO5CCTmQZuhxoCXjo_TeMU1qwsq0jHi1IkuTtCVo-NA4jYVDUHRMSOqC0PnvAwAXeAPEYDWNV_jSsNMQFPFsX54srJHDwyNj5hCk/s1000/t%20-%20merc.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="652" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzaJkNLs_Kgtgg0lYBAmPJP6MpXy3dVkgthLMcBmY-tJ8_HxvCxenQMexPTtzxm7au5bTpn1TPfbXMNlbwSoNE88fO5CCTmQZuhxoCXjo_TeMU1qwsq0jHi1IkuTtCVo-NA4jYVDUHRMSOqC0PnvAwAXeAPEYDWNV_jSsNMQFPFsX54srJHDwyNj5hCk/w131-h200/t%20-%20merc.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mr-Mercedes-Stephen-King/dp/1444788647/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.NXGlmj6nV1XOe51sKCVaevGNHjvnOgFl6d6LYNvqGtQmuMzaD3kQ_Gshaih-RCBYF6pemOqJFrDjLXIPgeU09VZJc172fN_I88-Fq1pcvticcYtgHZaa0NZWQs8s-HTH87AbZNPOp_XQ_2JnyYYTTHLmoDbeOqIlDkq589mLN9VyDjodzhSkGXybfdcb8gbeCr0oS8Aqvy7FI8j-acpuTRltALgRVE0xr0kpfsgIM_A.klGde7wre82iu8tST8gzPR6qkmxHXmyC7w23A6Uh3lU&qid=1710968581&sr=8-1">MR MERCEDES</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Stephen King (2015)</i></b></div><div><br />Not so much horror, but certainly horrific. In the age of high school shootings and rustbelt America, the old master wreaks blood and chaos via the hand of a quietly deranged suburbanite, peeling back the layers of his fragile sanity while sending a typical band of misfits racing against time to thwart his maniac schemes. </div><div><br /></div><div>A tad leisurely in parts, but a gripping read overall. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRdc4oqJTUflXw83Gc9g83ZyiD8NiLugxqYJZ8WtYbPCrFFOHDg0rWOION_ChQCjy8NMDX2-arvKh_7AcHlA9lbh9UL3YcXQkLwPQDkPcpzN3EoePHi7PVGoSQfntaTpmgGM89fSszNmUaLmOioI8N4J-bs6iBQJvfEuFoz20nvH-V7_91OmFfabU-UU/s500/t%20-%20light.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvRdc4oqJTUflXw83Gc9g83ZyiD8NiLugxqYJZ8WtYbPCrFFOHDg0rWOION_ChQCjy8NMDX2-arvKh_7AcHlA9lbh9UL3YcXQkLwPQDkPcpzN3EoePHi7PVGoSQfntaTpmgGM89fSszNmUaLmOioI8N4J-bs6iBQJvfEuFoz20nvH-V7_91OmFfabU-UU/w129-h200/t%20-%20light.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Lighthouse/dp/B0099S2E76/ref=sr_1_1?crid=GJRTXH5HVUXQ&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.V6bIij78o39YzWCwZ_3dsyCybt6Iwg7Jz9zKmTtsSxXJHkLZxOx9-eqgwDOgrgxzlZYVS_cN9-_7o8apE-A1V5P-Uyf-_DeY2lJ8jCTWSgx8qVN08REj48tA8-GcUiLrNz73sHXId4gs0I87hzlT0ngtwNNdlR7ALdGRu0qXn9_LCAWT_KFTJdt_QHTxCNDCzS1966MG6i_DDCkb6_2vP8CFIzLcGAS6lFW_jf4s99M.miMEe3XE5GVUiIdWFworwdnWB755Px_QnsrlMIuU0es&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+LIGHTHOUSE+by+Alison+Moore&qid=1710968651&sprefix=the+lighthouse+by+alison+moore%2Caps%2C62&sr=8-1">THE LIGHTHOUSE</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Alison Moore (2012)</i></b></div><div><br />A middle-aged man takes a Rhineland walking holiday to recuperate after the breakup of his marriage, and ruminates on his unhappy life, at the same time unaware that he is drifting into danger. Alison Moore’s debut novel, and a dark, dreamlike study of neglect, isolation and futility. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perfectly written (at 183 pages, an easy read), deeply thought-provoking and achingly sad.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-24174940402805060822024-02-04T14:06:00.000-08:002024-02-05T07:23:19.967-08:00By Heck! A few pics from my writing past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiPnIfrEhvG6sPcbZrTmBi7XvMwKmuwl2e807D2rYfZOhyre6LK_OIajKwrFw6E5XT31ElJNd2plcOVQbQvEuTGsXDTz06WwKabYPFgxP60aVM7fNkJHepgVonR0ayI5WONkt9wVMgDDofE68T5pSPO8TXaVpDqxfwkyEoic0YpBSnRJOZz0dc9y4MS4/s602/Picture4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiPnIfrEhvG6sPcbZrTmBi7XvMwKmuwl2e807D2rYfZOhyre6LK_OIajKwrFw6E5XT31ElJNd2plcOVQbQvEuTGsXDTz06WwKabYPFgxP60aVM7fNkJHepgVonR0ayI5WONkt9wVMgDDofE68T5pSPO8TXaVpDqxfwkyEoic0YpBSnRJOZz0dc9y4MS4/w400-h400/Picture4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <b>A bit of a fun blogpost today. I thought I’d muck about with some AI picture-drawing software, to see what it made of a selection of books, stories and even plays from my back catalogue.</b></p><p><b>I should say straight off that I’m nervous about AI. I’m not sure which creative wouldn’t be. Clearly there are copyright issues and so on, not to mention widespread concerns about talented individuals finding themselves replaced by computer programmes. Quite clearly AI is now with us to stay, but for all the reasons I’ve mentioned, I can guarantee that none of these images, which rather than pulling them off the Net from various databases, I’ve requested from the app myself and purely for the purpose of having a bit of fun, will ever be used in any official capacity. </b></p><p><b>I have very little to do these days with my own book covers, or the artwork that may accompany my stories in magazines and the like, but those I do, I will always seek from a human artist or illustrator.</b></p><p><b>Anyway, here we go. Those who read my stuff may recognise the above. It’s an AI interpretation of HECK, or rather DS Mark Heckenburg, the star of seven of my novels to date (and hopefully more to come). On seeing this, I couldn’t resist checking out what it made of a few other of my writing endeavours. </b></p><p><b>I repeat that it’s just a bit of fun, this (none of these are going out in any form of publication). Here are twenty of my stories, books etc that I chose at random ...</b></p><p><br /></p><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>BATTLE LORD</b> (2024)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcfCH3Cy0vwfGdBllV_Dbrs8Y2TFhbUW5TP2nq-9u1XlaVxhhZqTZSGGQqvUbSXU48Nd5J2HZjyINcqcZLzVWtBprxMU2epu2MjTcHl3D63yh9l8Ifi56_gYJsXpqPT17tQdnykiB8vGhgFPNpPks9iOIgLpqFZMSqoZFRaGfUX4uhf-Rwa_FGts6GPs/s1024/battle%20lord.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOcfCH3Cy0vwfGdBllV_Dbrs8Y2TFhbUW5TP2nq-9u1XlaVxhhZqTZSGGQqvUbSXU48Nd5J2HZjyINcqcZLzVWtBprxMU2epu2MjTcHl3D63yh9l8Ifi56_gYJsXpqPT17tQdnykiB8vGhgFPNpPks9iOIgLpqFZMSqoZFRaGfUX4uhf-Rwa_FGts6GPs/w400-h400/battle%20lord.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The second novel in the <b>WULFBURY CHRONICLES</b>, sees Cerdic, the son of a Saxon earl captured after the disastrous battle of Hastings, turn the tables on his foes, by setting Norman against Viking, but at the same time adapting to the new medieval era that has now dawned in his homeland.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>WE ARE THE SHADOWS</b> (2009)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4O_7ADg5vhN8Wm3RAec2ra0xOiiWxhX_gawFGjk8S_ABKUJ_zHYJt7q3_nZu-59kMBEfRuTiUfH0GdlWptRqnDsWAnNtzeBSJH0Fg-WD0cVAyn8J1jIfXzQRfmNPhM3VORBrClquSHX-DX69K7T0TrKpnrfTaPsA0L8ZKxKMziwDIxh6qO_0ucQ7yhbw/s1024/shadows.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4O_7ADg5vhN8Wm3RAec2ra0xOiiWxhX_gawFGjk8S_ABKUJ_zHYJt7q3_nZu-59kMBEfRuTiUfH0GdlWptRqnDsWAnNtzeBSJH0Fg-WD0cVAyn8J1jIfXzQRfmNPhM3VORBrClquSHX-DX69K7T0TrKpnrfTaPsA0L8ZKxKMziwDIxh6qO_0ucQ7yhbw/w400-h400/shadows.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>An investigative reporter looks into a series of violent attacks, all of whose perpetrators appear to match the descriptions of famous serial killers, many now dead. The trail finally leads him to an abandoned wax museum in a desolate seaside town. (Novella, first published in <b>GROANING SHADOWS</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>SEASON OF MIST</b> (2010)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTkZMaS_38Yxc651nruoX9CUic7umKsJG1B7vnXFBWVNCthG7Q2qVmuWBZgLGtYWtvUfhnGObUlF58R34eIXkTTnnlRdXIsCcUMT5rqkFuidOE_9SKMDuZuJzz1itenT7vU03NXPwUpY6AD-ghS_U3zYzpPqqYh4tP7fDhRueY1X4tcfbuvjO8OJxFiA/s1024/season%20of%20mist.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTkZMaS_38Yxc651nruoX9CUic7umKsJG1B7vnXFBWVNCthG7Q2qVmuWBZgLGtYWtvUfhnGObUlF58R34eIXkTTnnlRdXIsCcUMT5rqkFuidOE_9SKMDuZuJzz1itenT7vU03NXPwUpY6AD-ghS_U3zYzpPqqYh4tP7fDhRueY1X4tcfbuvjO8OJxFiA/w400-h400/season%20of%20mist.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In the autumn of 1974, a bunch of kids in a coal-mining community in northern England are advised to stay indoors when a killer starts targeting the town’s youth, but one particularly intrepid group become convinced that this no normal murderer. (Novella, first published in <b>WALKERS IN THE DARK</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE HOUSE OF THE HAG</b> (2015)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJHeByyaTSiugkS4QR_kpsr3jmP0xiGswirLf5YE5_dJU-7bA65VpXk4dsgy7Q870LpRQq0q4_p0qrn455WFE3kXDEP_CQq2CqMK1k4qNeWXJ6sDym4U7w0dgzhN94j_jFIS9PlKLgOsMJ_LkeqILNWZzi8rLHJuTq7Pn57-qZPw1RMy3vVeDIvLYZXE/s1024/hag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXJHeByyaTSiugkS4QR_kpsr3jmP0xiGswirLf5YE5_dJU-7bA65VpXk4dsgy7Q870LpRQq0q4_p0qrn455WFE3kXDEP_CQq2CqMK1k4qNeWXJ6sDym4U7w0dgzhN94j_jFIS9PlKLgOsMJ_LkeqILNWZzi8rLHJuTq7Pn57-qZPw1RMy3vVeDIvLYZXE/w400-h400/hag.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />A middle-aged English couple get lost in foul weather high in the Scottish mountains, finally seeking shelter in an abandoned tent, only to find that it houses three crude stone figures. Worried they desecrated some kind of shrine, they hurry away - but a fearsome pursuit now follows. (Short story, first published in <b>THE SPECTRAL BOOK OF HORROR 2</b>).</div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>STRANGERS </b>(2016)</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMo2XlVViNHxvD6EPX_Sw8WvuViJqh0bw9-DhNQX2m3TvCbstySqqDGnVDYVoLa7OyILcyRbpEHGV2ozbaQu70a9ruL4EIjuLvW7iSrCspzbmTfR19EwHkylXwwmTCy7sVJDfJ2NUIWRMw6WNkVtcRyoPezXaHvSXSZBICyD-4woojAsoH8XKeMnlEha4/s1024/lucy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMo2XlVViNHxvD6EPX_Sw8WvuViJqh0bw9-DhNQX2m3TvCbstySqqDGnVDYVoLa7OyILcyRbpEHGV2ozbaQu70a9ruL4EIjuLvW7iSrCspzbmTfR19EwHkylXwwmTCy7sVJDfJ2NUIWRMw6WNkVtcRyoPezXaHvSXSZBICyD-4woojAsoH8XKeMnlEha4/w400-h400/lucy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A female police detective in Manchester goes undercover to try and catch a deranged prostitute who has been sexually murdering her male clients, entering a more dangerous world that she could ever have imagined. The first novel in my <b>LUCY CLAYBURN</b> series, and a Sunday Times Top Ten read.</div><div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b>BRANCH LINE</b> (2020)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRu2MLV7GOYsK85RWVdss253zUHotR10BmmEiK2md7hH6C2joBdaq5XPjIPS7sG4mvUR1sm58PmtHRN8S9a47g1RdKs-rxxBRSxkOeog8lVxIDtrCc4Vpl8np2bLKmGiPXdv9pZP-LcPwDRDFuvQYwOD6CQtlNRr-4SrJQrTz7N6k9vJlbrB4Qx8oIPU/s1024/thumbnail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRu2MLV7GOYsK85RWVdss253zUHotR10BmmEiK2md7hH6C2joBdaq5XPjIPS7sG4mvUR1sm58PmtHRN8S9a47g1RdKs-rxxBRSxkOeog8lVxIDtrCc4Vpl8np2bLKmGiPXdv9pZP-LcPwDRDFuvQYwOD6CQtlNRr-4SrJQrTz7N6k9vJlbrB4Qx8oIPU/w400-h400/thumbnail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Two 1970s kids venture along a derelict stretch of railway line, searching for a hoard of discarded girlie mags. Both know about the legend that the revenant of a Victorian-era suicide still supposedly haunts the line, but they are too eager to get their hands on the good stuff. (Short story, first published in <b>AFTER SUNDOWN</b>). <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE HOTEL ON THE BORDERLAND</b> (2001)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWymzJYNIrUGWRg9VbhKt-kIzvlnVkIBtsypOtZ8HeEpw_4VRUGn1j3ch75sTGj9Hwt8qhR9x6MCy0QHTuYX6jfpHTbhG2nGhWQMuH60pXjwxO-vm9LkLKnnbRNJ4CT6cxsp4ff-8SLvmA-BOpNlYmanUdtUqsyywZ_9tMeURkE2VYQby7VvtGwn6XoA/s1024/Borderland.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWymzJYNIrUGWRg9VbhKt-kIzvlnVkIBtsypOtZ8HeEpw_4VRUGn1j3ch75sTGj9Hwt8qhR9x6MCy0QHTuYX6jfpHTbhG2nGhWQMuH60pXjwxO-vm9LkLKnnbRNJ4CT6cxsp4ff-8SLvmA-BOpNlYmanUdtUqsyywZ_9tMeURkE2VYQby7VvtGwn6XoA/w400-h400/Borderland.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Before the Northern Ireland peace process commences, an RUC detective pursues an IRA gunman out into the wilds of the west, and there, amid, an eerie fog, is drawn to a bizarre coastal hotel where almost nothing and no one is what they initially appear to be. (Short story, first published in <b>HOUSES AT BORDERLANDS</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>DR WHO - LEVIATHAN</b> (2010)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhweUMNYmkbcZUkNdD5y4Ws_6_dgz2LCdQSGp-A0MIE8QL-wKPWe1paVWcEmSA2t4FaHdyUZtcwnLf2K6bVHPtBa64P5NlXdl5zQXlN65FXnKvvZFiOmGONZ6VpVCoVeJ3yNA-qP4kdUjyKyMZF11GeYMH37M19YXxv_YhQEL9oztd5LvsGBcoUfP-tvA/s602/Picture12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhweUMNYmkbcZUkNdD5y4Ws_6_dgz2LCdQSGp-A0MIE8QL-wKPWe1paVWcEmSA2t4FaHdyUZtcwnLf2K6bVHPtBa64P5NlXdl5zQXlN65FXnKvvZFiOmGONZ6VpVCoVeJ3yNA-qP4kdUjyKyMZF11GeYMH37M19YXxv_YhQEL9oztd5LvsGBcoUfP-tvA/w400-h400/Picture12.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The Sixth Doctor and Peri arrive in what appears to be medieval England, only to find a village community living in terror of their local baron and a monstrous force out in the encircling greenwood, which lives only to punish all those who defy <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">‘</span>the Way’. (Full cast audio drama in Big Finish’s <b>DR WHO: THE LOST STORIES</b> season).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE OLD NORTH ROAD</b> (2006)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQd4bVdkm0iO7hl_ep8yTn91fBY8zN3rGGOi6qJXSvEcmvz9ss_QTCOgViptRxRFQCOjQacNNfpfHDaghkLjjhGmhoymeZaMBBK_klY1TSoMhJ5J5CqWxzToJ9BBDznx7njm9xULxSC_dctRbzFHfoBkJMUEeQ9BMcZ0jCVTUtwKUTo62j049blgdgGk/s1024/GREEN%20MAN.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQd4bVdkm0iO7hl_ep8yTn91fBY8zN3rGGOi6qJXSvEcmvz9ss_QTCOgViptRxRFQCOjQacNNfpfHDaghkLjjhGmhoymeZaMBBK_klY1TSoMhJ5J5CqWxzToJ9BBDznx7njm9xULxSC_dctRbzFHfoBkJMUEeQ9BMcZ0jCVTUtwKUTo62j049blgdgGk/w400-h400/GREEN%20MAN.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />A folklorist searching out the origins of the Green Man legend visits a derelict priory in the Forest of Lune in northern England, only to find that he’s fallen foul of a couple of very dangerous hitchers. (Short story, first published in <b>ALONE ON THE DARKSIDE</b>, and winner of the International Horror Guild Award for 2007).<div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE RETREAT</b> (2008)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvlEkPWgkViIxgXETFNyuFw-ebMLzY7WOA76YP-zQDKxi2Wpv5dSQ29X7Fq8WUgIEVgo3IhitwRukOEeHBVg_-yu5111Af2o5W7NlfYjlUQUTJcfxLDse8Im978iRQxTJqYSz6KpzEIAuls0_fsOJRfCu4Et-KtGcaYFrf5w7NbwBUovw_X7mJEzrCPY/s1024/retreat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvlEkPWgkViIxgXETFNyuFw-ebMLzY7WOA76YP-zQDKxi2Wpv5dSQ29X7Fq8WUgIEVgo3IhitwRukOEeHBVg_-yu5111Af2o5W7NlfYjlUQUTJcfxLDse8Im978iRQxTJqYSz6KpzEIAuls0_fsOJRfCu4Et-KtGcaYFrf5w7NbwBUovw_X7mJEzrCPY/w400-h400/retreat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Russian Front during World War Two. A frost-bitten German platoon escapes the fiery ruins of Stalingrad, fighting its way through the frozen wilderness and taking shelter in a mysterious log cabin, only to discover that it is vastly larger and more mysterious on the inside than the out. (Novella, first published in <b>HOUSES ON THE BORDERLAND</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>REIGN OF HELL</b> (2013)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7B6uAJnLjljPfkrPu5cIMLBOhFJGAtKqZXWX3Wbjs8ULm439hyphenhyphenoauLvplYEV0nglFy7itDv0PeUQ4W1lP69quDMsmjKL3eJFpm5PK99-dnsh7K7H5Z1m2YOqyiog35qa2MJ9BTZOywgnlJN2t5lG_6KCLXYPzc9oOG3QnqH3w8W-38DW9qnXPFSqzTs/s602/Picture9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC7B6uAJnLjljPfkrPu5cIMLBOhFJGAtKqZXWX3Wbjs8ULm439hyphenhyphenoauLvplYEV0nglFy7itDv0PeUQ4W1lP69quDMsmjKL3eJFpm5PK99-dnsh7K7H5Z1m2YOqyiog35qa2MJ9BTZOywgnlJN2t5lG_6KCLXYPzc9oOG3QnqH3w8W-38DW9qnXPFSqzTs/w400-h400/Picture9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At the height of World War Two, a Greek archaeologist leads his Nazi-supporting brother into a deep cave system, where he claims to have uncovered something that will aid in the Axis war effort against the Allies. (Short story, first published in <b>WORLD WAR CTHULHU</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>SPARROWHAWK </b>(2010)</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4aGobMawov3vgDOcqfHBN2bJ5nFfsH2LkbKlaEKzq5qozjtl29boQq7lDp7UkQ-WwgUGBHwpuNvZlvtPw5nBOZM00xilFJmfcCVQ8Ab6a7Qf4Udvr1eo_lh1xbtPmwsMUqvMBBLM6h0fYFLw0A6mn9Gd9aJVtzkjcFsajlrM7A6YK_nHPGParpvSKCU/s602/Picture6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4aGobMawov3vgDOcqfHBN2bJ5nFfsH2LkbKlaEKzq5qozjtl29boQq7lDp7UkQ-WwgUGBHwpuNvZlvtPw5nBOZM00xilFJmfcCVQ8Ab6a7Qf4Udvr1eo_lh1xbtPmwsMUqvMBBLM6h0fYFLw0A6mn9Gd9aJVtzkjcFsajlrM7A6YK_nHPGParpvSKCU/w400-h400/Picture6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In the 1840s, an embittered veteran of the Afghan War is released from the debtor’s prison and charged with standing guard over a house in a quiet corner of inner London for the duration of December. But as the cold weather descends, a supernatural evil is unleashed. (Novella, first published as a stand-alone).</div><div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE TENTH LESSON</b> (2020)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm94EGpKksRY8zkNNqMvPrzXVsrKlxH771VexGbls7ObsRYNoz7fU_kUxS5DYzkBMFyRQAk2ETAVyT1j3paLaa-QY2ZGVNSnDHwTx_QeHFd8eyqmfGgMiz7Uic60mAQNxLZjMnLIeOKV5vNhLDOWS34xjq0SaJvewcEN_QjreNaSUj-fZIew2KV7JAGVE/s1024/tenth%20lesson.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm94EGpKksRY8zkNNqMvPrzXVsrKlxH771VexGbls7ObsRYNoz7fU_kUxS5DYzkBMFyRQAk2ETAVyT1j3paLaa-QY2ZGVNSnDHwTx_QeHFd8eyqmfGgMiz7Uic60mAQNxLZjMnLIeOKV5vNhLDOWS34xjq0SaJvewcEN_QjreNaSUj-fZIew2KV7JAGVE/w400-h400/tenth%20lesson.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A children’s novelist and secret Christmas skeptic is snowed into his rural cottage one frightful Christmas Eve, at which point he receives a very curious present: a life-size nutcracker soldier, clockwork of course, and with a devious mind of its own. (Short story, first published in <b>THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ONE EYE OPEN</b> (2020)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcr4BobsvypznW-mSV6mkcbI7lpgEbytyKDrDUaHyPJoXVqV9CzsmEMhthaShj5aHD4vLP_2FFw6ttjS8r_LOW-dnXybbKSSKI5FIQxW8vBCJvBofkCzzUPeEwjxgD-AcUpXMfktP1AVgiZCho-TqVC5A0AoC6BmuHqYHpTxDD4mjBTdjF2hOWjRfCIGY/s602/Picture8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcr4BobsvypznW-mSV6mkcbI7lpgEbytyKDrDUaHyPJoXVqV9CzsmEMhthaShj5aHD4vLP_2FFw6ttjS8r_LOW-dnXybbKSSKI5FIQxW8vBCJvBofkCzzUPeEwjxgD-AcUpXMfktP1AVgiZCho-TqVC5A0AoC6BmuHqYHpTxDD4mjBTdjF2hOWjRfCIGY/w400-h400/Picture8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>While a lady police detective investigates a car that shouldn't exist and a terrible road accident which no one remembers happening, a once-famous racing driver finds himself at odds with evil organisation who’ll stop at nothing to get even with those who’ve defied them. (Stand alone novel).</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE DOOM</b> (2010)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiXmNxnaMxxrC0M5jISCTqs0Ru7V7q2fkUbFnP0PKdZaCkvVcpUt0fpYmr6ukYp5UROmohpEqoy95RIRGCwzetzG-ea-bQ_yCO5fBP3y0vQbb22VFOlYM6UT8lKOHffoqevh1cE5pDHZONP4uM_A2I0CEuFKJ6S-p_mfe0MUCXykLmwFTECTMkMr-6nc/s1024/the%20doom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiXmNxnaMxxrC0M5jISCTqs0Ru7V7q2fkUbFnP0PKdZaCkvVcpUt0fpYmr6ukYp5UROmohpEqoy95RIRGCwzetzG-ea-bQ_yCO5fBP3y0vQbb22VFOlYM6UT8lKOHffoqevh1cE5pDHZONP4uM_A2I0CEuFKJ6S-p_mfe0MUCXykLmwFTECTMkMr-6nc/w400-h400/the%20doom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>When, during the renovation of a village church, a medieval wall-painting is discovered, which portrays the most terrifying images of Hell ever conceived, visitors come from far and wide. But increasingly, they are a strange and scary breed. (Short story, first published in <b>THE BLACK BOOK OF HORROR #6</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE AFTER SHOCK</b> (1994)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Kj1tkaT263Jg9x7YtFa06ZxW2arZTOZPEazRhlNnJPtTChugPta_Y0WFq4ZQSPcdebL87Y4iJVi9jlPzxOzu4Dpj5sHKgfvzsFEqKHTAXnoM6n_2KVjAcs2G1HlqQ8C2UVbO3zxVT27AmwZXan35vTyjjFNn6h6ry4hwKZiTRls7RX1qjmZfDRDwsQk/s1024/after%20shock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Kj1tkaT263Jg9x7YtFa06ZxW2arZTOZPEazRhlNnJPtTChugPta_Y0WFq4ZQSPcdebL87Y4iJVi9jlPzxOzu4Dpj5sHKgfvzsFEqKHTAXnoM6n_2KVjAcs2G1HlqQ8C2UVbO3zxVT27AmwZXan35vTyjjFNn6h6ry4hwKZiTRls7RX1qjmZfDRDwsQk/w400-h400/after%20shock.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At the height of World War One, a travelling man finds himself marooned overnight on a remote country railway station. Only when it’s too late, the following morning in fact, does the station guard realise that he should never have left him there alone. (First published in <b>THE STEAM RAILWAY NEWS CHRISTMAS SPECIAL</b>).</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>STOLEN</b> (2019)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcQxJFlKo6NsryvMJtcwqMiStg1aJHg_29T1nvxPaHjLtzvk2B0uit8Q-b-yE0_gsNehpHoS-46k4zmOURVl2ueRzCssSQm73tZjrFQhnEQAM37ET91XAfndjun18o7XfZsA1tDhpQk7-UYzuyhVPgKoghB8eNaak3VeolP5y313rw3OQIZWVX6yUmbI/s602/Picture10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcQxJFlKo6NsryvMJtcwqMiStg1aJHg_29T1nvxPaHjLtzvk2B0uit8Q-b-yE0_gsNehpHoS-46k4zmOURVl2ueRzCssSQm73tZjrFQhnEQAM37ET91XAfndjun18o7XfZsA1tDhpQk7-UYzuyhVPgKoghB8eNaak3VeolP5y313rw3OQIZWVX6yUmbI/w400-h400/Picture10.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Detective Constable Lucy Clayburn responds to the abductions of pets in the district by closing down a local dog-fighting ring. Only when the abductions continue does she wonder if she got the right people, especially as now it is humans who are being snatched off the streets. (Third novel in the Lucy Clayburn series).<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>CALIBOS</b> (2005)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT0djFMYthLGnkx7kDIgdi_kKF8Lp9Hv83lI3rC0AH-SKwv1YzgsnWddJAaWBjS1B3QmJihCMS4Q1Bt_0V2wsWMZgoh0fLxRjX0yIG4WbKZm6rc_JjJgXif-vQlcP85xSVX5FXaYGVZsSrLRAujAsgdAgM4LJ7EN4PfCJiXYicypXeTXKrTWZ_PDt5Ao/s1024/calibos.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT0djFMYthLGnkx7kDIgdi_kKF8Lp9Hv83lI3rC0AH-SKwv1YzgsnWddJAaWBjS1B3QmJihCMS4Q1Bt_0V2wsWMZgoh0fLxRjX0yIG4WbKZm6rc_JjJgXif-vQlcP85xSVX5FXaYGVZsSrLRAujAsgdAgM4LJ7EN4PfCJiXYicypXeTXKrTWZ_PDt5Ao/w400-h400/calibos.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>When a colossal ocean-going robot crab comes ashore, now under the control of an unknown force, a special forces squad infiltrates its interior to try and switch off its reactor, but first they must run a gauntlet of ruthless mechanical antibodies. (Short story, first published in <b>DAIKAJU</b>).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>MARSHWALL</b> (2013)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZpmQ6wDB3ExWjigfqEWyPxyEVm49z1EyjbSxmmDn3sr-ukMhXb7SF23VuJZPxS4BNxSIZHlF2SOuI-ZkUHoGGuPLlv1hiGau60cFu5gBCDeIKrK7mjZo4hqhPpv5RlAMk-rc8bT81qafCg020Wj7QS6LThWpEiFCfjGKtU-NAjDXnMZOmL9X9l2r9Wg/s1024/marshwall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaZpmQ6wDB3ExWjigfqEWyPxyEVm49z1EyjbSxmmDn3sr-ukMhXb7SF23VuJZPxS4BNxSIZHlF2SOuI-ZkUHoGGuPLlv1hiGau60cFu5gBCDeIKrK7mjZo4hqhPpv5RlAMk-rc8bT81qafCg020Wj7QS6LThWpEiFCfjGKtU-NAjDXnMZOmL9X9l2r9Wg/w400-h400/marshwall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>When he learns that his girlfriend’s wealthy but estranged mother is likely to die, a shallow chancer visits her isolated Norfolk home in order to make friends, but first must contend with the fiercely protective rocking horse that lurks in the attic. (Short story, first published in <b>THE BLACK BOOK OF HORROR #10</b>).</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE GODS OF GREEN AND GREY</b> (2005)</div></b></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr95D6CDjaPACWHKuCH5G6iriIatmp2OExJx1vaGP2y80rN8gpT5Q1t5UELOUWAIc-25FHgyOVATYsjFIujCnAJjkE-jkw0gIUaYpLFQ3ezrnzlpaBQbBjmWwZv_9Pej1TNczNUINshtAFBJFTzsDl8-mdqquYZH0mrX41GPxxG3de82LRJDy5yjpqcI/s1024/green%20and%20grey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCr95D6CDjaPACWHKuCH5G6iriIatmp2OExJx1vaGP2y80rN8gpT5Q1t5UELOUWAIc-25FHgyOVATYsjFIujCnAJjkE-jkw0gIUaYpLFQ3ezrnzlpaBQbBjmWwZv_9Pej1TNczNUINshtAFBJFTzsDl8-mdqquYZH0mrX41GPxxG3de82LRJDy5yjpqcI/w400-h400/green%20and%20grey.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />In ancient Britain, a Roman company charged with constructing a road through an area of misty fenland falls prey to a brutal band of flesh-eating ogres. (Short story, first published in <b>PARADOX #7</b>).</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-85136375268581814792024-01-15T01:52:00.000-08:002024-01-15T01:57:22.628-08:00Your dark fiction choices, January to June<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ekSNvyUQ84oN_fE2ktFFj2rmVqonQ4sVIHkmiN1SV8lS9felfj-VIdQO-aK2WkcjDz5YJ70MqhP3d9C5QUFsVw31KgWdvWp1GZODzVEOPFNhBKcEd76Mw1JGhFJN8tVodMJ4N4EtJrDSRIVOQUXfX-tXgc7jIXIzO7Qmtk9pYujfzIU5DzB037Ngdo4/s640/scary%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="640" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ekSNvyUQ84oN_fE2ktFFj2rmVqonQ4sVIHkmiN1SV8lS9felfj-VIdQO-aK2WkcjDz5YJ70MqhP3d9C5QUFsVw31KgWdvWp1GZODzVEOPFNhBKcEd76Mw1JGhFJN8tVodMJ4N4EtJrDSRIVOQUXfX-tXgc7jIXIzO7Qmtk9pYujfzIU5DzB037Ngdo4/w400-h304/scary%20book.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b>Happy New Year to everyone. So, another 12 months of book writing dawns, or, perhaps more applicably to most of us, another 12 months of book reading.<br /><br />Yes, that’s where we are with today’s blogpost. We’re going to be taking a good look at some of the most exciting dark fiction headed your way in 2024.<br /><br />Because the info is not all out there yet, I’ve been unable to cast my rule over the whole next twelve months. Sadly, we must content ourselves with the next six, January to June. But don’t worry, because there are some hellishly interesting titles scheduled for release.</b><br /><br />As usual, I’ve divided the material I like the look of into three sections: <b>Crime</b>, <b>Thriller</b> and <b>Horror</b>, and have picked ten for each section.<br /><br />Because I haven’t read these books yet, and it’s therefore not possible to offer a review in each case, I’m going to let the publishers do the talking, posting the blurb from the back of each book as an apéritif. So, note that well. These are NOT Finch’s recommendations. I’m simply expressing interest in a bunch of forthcoming titles.<br /><br />I should add as a footnote that there are many more of these lined up for January to June, but we haven’t got room to mention all of them. Today’s batch are those that most caught my eye while I was flipping excitedly through the listings online. Meanwhile, the second six months of the year, July to December, will be dealt with in the summer. <br /><br /><div>Of course, if in your eyes there are any painfully obvious absentees from this list, feel free to mention them in the comments section.</div><div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">C</span>RIME</b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i><br /></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_S2cbfewR7BUHshq8LE3bm6num1JadN3V4niAuKkMbUeMh9MJ5-0qW9xI44rP0gGkH4I2KlYws-2PsV_Q4Chs4xet6jcWtT9y5oZr5NKoB_KJSM-k6XgckWdJ-lAeURBe_JNa6aUYpKRyaqC0l-AcpzY1KrvSUl7r6d3wzHqTTME5KWMtO43_TVL2EoE/s1500/71Lzg+8LyBL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="964" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_S2cbfewR7BUHshq8LE3bm6num1JadN3V4niAuKkMbUeMh9MJ5-0qW9xI44rP0gGkH4I2KlYws-2PsV_Q4Chs4xet6jcWtT9y5oZr5NKoB_KJSM-k6XgckWdJ-lAeURBe_JNa6aUYpKRyaqC0l-AcpzY1KrvSUl7r6d3wzHqTTME5KWMtO43_TVL2EoE/w258-h400/71Lzg+8LyBL._SL1500_.jpg" width="258" /></a></i></div><b>1. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anna-biggest-thriller-astonishing-literary/dp/0008607796/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.RuZI3gM-d1Q15NEUXHRUno_E7j4g2VMjvRNapd62DYbOUXuIK9Vou_cv7TZYgLuYv93w5GW4xCaSchqB7sWj6w0wlVhWijvPXiC-fY-6Jjg.aPq7k-OMrFEPBnQPXh0hjVQvyVmUoqMu_LA1KxGL_dE&qid=1705310926&sr=1-1">ANNA O</a> by Matthew Blake </b><i>(pub Feb 1 Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><i><br /></i><br />ANNA O HASN’T OPENED HER EYES FOR FOUR YEARS <br /><br />Not since the night she was found in a deep sleep by the bodies of her best friends, suspected of a chilling double murder. <br /><br />For Doctor Benedict Prince, a forensic psychologist on London’s Harley Street, waking Anna O could be career-defining. As an expert in sleep, he knows all about the darkest chambers of the mind; the secrets that lie buried in the subconscious. <br /><br />As he begins Anna O’s treatment – studying his patient’s dreams, combing her memories, visiting the site where the horrors played out – he pulls on the thread of a much deeper, darker mystery. <br /><br />Awakening Anna O isn’t the end of the story, it’s just the beginning. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3LFuJBLgB6ccR8KeUvYvXRFnwH0hCJ7rvHPP3_PAUIN2iU5PJOeFYwxitTiqqjVsHUftAUj0SemZgbpjme35rEZ0kOGiDu9ck1pNBgnm0Wk-gApHjTwv7MAtIzNCE9yJ5YZfI3YyFpSraMxb_-YKJxxnQaPFslarK8p9iEDbASC84-cX3RPegAF2GWg/s1500/81IkWezE3BL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="987" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3LFuJBLgB6ccR8KeUvYvXRFnwH0hCJ7rvHPP3_PAUIN2iU5PJOeFYwxitTiqqjVsHUftAUj0SemZgbpjme35rEZ0kOGiDu9ck1pNBgnm0Wk-gApHjTwv7MAtIzNCE9yJ5YZfI3YyFpSraMxb_-YKJxxnQaPFslarK8p9iEDbASC84-cX3RPegAF2GWg/w264-h400/81IkWezE3BL._SL1500_.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>2. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Leave-No-Trace-National-Thrillers/dp/1250877334/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1BIX9CZC00YS3&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Iv-ijfcNZ1Nqt44G4IQr_w.hcQ0xs7pX-NU_eJifdtMXV_sAUQKR2vJG_4LUCQ2sHs&dib_tag=se&keywords=LEAVE+NO+TRACE+by+AJ+Landau&qid=1705310977&s=books&sprefix=leave+no+trace+by+aj+landau%2Cstripbooks%2C118&sr=1-1">LEAVE NO TRACE</a> by AJ Landau</b> <i>(pub Feb 27 Kindle and hardback) </i><br /><br />In a daring, brutal act of terrorism, an explosion rocks and topples the Statue of Liberty. Special Agent Michael Walker of the National Park Service is awakened by his boss with that news and sent to New York as the agent-in-charge. Not long after he lands, he learns two things - one, that Gina Delgado of the FBI has been placed in charge of the investigation as the lead of the Joint Terrorism Task Force and two, that threats of a second terrorism attack are already being called into the media. While barred from the meetings of the Joint Task Force for his lack of security clearance, Walker finds a young boy among the survivors with a critical piece of information: a video linking the attackers to the assault.<br /> <br /> As a radical domestic terrorist group, led by a shadowy figure known only as Jeremiah, threatens further attacks against America's cultural symbols, powerful forces within the government are misleading the investigation to further their own radical agenda.<br /><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUnMqXCG8pLayP5ZR1Bd9qQ5Tp7l3tK5R1alwQyfQTXn6kobQPcMqi3uSMUXmNDjPEpVr-eFjJyXHr40Ef4L6Fge4oV36c95J_v95sFyoEulBaqB5pbwibmU61_rZVquEn-7giH3RFWqWWVIBEgBhhjDT2SRuBGCoRgt9xZa5l18a9DtwYBsyrjCo0HQ/s1500/81g2KEgIIDL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="999" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuUnMqXCG8pLayP5ZR1Bd9qQ5Tp7l3tK5R1alwQyfQTXn6kobQPcMqi3uSMUXmNDjPEpVr-eFjJyXHr40Ef4L6Fge4oV36c95J_v95sFyoEulBaqB5pbwibmU61_rZVquEn-7giH3RFWqWWVIBEgBhhjDT2SRuBGCoRgt9xZa5l18a9DtwYBsyrjCo0HQ/w266-h400/81g2KEgIIDL._SL1500_.jpg" width="266" /></a></b></div><b>3. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Has-Anyone-Seen-Charlotte-Salter/dp/1398524085/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6-89a2_FWDMj688rmSc2m2sEJLZjVE8-b9931GDWYDLyaLP2S7BFTCedFKhVT8fh.Kq6IbRJkvLzu6Oap0zYrceXLkSQgsmAyUEVsqYSporg&qid=1705311035&sr=1-1">HAS ANYONE SEEN CHARLOTTE SALTER?</a> by Nicci French</b> <i>(pub on Feb 29 Kindle, Audible, hardback and paperback)</i><p></p>On the day of Alec Salter’s fiftieth birthday party, his wife, Charlotte, vanishes. Most of the small English village of Glensted is at the party for hours before anyone realizes she is missing. While Alec brushes off her disappearance, their four children - especially fifteen-year-old Etty - grow increasingly anxious as the cold winter hours become days and she doesn’t return. Then Etty and her friend Morgan find the body of Morgan’s father - and the Salters’ neighbour - Duncan Ackerley, floating in the river. The police conclude that Duncan and Charlotte were having an affair before he killed her and committed suicide.<br /><br />Thirty years later, Morgan Ackerley returns to Glensted with his older brother to make a podcast based on their shared tragedy with the Salters. Alec, stricken with dementia, is entering an elder care facility while Etty helps put his affairs in order. But when the Ackerleys ask to interview the Salters, the entire town gets caught up in the unresolved cases. <br /><br />Allegations fly, secrets come to light, and a suspicious fire leads to a murder. With the podcast making national news, London sends Detective Inspector Maud O’Connor to Glensted to take over the investigation. She will stop at nothing to uncover the truth as a new and terrifying picture of what really happened to Charlotte Salter and Duncan Ackerley emerges.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-9QobOFvk2GqSCZ4wiSNzqvuKfxOaZ8hnPUXa_Vw1nopBhX2pAu9hJ3CLTL6VwaffLmWN372wCWpvhEgaimSfQ_AGW7tP_41wSAqKDzYey8EdA-eBIOchfSk41mZ6_j02V7c3bPbuJl_yJgQp-AED4E7P1AOmdyCJjdRIgKSa5cJOYLmXyfCi-eKrSg/s1500/717RGt48k+L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="997" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-9QobOFvk2GqSCZ4wiSNzqvuKfxOaZ8hnPUXa_Vw1nopBhX2pAu9hJ3CLTL6VwaffLmWN372wCWpvhEgaimSfQ_AGW7tP_41wSAqKDzYey8EdA-eBIOchfSk41mZ6_j02V7c3bPbuJl_yJgQp-AED4E7P1AOmdyCJjdRIgKSa5cJOYLmXyfCi-eKrSg/w266-h400/717RGt48k+L._SL1500_.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><b>4. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/All-Us-Sinners-Katy-Massey-ebook/dp/B0C539T9HY/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.IwYDsmJA_RibAy0XVniRHTGsi_JNqXP-4XAkq09QKGomPMTEvRKzOIlSJlkF0Kl8gX1C1XDRjpKH3LCnABE8F2ZPQUkXK0EARLPsNOBQLB2ho7_LnMCXfU7l7AXhikLUKWYkpJrf9svFaqJkCBEChA.e2OG6i1SREw6mYPavBuWbTuJizaKgDZD9erjdk2Z1g4&qid=1705311076&sr=1-1">ALL US SINNERS</a> by Katy Massey</b> <i>(pub on Mar 7 Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br /></div><div>Leeds, 1977. A chill lies over the city: sex workers are being murdered by a serial killer they are calling the Ripper, the streets creeping with fear.<br /> <br /> Tough, sharp, but tender, Maureen runs Rio’s, a clean, discreet brothel in the city. She’s a good boss who takes great care of her workers - especially her best girls, Bev and Anette. The Ripper may be terrifying girls who work the street, but at Rio’s the girls seem safer.<p></p>But when Bev’s sweet-natured son is found beaten to death, a figure from Maureen’s past, DS Mick Hunniford, shows up at her door. Does his arrival herald danger or salvation? And who can Maureen really trust?<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2z3B2HX_MPHhCLCCXIujIe_Tqk7lnnEJPvOExB9yTKBfNTZzXV-ec6BemTv_lnwYFUE2mEyZc-nKK6Y4MnlPupfQGOxvMSdQ9zxv0Ynswoa2PTLe9UqdG7X4nII7XL2aZe4yecc7pDumugQ4WNA4cW5_faHylgkV4ZVcRve1AO_Zs75bbsHwEDW-e9xk/s1500/71Y84hqlQ+L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="979" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2z3B2HX_MPHhCLCCXIujIe_Tqk7lnnEJPvOExB9yTKBfNTZzXV-ec6BemTv_lnwYFUE2mEyZc-nKK6Y4MnlPupfQGOxvMSdQ9zxv0Ynswoa2PTLe9UqdG7X4nII7XL2aZe4yecc7pDumugQ4WNA4cW5_faHylgkV4ZVcRve1AO_Zs75bbsHwEDW-e9xk/w261-h400/71Y84hqlQ+L._SL1500_.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><b>5. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-Roses-chilling-thriller-Quartet-ebook/dp/B0CL925VPZ/ref=sr_1_3?crid=1R57N5V6AVU5N&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.SZuYRqdA2oLtVGllHUhFxqbyTWR6dZEzPtpmUgYdd646YW26QerUWgxna1dyuJYnvNTTjGet8qMC9y-uGqMdGIWizne1HdIKZ4kTR7ouZ-IbKjRRHC5SDU9wekczvi7582tS24OXmR9dO9ReD6Z9qA.ksHw-r-CGG50T5w1urxqwFi2rkkHU6xSjbOiQFOsUZk&dib_tag=se&keywords=BLOOD+ROSES&qid=1705311112&s=digital-text&sprefix=blood+roses%2Cdigital-text%2C92&sr=1-3">BLOOD ROSES</a> by Douglas Jackson</b> <i>(pub on Mar 7 Kindle and hardback)</i><p></p>As the Nazis roll into Warsaw, a serial killer is unleashed …<br /><br />September 1939. A city ruled by fear. A population brutalised by restrictions and reprisals. Amid the devastation, another hunter begins to prowl. What are a few more deaths amid scores of daily executions?<br /><br />Former chief investigator Jan Kalisz lives a dangerous double life, forced to work with the occupiers as he gathers information for the fledgling Polish resistance. Even his family cannot be told his true allegiance.<br /><br />When the niece of a Wehrmacht general is found terribly mutilated, Jan links the murder to other killings that are of less interest to his new overlords. Soon, he finds himself on the trail of a psychopathic killer known as The Artist. But, shunned as a Nazi collaborator, can he solve the case before another innocent girl is taken?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0xkPFrVaPpM51axuwsEZphabhmj358WR8KlB0xmapSI_HLeDOd3Fo7BPlGxXqgMsCik1Xc-g5bLVxqJKWxGXMvFCeYj4rdAr3_IUXo9PGzZRl3qw7XZ58uP2dI8iD9cQASxtTUbZtUL3GaURztrdgmv22JwwA26s9J7aXsNCHJZH-i1t89RkNxiD9zAk/s1500/71g7rwINvXL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="975" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0xkPFrVaPpM51axuwsEZphabhmj358WR8KlB0xmapSI_HLeDOd3Fo7BPlGxXqgMsCik1Xc-g5bLVxqJKWxGXMvFCeYj4rdAr3_IUXo9PGzZRl3qw7XZ58uP2dI8iD9cQASxtTUbZtUL3GaURztrdgmv22JwwA26s9J7aXsNCHJZH-i1t89RkNxiD9zAk/w260-h400/71g7rwINvXL._SL1500_.jpg" width="260" /></a></b></div><b>6. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Wolf-international-bestselling-phenomenon-ebook/dp/B0BZPJS5CK/ref=sr_1_1?crid=26OA3RVQ7ZOC4&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.SYp5heEG5KsH8Euo4bp-SltEmzx4ql37dM-G3fF7CHQVtCeuWqRl6-FiZMp7bT3WVgF7X0rKx2kakw6-QFJkAg.Gvc19BXqXFpSNr1UZKRJCne2nVIT3lq-H_ja-esRweI&dib_tag=se&keywords=black+wolf+juan+gomez+jurado&qid=1705311152&s=digital-text&sprefix=BLACK+WOLF%2Cdigital-text%2C97&sr=1-1">BLACK WOLF</a> by Juan Gómez-Jurado</b> <i>(pub on Mar 14 Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br />Antonia Scott is the lynchpin of the Red Queen project, created to work behind the scenes to solve the most dark, devious and dangerous crimes.<br /> <br /> In southern Spain, in the Costa del Sol, a key mafia figure is found brutally murdered in his villa. His pregnant wife, Lola Moreno, barely escapes an attempt to kill her and is on the run. An unusual shipping container arrives from St Petersburg in Spain with the corpses of nine women.<br /> <br /> Now Antonia, with the help of her protector, Jon Gutierrez, must track down the missing Lola. But they aren’t the only ones – a dangerous hitman, known as the Black Wolf, is also on her trail. And Antonia Scott, still plagued by her personal demons, must outwit, out-manoeuvre, and, ultimately, face this terrible, mysterious killer. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EjWDy0R4p3ODeC_qJuVeuwJur5HMx5EygZdDWqUWqWWh8Yq6kZRC7VOylqiTogiIVXOmJfB74a5ZCGTyjPPKvDCDzaOu3TovWPrWTOB9RbCMuidZ3BTGG5VluUzZ85UwwOYAivzF8mJYC5_88aIWtMO1v83nh9HdhmGza6mA1plivoZAZxrVp5kxF-A/s1500/816cTYLI99L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1035" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EjWDy0R4p3ODeC_qJuVeuwJur5HMx5EygZdDWqUWqWWh8Yq6kZRC7VOylqiTogiIVXOmJfB74a5ZCGTyjPPKvDCDzaOu3TovWPrWTOB9RbCMuidZ3BTGG5VluUzZ85UwwOYAivzF8mJYC5_88aIWtMO1v83nh9HdhmGza6mA1plivoZAZxrVp5kxF-A/w276-h400/816cTYLI99L._SL1500_.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>7. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Instruments-Darkness-Charlie-Parker-Thriller-ebook/dp/B0CLJTPH19/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1U1O5URU7W7OP&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.LTWVv5sLGbfu22sqZpr4ME9XS_DlVBu-JICLterfDxCxjTF4rDlkMJdJjcGZ9P75BQ6fxQxT5elv9wym1pmnRF83vDbV_u1tm7oyScXVUcBbVA_p65otuFb7KNBTQQx5nxg_eQrhp-k2jh6gzz71rw.WjeQI-KtvVtu6DOnYRt6lA-hayBMATF0ygK12DNrbqk&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+INSTRUMENTS+OF+DARKNESS&qid=1705311188&s=digital-text&sprefix=the+instruments+of+darkness%2Cdigital-text%2C113&sr=1-1">THE INSTRUMENTS OF DARKNESS</a> by John Connolly</b> <i>(pub on May 7, Kindle, Audible and hardback) </i><br /><br />A Child Missing. A Mother Accused. Charlie Parker Is Their Only Hope.<br /> <br /> In Maine, Colleen Clark stands accused of the worst crime a mother can commit: the abduction and possible murder of her child. Everyone - ambitious politicians in an election season, hardened police, ordinary folk - has an opinion on the case, and most believe she is guilty.<br /> <br /> But most is not all. Defending Colleen is the lawyer Moxie Castin, and working alongside him is the private investigator Charlie Parker, who senses the tale has another twist, one involving a husband too eager to accept his wife’s guilt, a disgraced psychic seeking redemption, and an old twisted house deep in the Maine woods, a house that should never have been built.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">A house, and what dwells beneath. <br /><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87LGuprDF630ugu8ZrqF-i_bO17nCBpPcqoMu79ARVn5Eby5_A02dknb98bkki9dPkMh3Ph5mHSi611OH5Ioqw0BwrZtrazF0TDP9lJLPl4ecJ8Sn8jIc5xse_Nu9QyVNdiJ9XJJKNbw-4zJoY2wYZ088T87NRMGladkR9wPcLy83wM2k2A5Zy49v1fU/s1500/815xJYfosXL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87LGuprDF630ugu8ZrqF-i_bO17nCBpPcqoMu79ARVn5Eby5_A02dknb98bkki9dPkMh3Ph5mHSi611OH5Ioqw0BwrZtrazF0TDP9lJLPl4ecJ8Sn8jIc5xse_Nu9QyVNdiJ9XJJKNbw-4zJoY2wYZ088T87NRMGladkR9wPcLy83wM2k2A5Zy49v1fU/w266-h400/815xJYfosXL._SL1500_.jpg" width="266" /></a></b></div><b>8. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Long-Time-Gone-Charlie-Donlea-ebook/dp/B0CHH655ZW/ref=sr_1_1?crid=VW15RU9GE10K&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.DB0xlQcrTQZWLWejrEQq88otYUdy97-CNXqfo1O_pzcePFqyQf3HOwj_5G-poFGpLC53Hg-umxnIVpItXdx1guWfib60NzV9NLlryU2woHIc6pcaVrcXB2taEocyv5tAhZiibmIjRKl0KQBfJr1JDw.rMSYBtwKqAC3OTnZoctYPod3vkeN-OHMB4r5f_aH0aA&dib_tag=se&keywords=LONG+TIME+GONE&qid=1705311224&s=digital-text&sprefix=long+time+gone%2Cdigital-text%2C85&sr=1-1">LONG TIME GONE</a> by Charlie Donlea </b><i>(pub on May 21, Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br />Thirty years ago, Baby Charlotte vanished. Today, she’s still in danger.<br /> <br /> When Dr. Sloan Hastings submits her DNA to an online genealogy site for a research assignment, her goal is to better understand the treasure trove of genetic information contained on ancestry websites. Brilliant and driven, Sloan is embarking on a fellowship in forensic pathology, training under the renowned Dr. Livia Cutty.<p></p>Sloan has one reservation about involving herself in the experiment: she’s adopted. Grateful for a loving home, she’s never considered tracking down her biological parents. The results of her search are shocking. Sloan’s DNA profile suggests her true identity is that of Charlotte Margolis, aka “Baby Charlotte”, who captured the nation’s attention when she mysteriously disappeared, along with her parents, in July 1995. Despite an exhaustive search, the family was never seen again, and no suspects were named in the case. <br /> <br /> Sloan’s discovery leads her to the small town of Cedar Creek, Nevada, the site of her disappearance. It also leads her to Sheriff Eric Stamos. The Margolis family’s influence and power permeate every corner of Harrison County, and Eric is convinced that in learning the truth about her past, Sloan can also help discover what happened to Eric’s father, who died under suspicious circumstances soon after he started investigating the case of her disappearance.<br /> <br /> Slowly, over the course of a stifling summer, Sloan begins getting to know her relatives. Though initially welcoming, the Margolis family is also mysterious and tight-lipped. Not everyone seems happy about Sloan’s return, or the questions she’s asking. And the more she and Eric learn, the more apparent it becomes that the answers they both seek are buried in a graveyard of Margolis family secrets that some will do anything to keep hidden - no matter who else has to die…</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOBHd06pqqUhpmQX0JVB4GIN9J401VigcV8Hr6wCkCgfsHZuDEHp1e_Moiza9SOQllBLM7mZE37rgUfWXgDiivFDlWy6tnHyQHrNQEqpVt0JFsNgy4y53lHyrtSG2ec-RvvhpVuBXHC1rWd4U8aolfDm4Gysw9-bosIzSDhhVshhlcW4INQoux9OdMU5I/s1500/81KU8L0yjSL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="971" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOBHd06pqqUhpmQX0JVB4GIN9J401VigcV8Hr6wCkCgfsHZuDEHp1e_Moiza9SOQllBLM7mZE37rgUfWXgDiivFDlWy6tnHyQHrNQEqpVt0JFsNgy4y53lHyrtSG2ec-RvvhpVuBXHC1rWd4U8aolfDm4Gysw9-bosIzSDhhVshhlcW4INQoux9OdMU5I/w259-h400/81KU8L0yjSL._SL1500_.jpg" width="259" /></a></b></div><b>9 <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Think-Twice-bestselling-creator-Netflix-ebook/dp/B0CFPVT4SN/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2YFC9IU5D4GWN&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.zQ3SNUQGa7bR1SX1vIT9biSUDw1sZZGQ86uyPEakbc37Sr5_xEavEvirmlVw3ZgmPwuMz6tNxREiGLm_qwiqtm5TNxxwyozbUfW2lI6JZQUsREh1uhCU_c5dWPCp71fd_rzCm_-DAGkXlcpVQc_vEA.Iw8vD8CUbhba7bjHKnITEw2LTXgn7AbJzJtcSo2gWBA&dib_tag=se&keywords=THINK+TWICE&qid=1705311298&s=digital-text&sprefix=think+twice%2Cdigital-text%2C117&sr=1-1">THINK TWICE</a> by Harlan Coben</b> <i>(pub on May 23, Kindle, Audible and hardback) </i><br /><br />How can a man who’s already dead be wanted for murder?<br /> <br /> This is the question sports agent Myron Bolitar asks himself when two FBI agents visit him in New York.<br /> <br /> The man they are looking for is Myron’s former client and rival, Greg Downing. Greg’s DNA has been found at the scene of a high profile double-murder, and he is now the FBI’s main suspect.<br /> <br /> But Greg died three years previously, Myron says. He went to his funeral and gave the eulogy.<br /> <br /> The FBI are disbelieving, and Myron knows he has to find some answers – and quickly.<br /> <br /> Could Greg Downing still be alive? <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErE7SPkIekW7YQ9_8uV3oiyLguSC4R8fyKQAQ01cJvcWvg4nGjs54vFjELDEb6BO6lGyyUUi1eAJyucS5XIRfkvgFKHExJiQVNK1kMCohVg610pt-EPwqfVEWGaccL22KGR7E7SK-CjYga_RU_oCFYR307AILFag1HoXRZEaIG7mlEf9NeptDD_TSqtY/s1500/81sniQIpaoL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="946" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErE7SPkIekW7YQ9_8uV3oiyLguSC4R8fyKQAQ01cJvcWvg4nGjs54vFjELDEb6BO6lGyyUUi1eAJyucS5XIRfkvgFKHExJiQVNK1kMCohVg610pt-EPwqfVEWGaccL22KGR7E7SK-CjYga_RU_oCFYR307AILFag1HoXRZEaIG7mlEf9NeptDD_TSqtY/w253-h400/81sniQIpaoL._SL1500_.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>10. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mercy-Chair-Washington-Poe/dp/0349135568/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.lmAT15ertiapV6qfkBC8ld621ImuHteA-CN8860IxAueabJf5CnqljXQ2rRQiziMM_5r8bHISRG0DNWBr7xWkxpj2o58_RlmAlusKY5oeOVbS2vrXbmldjONBcww732T3eTTE8FrStS6E5oF8A3LnA.zZVdKmxDaxvLpv3964O9urR2pAcFgFVW7jB_ctE80Go&qid=1705311332&sr=1-1">THE MERCY CHAIR</a> by MW Craven</b> <i>(pub on Jun 6, Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br />Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin...<br /> <br /> Washington Poe has a story to tell.<br /> <br /> And he needs you to listen.<br /> <br /> You’ll hear how it started with the robber birds. Crows. Dozens of them. Enough for a murder...<br /><br />He’ll tell you about a man who was tied to a tree and stoned to death, a man who had tattooed himself with a code so obscure that even the gifted analyst Tilly Bradshaw struggled to break it. He’ll tell you how the man’s murder was connected to a tragedy that happened fifteen years earlier when a young girl massacred her entire family.<br /><br /> And finally, he’ll tell you about the mercy chair. And why people would rather kill themselves than talk about it...<br /><br />Poe hopes you’ve been paying attention. Because in this story, nothing is as it seems...<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">THRILLER</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0lre4KyOFl1X3-pBSnHO2GziekPuRCBoR00K1h_N-z_lpRV5Ni0hpJzxWcCrAfTPkhto2T8JF9G1RCBNLcpCTX6bFgp60OTs1aruQYj_OWvMUzWTedrwuH3wm8t2qjIu_GXrcLQRGaRq9U_2d1oJofYNUCZsxf5StRMQjWojUxnxeKHlxRoqHOKS7uo/s1500/91UW1hbOovL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="984" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0lre4KyOFl1X3-pBSnHO2GziekPuRCBoR00K1h_N-z_lpRV5Ni0hpJzxWcCrAfTPkhto2T8JF9G1RCBNLcpCTX6bFgp60OTs1aruQYj_OWvMUzWTedrwuH3wm8t2qjIu_GXrcLQRGaRq9U_2d1oJofYNUCZsxf5StRMQjWojUxnxeKHlxRoqHOKS7uo/w263-h400/91UW1hbOovL._SL1500_.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>1.<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Ascent-Adam-Plantinga-ebook/dp/B0C4H3HJMR/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.kqMC5p7Xznd76UOuDqf3-nSONaQtapXl0a8HG0mAZ3i3cTv--IAIq-x8ILiDqtTeaAeYmv8wbL05S1W5xL7i1mieLklk3fsEHyKP3777X29MDRdyeQ4ox7V7bS5BAybCRlPFTkCgKjbEe0aFO8V9Bg.d1u3Lt7494-8g3-JHg4MkJBgGcaCBJH3RvlSkk6dciA&qid=1705311370&sr=1-2"> THE ASCENT</a> by Adam Plantinga</b> <i>(out now Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br />Kurt Argento, an ex-Detroit street cop who can’t let injustice go - and who has the fighting skills to back up his idealism. <br /><br />If he sees a young girl being dragged into an alley, he’s going to rescue her and cause some damage.<br /><br />When he does just that in a small corrupt Missouri town, he’s brutally beaten and thrown into a maximum-security prison. <br /><br />Julie Wakefield, a grad student who happens to be the governor’s daughter, is about to take a tour of the prison. But when a malfunction in the security system releases a horde of prisoners, a fierce struggle for survival ensues.<br /><br /> Argento must help a small band of staff and civilians, including Julie and her two state trooper handlers, make their way from the bottom floor to the roof to safety. <br /><br />All that stands in their way are six floors of the most dangerous convicts in Missouri.<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K8XVNX9IFDi0fJJqIbhYAvNzY-PQbZCdpkCQ3B8MNqqI0Bu8dvdbWjz2I4r9S0rePhmVDPEQgoBkMf6l2eBaJJ-qbjp3DixQXu0qzb2jPsGbQqfDxIpG5AB85Mb_vh9W5P0zwVribwYnWAS9G6noyYaLd2_yi0HWQjyFrJgjnbxQP4WVChepLWe911M/s1500/81jkJowOkxL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="994" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K8XVNX9IFDi0fJJqIbhYAvNzY-PQbZCdpkCQ3B8MNqqI0Bu8dvdbWjz2I4r9S0rePhmVDPEQgoBkMf6l2eBaJJ-qbjp3DixQXu0qzb2jPsGbQqfDxIpG5AB85Mb_vh9W5P0zwVribwYnWAS9G6noyYaLd2_yi0HWQjyFrJgjnbxQP4WVChepLWe911M/w265-h400/81jkJowOkxL._SL1500_.jpg" width="265" /></a></b></div><b>2. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Where-You-End-Abbott-Kahler/dp/125087324X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3JO1JUJD4KIS0&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.8OklSMb-CbVQoEUJ5K7LKvWs5X7LKg7Jl84shLcfiRbGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.11wPzMSibNHQyCRxyVaDysALg6YuGTiDWXClNlNsao0&dib_tag=se&keywords=WHERE+YOU+END+by+Abbott+Kahler&qid=1705311431&s=digital-text&sprefix=where+you+end+by+abbott+kahler%2Cdigital-text%2C1236&sr=1-1">WHERE YOU END</a> by Abbott Kahler</b> <i>(out now hardback) </i><br /><br />When Kat Bird wakes up from a coma, she sees her mirror image: Jude, her twin sister. Jude’s face and name are the only memories Kat has from before her accident. As Kat tries to make sense of things, she believes Jude will provide all the answers to her most pressing questions:<br /><br />Who am I?<br /> Where am I?<br /> What actually happened? <br /><br />Amid this tragedy, Jude sees an irresistible opportunity: she can give her sister a brand-new past, one worlds away from the lives they actually led. She spins tales of an idyllic childhood, exotic travels, and a bright future. <br /><br />But if everything was so perfect, who are the mysterious people following Kat? And what explains her uncontrollable flashes of violent anger, which begin to jeopardize a sweet new romance? <br /><br />Duped by the one person she trusted, Kat must try to untangle fact from fiction. Yet as she pulls at the threads of Jude’s elaborate tapestry, she has no idea of the catastrophe she’s inviting. At stake is not just the twins’ relationship, but their very survival.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy84S70-lqxxdAffSnvUBRe0xFlQYdk37WYiCR7goHfZiF0XD7RV2lQ811ux1_S1jv6zQYlHULs8zjwZA2Anaqbv1aIpClt_X5VyfAnqHHIVi06qrRd0ZMPgDbSBcPivwq4mp4AxGPNlB6Bzp1WobaNGtS0bmt7WaL-i8k27oLGLJW0MxNuoW6lIdoQv8/s1500/81bHJSXZZEL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="975" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy84S70-lqxxdAffSnvUBRe0xFlQYdk37WYiCR7goHfZiF0XD7RV2lQ811ux1_S1jv6zQYlHULs8zjwZA2Anaqbv1aIpClt_X5VyfAnqHHIVi06qrRd0ZMPgDbSBcPivwq4mp4AxGPNlB6Bzp1WobaNGtS0bmt7WaL-i8k27oLGLJW0MxNuoW6lIdoQv8/w260-h400/81bHJSXZZEL._SL1500_.jpg" width="260" /></a></b></div><b>3. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Spy-Coast-unmissable-brand-new-bestselling-ebook/dp/B0C2GXSNJD/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3VJBUR2R2J5LH&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.4SMz7InNrdpeVzQYHx5Xnay9vBsqVOcRXL7qcL9mYkrnbKARvOM-bBuywVirR9b_hsikqaKJnYN5j3-YwRYEUkU0dF5GGyqOks8jHRGb9kJ8I8OrA_Dp9XlIOFeWP9QihsIS-wWwsdKxVp7AxtQ7OQ.GuXZhvnv44JDdS_UxS3bmeabwpd5HMm_Tx_784sCnKs&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+SPY+COAST+by+Tess+Gerritsen&qid=1705311472&s=digital-text&sprefix=the+spy+coast+by+tess+gerritsen%2Cdigital-text%2C90&sr=1-1">THE SPY COAST</a> by Tess Gerritsen</b> <i>(out now Kindle, Audible and hardback) </i><br /><br />Maggie Bird is many things. A chicken farmer. A good neighbour. A seemingly average retiree living in the seaside town of Purity. She’s also a darned good rifle shot. And she never talks about her past.<br /><br />But when an unidentified body is left on Maggie’s driveway, she knows it’s a calling card from old times. It’s been fifteen years since the failed mission that ended her career as a spy, and cost her far more than her job.<br /><br /> Step forward the Martini Club - Maggie’s silver-haired book group (to anyone who asks), and a cohort of former spies behind closed doors. With the help of her old friends - and always one step ahead of the persistent local cop - Maggie might still be able to save the life she’s built.<br /><br /> The Spy Coast is the first novel in the Martini Club series.<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_W8TbVgk3R3B_dPlNABDi_Tjo828iNdp-Su_XQaqbWKTuUXiwd9-f531zkaz6D8mtyO-XndpFL2hnVqZoRgpiHb9BP9m_1TWoGWPtu_qCYodk6szDRuxq9Q1Z6TWHJinKfTDyDEHKM_mexBxS_sgKWL3KMW-RNaXg91bAOM2-UE5t54ltIyg1nUITEvY/s1500/81BeLQx5MfL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="974" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_W8TbVgk3R3B_dPlNABDi_Tjo828iNdp-Su_XQaqbWKTuUXiwd9-f531zkaz6D8mtyO-XndpFL2hnVqZoRgpiHb9BP9m_1TWoGWPtu_qCYodk6szDRuxq9Q1Z6TWHJinKfTDyDEHKM_mexBxS_sgKWL3KMW-RNaXg91bAOM2-UE5t54ltIyg1nUITEvY/w260-h400/81BeLQx5MfL._SL1500_.jpg" width="260" /></a></b></div><b>4. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fury-Alex-Michaelides-ebook/dp/B0C3LDYYJB/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2AHHIRJ731NO9&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.ARyp9vRIzO6yNWYFWeM9nzaQNnErS1tmTLcVmJgj68yElt9hRdet7_qcFGkff_urY7GDckxHYXLM1AxYuj_7LBAKWUFTQ-qTvb2pwoQzlw3CCHYrXPjFbMXcIh9o3lkmdeegY8LVlnUk9PWX1c8W3w.KLTDk1wuTlM3twN4DMNVK1dBmOUiKHjTBXssnpix52s&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+FURY+by+Alex+Michaelides&qid=1705311506&s=digital-text&sprefix=the+fury+by+alex+michaelides%2Cdigital-text%2C94&sr=1-1">THE FURY</a> by Alex Michaelides</b> <i>(pub on Feb 1 Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br />There were seven of us in all, trapped on the island. One of us was a murderer ...<br /> <br /> On a small private Greek island, former movie star Lana Farrar - an old friend - invites a select group of us to stay.<br /> <br /> It’ll be hot, sunny, perfect. A chance to relax and reconnect - and maybe for a few hidden truths to come out.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"> Because nothing on this island is quite what it seems.<br /> <br /> Not Lana. Not her guests.<br /> <br /> Certainly not the murderer - furiously plotting their crime ...<br /> <br /> But who am I?<br /> <br /> My name is Elliot Chase, and I’m going to tell you a story unlike any you’ve ever heard.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FT7jCP2gLwYveYLc3h9tOa0CQMPgs3ofrp-d0_YP0iuO5z_WxTsA1zEn6SsriXKOz4FXdjvxXnR_m3xqaYyi_g9EnCJbjh20tbMhXaI9B7IhJY8pZkGQLDbqmjEpBFvcaTUMozSnLsJ7KwFKLrcqD6GQogwZBgbgwskVwUOS7uHpWE5F3_LcHaU7yy8/s1500/712Urd5q+IL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="975" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FT7jCP2gLwYveYLc3h9tOa0CQMPgs3ofrp-d0_YP0iuO5z_WxTsA1zEn6SsriXKOz4FXdjvxXnR_m3xqaYyi_g9EnCJbjh20tbMhXaI9B7IhJY8pZkGQLDbqmjEpBFvcaTUMozSnLsJ7KwFKLrcqD6GQogwZBgbgwskVwUOS7uHpWE5F3_LcHaU7yy8/w260-h400/712Urd5q+IL._SL1500_.jpg" width="260" /></a></b></div><b>5. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Everyone-Who-Can-Forgive-Dead-ebook/dp/B0BZ7RH2YG/ref=sr_1_1?crid=35UPJ1T4O5L9P&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.yJGTpq1duDT06xnHUTelvq4qD1qnlDeLsHhFmVuLyfLGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.vjIUuyYpzyz0fGejtB6mtEp1mUudfesbTvxNyWzVnks&dib_tag=se&keywords=EVERYONE+WHO+CAN+FORGIVE+ME+IS+DEAD&qid=1705311540&s=digital-text&sprefix=everyone+who+can+forgive+me+is+dead%2Cdigital-text%2C107&sr=1-1">EVERYONE WHO CAN FORGIVE ME IS DEAD</a> by Jenny Hollander</b> <i>(pub on Feb 6 Kindle, Audible and hardback) </i><br /><br />Nine years ago, Charlie Colbert’s life changed for ever.<br /><br />On Christmas Eve, as the snow fell, her elite graduate school was the site of a chilling attack. Several of her classmates died. Charlie survived.<br /> <br /> Years later, Charlie has the life she always wanted at her fingertips: she’s editor-in-chief of a major magazine and engaged to the golden child of the publishing industry.<br /><br /> But when a film adaptation of that fateful night goes into production, Charlie’s dark past threatens to crash into her shiny present.<br /><br /> Charlie was named a witness in the police reports. Yet she knows she was much more than that.<br /> <br /> The truth about that night will shatter everything she’s worked for. Just how far will she go to protect it?<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKB6GbXpnUFCg9Mjb1HbJitXH98xbhNjxQI2tgauXaMVaRKQIlOucJHdnJXE4FzovBCM8KWEMxuUwFaUZdUvHZ_54xyxmE6K7_pWhf9EqmpnTOUAmFQDQOdMJVE5oiVq7PJdQNLNtNfcYVgz9xxEP_AG0A11tD8vUi1zZ4_Cva-3jpFJwdDj-4HbstrQ/s1500/81hNwNK8q+L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="991" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKB6GbXpnUFCg9Mjb1HbJitXH98xbhNjxQI2tgauXaMVaRKQIlOucJHdnJXE4FzovBCM8KWEMxuUwFaUZdUvHZ_54xyxmE6K7_pWhf9EqmpnTOUAmFQDQOdMJVE5oiVq7PJdQNLNtNfcYVgz9xxEP_AG0A11tD8vUi1zZ4_Cva-3jpFJwdDj-4HbstrQ/w264-h400/81hNwNK8q+L._SL1500_.jpg" width="264" /></a></b></div><b>6. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/New-Couple-5B-Novel-ebook/dp/B0C1SY64NZ/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1AEZMI1ZPUN7Z&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Yi51SSf2H7om-GqDScs1c1lsEPcuCP7VZl8l7XyBnGHGTYuHj0i0jyA-oulc5nh4.ViJTNU0lZLURwpoO9LwzHp3EUJSn8GzS63VA9hGBQOE&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+NEW+COUPLE+IN+5B&qid=1705311579&s=digital-text&sprefix=the+new+couple+in+5b%2Cdigital-text%2C117&sr=1-1">THE NEW COUPLE IN 5B</a> by Lisa Unger</b> <i>(pub on Mar 5, Kindle, Audible, hardback and paperback)</i><br /><br />Rosie and Chad Lowan are barely making ends meet in New York City when they receive life-changing news: Chad’s late uncle has left them his luxury apartment at the historic Windermere in glamorous Murray Hill. With its prewar elegance and impeccably uniformed doorman, the building is the epitome of old New York charm. One would almost never suspect the dark history lurking behind its perfectly maintained facade.<br /> <br /> At first, the building and its eclectic tenants couldn’t feel more welcoming. But as the Lowans settle into their new home, Rosie starts to suspect that there’s more to the Windermere than meets the eye. Why is the doorman ever-present? Why are there cameras everywhere? And why have so many gruesome crimes occurred there throughout the years? When one of the neighbors turns up dead, Rosie must get to the truth about the Windermere before she, too, falls under its dangerous spell. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53Yb-fnVeSYmNXk2gxKPM4eNlb_8UEbohRzbBfVIH3a896wZp0ErMU9vABDKYgisV0TC5REFERCJIVGSFc1wysMKu6rO0HDiZS-P8CGszTr9mKOX5bcwfcDFs04Xk3aqoiNqaI4kGhMjzFTdAc6ex8Z-LGdrXlMQUbMhG9YDbrPGzLAJVoRsPtSHvJS0/s1500/81DcvFWxE6L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="976" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53Yb-fnVeSYmNXk2gxKPM4eNlb_8UEbohRzbBfVIH3a896wZp0ErMU9vABDKYgisV0TC5REFERCJIVGSFc1wysMKu6rO0HDiZS-P8CGszTr9mKOX5bcwfcDFs04Xk3aqoiNqaI4kGhMjzFTdAc6ex8Z-LGdrXlMQUbMhG9YDbrPGzLAJVoRsPtSHvJS0/w260-h400/81DcvFWxE6L._SL1500_.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>7. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Murder-Road-Simone-St-James-ebook/dp/B0CBTWWP8H/ref=sr_1_1?crid=13Y0WSDQS7QE5&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.K3DQYJI71SvqPr3Os2RWEa8VX9WmDqSnaNg3nMmwYHZ5sggzn4EAKepuELXtdFf_0DvIBJOLfKhEa_8yotUGiW6j79QZbW-RMCm6qp9S_xg3uefKVBFIGc58X80jZ3DGOUWdYJnN-kAClQGayKOK_g.cyiD5wsMCqAlXYpQEW8HyHUi2LlBsZqtnRfAOyHuil0&dib_tag=se&keywords=MURDER+ROAD&qid=1705311620&s=digital-text&sprefix=murder+road%2Cdigital-text%2C97&sr=1-1">MURDER ROAD</a> by Simone St James</b> <i>(pub on Mar 28 Kindle, Audible and hardback) </i><br /><br />April and Eddie have taken a wrong turn.<br /> <br /> They’re on a long dark road, late at night, and they see a woman up ahead, clearly in trouble.<br /><br />They stop and pick her up. It’s only once she's in the car that they see the blood.<br /><br /> And then they see the headlights, and at last, the woman speaks, her voice faint. “I'm sorry, he's coming.”<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy04TzSmiVaEVWSpzQMsi3lzxaEXU7YG_nNptl9Hv0eHGkRI4VY7451qzTwZD9URjVp1EPI66P_VTy6i69FlrzFdbz5znLfOOaAbskwozTxGtTBPfoSehsUxXGAol4txagGJ164TsTrRc-cWbEagYd1Dge8MDzZJM1CQp-M3DDxMRcs-KmWT_xyb0heKo/s1500/91z+xlGJGEL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="987" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy04TzSmiVaEVWSpzQMsi3lzxaEXU7YG_nNptl9Hv0eHGkRI4VY7451qzTwZD9URjVp1EPI66P_VTy6i69FlrzFdbz5znLfOOaAbskwozTxGtTBPfoSehsUxXGAol4txagGJ164TsTrRc-cWbEagYd1Dge8MDzZJM1CQp-M3DDxMRcs-KmWT_xyb0heKo/w264-h400/91z+xlGJGEL._SL1500_.jpg" width="264" /></a></b></div><b>8. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bin-Laden-Plot-Trident-Deception-ebook/dp/B0C3YRNBG2/ref=sr_1_1?crid=WLFIKTGN027U&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.IcB_e9fueeBgt-trXyqnplz7ehO4gM4jXcPRcKY8YMamBhlEeoC1tie73dPeO_PK.XCCsC-PSFX9R7ThsNmYxrMVQLrYQW8HxAHstMz5t61Q&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+BIN+LADEN+PLOT&qid=1705311645&s=digital-text&sprefix=the+bin+laden+plot%2Cdigital-text%2C100&sr=1-1">THE BIN LADEN PLOT</a> by Rick Campbell</b> <i>(pub on Apr 23 Kindle and hardback)</i><br /><br />A US destroyer is torpedoed by an Iranian submarine and Captain Murray Wilson of the USS Michigan is flown to the Pentagon to meet with the Secretary of the Navy. There Wilson learns that the Iranian submarine is just a cover story. One of the United States’ own fully automated unmanned underwater vehicles has gone rogue, its programing corrupted in some way. Murray is charged with hunting it down and taking it out before the virus that’s infected its operating system can infect the rest of the fleet.<p></p>At the same time, the head of the SEAL detachment aboard the USS Michigan is killed and Lonnie Mixell, a former US operative, now assassin for hire, is responsible. And that is only the first SEAL to be hunted down and killed. Jake Harrison, fellow SEAL, discovers that these SEALs had one mission in common - they were all on the team that killed Bin Laden. Or so the world was told.<br /> <br /> As Wilson discovers that his mission is actually meant to cover up dangerous acts of corruption, even treason, Harrison discovers that the assassin is out to protect the same forces. Forces too powerful for either of them to take on alone.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA1iZ_MAQ1ovjCPq7-gD9pl4qtFAnpNvXwdTCphgu4eFuEnnRRHxkLZxKSZgCGkH6SzvcddVyHQ1emMV77Zvd54LnBdp6TstXVO2aFUG7MLsjJg2enw8clhnEMK4E3d5uhI4eyxRSPdFrjkWTrlyL0oFC513izgaYgKYV7bBeKAytHazdCjz4LRUMnZ58/s1500/912u5u7eLcL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="987" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA1iZ_MAQ1ovjCPq7-gD9pl4qtFAnpNvXwdTCphgu4eFuEnnRRHxkLZxKSZgCGkH6SzvcddVyHQ1emMV77Zvd54LnBdp6TstXVO2aFUG7MLsjJg2enw8clhnEMK4E3d5uhI4eyxRSPdFrjkWTrlyL0oFC513izgaYgKYV7bBeKAytHazdCjz4LRUMnZ58/w264-h400/912u5u7eLcL._SL1500_.jpg" width="264" /></a></b></div><b>9. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Extinction-Douglas-Preston/dp/0765317702">EXTINCTION</a> by Douglas Preston</b> <i>(pub on Apr 23 hardback) </i><br /><br />Erebus Resort, occupying a magnificent, hundred-thousand acre valley deep in the Colorado Rockies, offers guests the experience of viewing woolly mammoths, Irish Elk, and giant ground sloths in their native habitat, brought back from extinction through the magic of genetic manipulation. When a billionaire’s son and his new wife are kidnapped and murdered in the Erebus back country by what is assumed to be a gang of eco-terrorists, Colorado Bureau of Investigation Agent Frances Cash partners with county sheriff James Colcord to track down the perpetrators.<p></p>As the killings mount and the valley is evacuated, Cash and Colcord must confront an ancient, intelligent, and malevolent presence at Erebus, bent not on resurrection - but extinction.</div><div><br /></div><div> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJJ1xq-k6_di7A9dCz29LfXP3Xjek-u7L6il1wTetFVcXt-d0xGO5fcWGaoOEw6rnH0pL7uzSb0Z1HILjXFwJmX_Ifg7pDddRRijIrRyqm5Dwh3DU9xB1s0YfSZiUSqHovuJXpeER-JrxI-upiYNBnDQb0Dl_syMd9q4B-AZ8zxwzX7EJBgMvZ0XSHNQ/s1500/81tVB6j4lsL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="994" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAJJ1xq-k6_di7A9dCz29LfXP3Xjek-u7L6il1wTetFVcXt-d0xGO5fcWGaoOEw6rnH0pL7uzSb0Z1HILjXFwJmX_Ifg7pDddRRijIrRyqm5Dwh3DU9xB1s0YfSZiUSqHovuJXpeER-JrxI-upiYNBnDQb0Dl_syMd9q4B-AZ8zxwzX7EJBgMvZ0XSHNQ/w265-h400/81tVB6j4lsL._SL1500_.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><b>10. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Eruption-Crichton-Pattersons-Explosive-Thriller/dp/0316565075">ERUPTION</a> by James Patterson and Michael Crichton</b> <i>(pub on Jun 3 hardback)</i><br /><br />Two of the bestselling storytellers of all time have created an unforgettable thriller. A history-making volcanic eruption is about to destroy the Big Island of Hawaii. But a secret held for decades by the military is more terrifying than the volcano. <br /><br />Michael Crichton, creator of <i>Jurassic Park</i> and <i>Westworld</i>, had a passion project he’d been pursuing for years ahead of his untimely death. Knowing how special it was, his widow held back his notes and the partial manuscript till she found the right author to complete it.<br /><br />The author she chose is the world’s most popular storyteller: James Patterson. Eruption brings the pace of Patterson to the concept of Crichton - the most anticipated mega-thriller in years.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">HORROR</b></div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCv5zoRxfsqFXU11Y7z_J_2zNSwbtY97mTxIRL1kiJtKVOA96XiUCIvoIXzGZIqiKVjFIEe6ueJyKvKGipQ42lWgO_EyFSdyOA7f0JWcc5oplr6GKvfkrsV5Nn9TLs5plHuAxL8IJ0Cr4GGKscOUQ-1DMlXbm0HZMSXVcXlzezx56qZXqZtu8A_4h4IE/s1500/81BLRK5lJxL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="983" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCv5zoRxfsqFXU11Y7z_J_2zNSwbtY97mTxIRL1kiJtKVOA96XiUCIvoIXzGZIqiKVjFIEe6ueJyKvKGipQ42lWgO_EyFSdyOA7f0JWcc5oplr6GKvfkrsV5Nn9TLs5plHuAxL8IJ0Cr4GGKscOUQ-1DMlXbm0HZMSXVcXlzezx56qZXqZtu8A_4h4IE/w263-h400/81BLRK5lJxL._SL1500_.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>1. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Among-Living-Tim-Lebbon-ebook/dp/B0BNPGF6CR/ref=sr_1_1?crid=DH102IF4L657&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.0X05wX-BUquIysoP4Ikw3Mo1lFwqoeiaG8H2fTQBtzF5QJ596X_28uEqN6wJLYB4AS3S7K0EQV8D-tYaNh9md3-9FyOUP9-ZLMoeII6h0jWacfUGQg9ys6s2rFQOvXFARrXHXbHJ97li0fEw7bv8DQ.WOKbtMoO89em851hoMx_6GMmfxTp0XwLRO5C1VOOxrY&dib_tag=se&keywords=AMONG+THE+LIVING&qid=1705311784&s=digital-text&sprefix=among+the+living%2Cdigital-text%2C97&sr=1-1">AMONG THE LIVING</a> by Tim Lebbon </b><i>(pub on Feb 6, Kindle and paperback) </i><br /><br />Estranged friends Dean and Bethan meet after five years apart when they are drawn to a network of caves on a remote Arctic island. Bethan and her friends are environmental activists, determined to protect the land. But Dean’s group’s exploitation of rare earth minerals deep in the caves unleashes an horrific contagion that has rested frozen and undisturbed for many millennia. Fleeing the terrors emerging from the caves, Dean and Bethan and their rival teams undertake a perilous journey on foot across an unpredictable and volatile landscape. The ex-friends must learn to work together again if they’re to survive ... and more importantly, stop the horror from spreading to the wider world.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIjl6lvoRfs0RKvTjNMfcnIo3muzLni8bMwtt4C-lsYaucOs4iZ6vPXO7Uc25WLAgrkuH4QczvBKa8CL-yoTBHBisTGWbN8QZn5jXhawq5YE-nGFa6B86NmCrTQYkWYmf_Hp2Qam1ingS-Tyw2EltlmLP6GqwXS_OsXsrTMcFPLFtXr56I5iRKTd2pN4/s1500/71zVvRSwMwL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="951" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIjl6lvoRfs0RKvTjNMfcnIo3muzLni8bMwtt4C-lsYaucOs4iZ6vPXO7Uc25WLAgrkuH4QczvBKa8CL-yoTBHBisTGWbN8QZn5jXhawq5YE-nGFa6B86NmCrTQYkWYmf_Hp2Qam1ingS-Tyw2EltlmLP6GqwXS_OsXsrTMcFPLFtXr56I5iRKTd2pN4/w254-h400/71zVvRSwMwL._SL1500_.jpg" width="254" /></a></b></div><b>2. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Holy-Terrors-mystery-ebook/dp/B0CGVSW8J3/ref=sr_1_1?crid=BHGWWCBSB43I&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.pVYjdNTWq3wCGMKgojelJA.2WSEGdOOrmTUpL4onhiWe0W8Z0b83-_Vz_HyUv-cFZk&dib_tag=se&keywords=THE+HOLY+TERRORS+by+Simon+R+Green&qid=1705311814&s=digital-text&sprefix=the+holy+terrors+by+simon+r+green%2Cdigital-text%2C134&sr=1-1">THE HOLY TERRORS</a> by Simon R Green</b> <i>(pub on Feb 6 Kindle and hardback) </i><br /><br />Welcome to Spooky Time, the hit TV ghost-hunting show where the horror is scripted ... and the ratings are declining rapidly. What better way to up the stakes - and boost the viewership - than by locking a select group of Z-list celebrities up for the night in The Most Haunted Hall in England (TM) and live-streaming the terrifying results?<br /> <br /> Soon Alistair, a newly appointed bishop, actress Diana, medium Leslie, comedian Toby and celebrity chef Indira are trapped inside Stonehaven town hall, along with June, the host and producer of the show. The group tries to settle in and put on a good show, but then strange things start happening in their hall of horrors.<br /> <br /> What is it about this place - and why is the TV crew outside not responding? Are they even on air?<br /> <br /> Logical Alistair attempts to keep the group’s fears at bay and rationalise the odd events, but there are things that just can't be explained within reason. Can he stop a cold-blooded would-be killer - even if it’s come from beyond the grave?<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1Gz6SlHJ-vXr-ynhJlc_u0aeJ_IinMa0A7p6IDBhZXiiNC4JAjh64xK9BtNb9eC3vEC2bEeenDoz6DsT6URi4eic5yt_ZekK-GNWRwa0Yo6tVUQ_QhjPgNR0WbSam43e9Cp1Dvw_Ac2ENLEGLcuH1VY519PVgo7jjAKRXkP5ZX0lD0bXQCRTlgJvtsk/s1500/71P4JJJTa4L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="969" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ1Gz6SlHJ-vXr-ynhJlc_u0aeJ_IinMa0A7p6IDBhZXiiNC4JAjh64xK9BtNb9eC3vEC2bEeenDoz6DsT6URi4eic5yt_ZekK-GNWRwa0Yo6tVUQ_QhjPgNR0WbSam43e9Cp1Dvw_Ac2ENLEGLcuH1VY519PVgo7jjAKRXkP5ZX0lD0bXQCRTlgJvtsk/w259-h400/71P4JJJTa4L._SL1500_.jpg" width="259" /></a></b></div><b>3. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Those-Who-Dwell-Mordenhyrst-Hall-ebook/dp/B0CBQNNGPV/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1BP61B0ZM7JG6&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.c4WbovW4oEDEXW9QUB5OGETG5Y9oemIdCTqK9JfHqg4.d8r3EvrxUcELTtAYqLMmXwCnaMJ9qZXBz_NVODdYfas&dib_tag=se&keywords=THOSE+WHO+DWELL+IN+MORDENHYRST+HALL&qid=1705311845&s=digital-text&sprefix=those+who+dwell+in+mordenhyrst+hall%2Cdigital-text%2C105&sr=1-1">THOSE WHO DWELL IN MORDENHYRST HALL</a> by Catherine Cavendish</b> <i>(pub on Feb 13, Kindle and paperback) </i><br /><br />Evil runs deep at Mordenhyrst Halll ,,,<br /> <br /> When Grace first sets eyes on the imposing Gothic Mordenhyrst Hall, she is struck with an overwhelming sense that something doesn’t want her there. Her fiancé’s sister heads a coterie of Bright Young Things whose frivolous lives hide a sinister intent. Simon, Grace’s fiancé, is not the man she fell in love with, and the local villagers eye her with suspicion that borders on malevolence.<br /> <br /> Her friend, Coralie, possesses the ability to communicate with powerful spirits. She convinces Grace of her own paranormal gifts – gifts Grace will need to draw deeply on as the secrets of Mordenhyrst Hall begin to unravel. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdWtjfrfRYtkFcUoaD4jvMnN_vc9t31d4tXE9fq4PbQCMDcxGy7wiJdC-SocoWbvmCqLzMlyvpCA828LA7aWFuOydcyoQeio5Xb4DxkSfEEI-FyuOgzmxQeFRN0Jq6giEJHr8SrO2vE8xPaCaGKrxdWbUaQwbpQM96imBG9Ot7Q2OgC_Hz7P0vdHK5L8/s1500/81+YsZgrAYL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="986" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdWtjfrfRYtkFcUoaD4jvMnN_vc9t31d4tXE9fq4PbQCMDcxGy7wiJdC-SocoWbvmCqLzMlyvpCA828LA7aWFuOydcyoQeio5Xb4DxkSfEEI-FyuOgzmxQeFRN0Jq6giEJHr8SrO2vE8xPaCaGKrxdWbUaQwbpQM96imBG9Ot7Q2OgC_Hz7P0vdHK5L8/w263-h400/81+YsZgrAYL._SL1500_.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>4. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Botanical-Daughter-Noah-Medlock-ebook/dp/B0C5B6DCCX/ref=sr_1_1?crid=MA25E1MKT7F4&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.EBd36XhuvCbGsZNsq2_l0Ww1ypT25xFnTWW7f97v-cXTLI25tfxCfrNlNhsXDVOSTYqrnHLgzK3J1bs1DYKpJQ.U4TtW651E5oIpv9lhAXaOY8UBD4Pp99JgTkOBkzQQS4&dib_tag=se&keywords=A+BOTANICAL+DAUGHTER&qid=1705311879&s=digital-text&sprefix=a+botanical+daughter%2Cdigital-text%2C101&sr=1-1">A BOTANICAL DAUGHTER</a> by Noah Medlock</b> <i>(pub on Mar 19 Kindle and paperback) </i><br /><br />It is an unusual thing, to live in a botanical garden. But Simon and Gregor are an unusual pair of gentlemen. Hidden away in their glass sanctuary from the disapproving tattle of Victorian London, they are free to follow their own interests without interference. For Simon, this means long hours in the dark basement workshop, working his taxidermical art. Gregor’s business is exotic plants – lucrative, but harmless enough. Until his latest acquisition, a strange fungus which shows signs of intellect beyond any plant he’s seen, inspires him to attempt a masterwork: true intelligent life from plant matter.<p></p>Driven by the glory he’ll earn from the Royal Horticultural Society for such an achievement, Gregor ignores the flaws in his plan: that intelligence cannot be controlled; that plants cannot be reasoned with; and that the only way his plant-beast will flourish is if he uses a recently deceased corpse for the substrate.<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIwyMt8ytEQNnSfoANWYgF9c62iILZ5UrcU0nETnSyXPfw-wL0iM8ApAauq5_mSKsL71KhZtDtJOWyy-KLclf03x4X2Qx3aQDZoAqPKZA61N_CTZrzIJIWOFabMmg7UZqCFGOx_Iao3Ovyd4CA2HPJQdxjJxb5ZlD9J-vQjCm5rEVYlDN64ovKGuCPaY/s1500/816n9ll7P7L._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1021" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIwyMt8ytEQNnSfoANWYgF9c62iILZ5UrcU0nETnSyXPfw-wL0iM8ApAauq5_mSKsL71KhZtDtJOWyy-KLclf03x4X2Qx3aQDZoAqPKZA61N_CTZrzIJIWOFabMmg7UZqCFGOx_Iao3Ovyd4CA2HPJQdxjJxb5ZlD9J-vQjCm5rEVYlDN64ovKGuCPaY/w273-h400/816n9ll7P7L._SL1500_.jpg" width="273" /></a></b></div><b>5. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/This-Skin-Once-Other-Disturbances-ebook/dp/B0C4RS4QK4/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3FNHP9J3KCRBU&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.5ARCpRCfMjcDE9w-HW-GCg.UyDxpADpxtrz_7Hg-hzK-p3oUWNC7lU0JK9eMeDND0Q&dib_tag=se&keywords=THIS+SKIN+WAS+ONCE+MINE+by+Eric+LaRocca&qid=1705311909&s=digital-text&sprefix=this+skin+was+once+mine+by+eric+larocca%2Cdigital-text%2C110&sr=1-1">THIS SKIN WAS ONCE MINE</a></b> by Eric LaRocca <i>(pub on Apr 2 Kindle and hardback)</i><br /><br />Four devastating tales from a master of modern horror ... <br /><br /><b>This Skin Was Once Mine </b><br /><br />When her father dies under mysterious circumstances, Jillian Finch finds herself grieving the man she idolised while struggling to feel comfortable in the childhood home she was sent away from nearly twenty years ago by her venomous mother. Then Jillian discovers a dark secret in her family’s past - a secret that will threaten to undo everything she has ever known to be true about her beloved father and, more importantly, herself. It's only natural to hurt the things we love the most ...<br /><br /><b>Seedling </b><br /><br />A young man’s father calls him early in the morning to say that his mother has passed away. He arrives home to find his mother’s body still in the house. Struggling to process what has happened; he notices a small black wound appear on his wrist. Inside, the wound is black as onyx and as seemingly limitless as the cosmos. He is even more unsettled when he discovers his father is cursed with the same affliction. The young man becomes obsessed with his father’s new wounds, exploring the boundless insides and tethering himself to the black threads that curl from inside his poor father...<br /><br /><b>Prickle </b><br /><br />Two old men revive a cruel game with devastating consequences... <br /><br /><b>All the Parts of You That Won’t Easily Burn</b><br /><br />Enoch Leadbetter goes to buy a knife for his husband to use at a forthcoming dinner party. He encounters a strange shopkeeper who draws him into an intoxicating new obsession and sets him on a path towards mutilation and destruction ...<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDTNQBxgGwcq51Nba5rNS8okGOafqOc9jCc0EwK4-2yGToRMBdP4b90sLixYx-cp6WmOfLmHVulu7Z2Q1nn8Dwl0pv974I18pxGHk85DVTvFc8A77nVA2mDtYY3_KIAWBT_aZU8gAJRFu4CkOIGidYgRd5D2oVi2hTWhlz2KBr4tXDg4bmOwVodHnimQ/s1500/71F2+HXVuNL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="938" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDTNQBxgGwcq51Nba5rNS8okGOafqOc9jCc0EwK4-2yGToRMBdP4b90sLixYx-cp6WmOfLmHVulu7Z2Q1nn8Dwl0pv974I18pxGHk85DVTvFc8A77nVA2mDtYY3_KIAWBT_aZU8gAJRFu4CkOIGidYgRd5D2oVi2hTWhlz2KBr4tXDg4bmOwVodHnimQ/w250-h400/71F2+HXVuNL._SL1500_.jpg" width="250" /></a></b></div><b>6. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/All-Fiends-Hell-Adam-Nevill-ebook/dp/B0CM43LNWD">ALL THE FIENDS OF HELL</a> by Adam LG Nevill</b> <i>(pub on Apr 2 Kindle and paperback)<br /></i><br />The red night of bells heralds global catastrophe. Annihilation on a biblical scale. <br /><br />Seeing the morning is no blessing. The handful of scattered survivors are confronted by blood-red skies and an infestation of predatory horrors that never originated on earth. An occupying force intent on erasing the remnants of animal life from the planet. <br /><br />Across the deserted landscapes of England, bereft of infrastructure and society, the overlooked can either hide or try to outrun the infernal hunting terrors. Until a rumour emerges claiming that the sea may offer an escape. <br /><br />Ordinary, unexceptional, directionless Karl, is one of the few who made it through the first night. In the company of two orphans, he flees south. But only into horrifying revelations and greater peril, where a transformed world and expanding race of ravening creatures await. Driven to the end of the country and himself, he must overcome alien and human malevolence and act in ways that were unthinkable mere days before. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihc1t8wbt5qgGAzCvRR1U9UnRqS3XznwJKN8JyeoHU9yK-ZGj9f7L2bSgpSmmQeRwR6HsaB8IRE-fFYb9kGqkxm4f1TAk2LP0dJTu0CKnGSMdgeRl91Q0jHXBP-ngqmPcx8RFqFqAl4926_VP-T8Zn3g0HCxrM2ujNEVIJsqfCnOuOuO_JQ5Io_y9GGck/s1500/81ONqKdw1WL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="971" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihc1t8wbt5qgGAzCvRR1U9UnRqS3XznwJKN8JyeoHU9yK-ZGj9f7L2bSgpSmmQeRwR6HsaB8IRE-fFYb9kGqkxm4f1TAk2LP0dJTu0CKnGSMdgeRl91Q0jHXBP-ngqmPcx8RFqFqAl4926_VP-T8Zn3g0HCxrM2ujNEVIJsqfCnOuOuO_JQ5Io_y9GGck/w259-h400/81ONqKdw1WL._SL1500_.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>7. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Ghost-Station-S-Barnes-ebook/dp/B0C2MVPFNC/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9._tWj44M7ZAS3YF-aWvfVWnq84-UJfJGt4Pn2VjGd1VnGjHj071QN20LucGBJIEps.KmeJVOidiYgD3lXT69C_XCIXC7F_x3AiOa0a5sYUw4s&qid=1705312021&sr=1-1">GHOST STATION</a> by SA Barnes</b> <i>(pub on Apr 9 Kindle, Audible and hardback)</i><br /><br />Space exploration can be lonely and isolating.<br /> <br /> Psychologist Dr Ophelia Bray has dedicated her life to the study and prevention of ERS - a space-based condition most famous for a case that resulted in the brutal murders of twenty-nine people. When she’s assigned to a small exploration crew, she’s eager to make a difference. But as they begin to establish residency on an abandoned planet, it becomes clear that crew is hiding something.<br /><br />While Ophelia focuses on her new role, her crewmates are far more interested in investigating the eerie, ancient planet and unraveling the mystery behind the previous colonisers’ hasty departure than opening up to her.<br /><br /> That is, until their pilot is discovered gruesomely murdered. Is this Ophelia’s worst nightmare starting - a wave of violence and mental deterioration from ERS? Or is it something more sinister?<br /> <br /> Terrified that history will repeat itself, Ophelia and the crew must work together to figure out what’s happening. But trust is hard to come by… and the crew isn’t the only one keeping secrets. <br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroDuqt-mR9Quek0tq_9K35HPxtALsQWWHVe044GYjM3Uu3RhP54cJE5JNX8VlioYk_dNPS3EylNlxPFwzOq4gMk0w6yfcXiNX-OAm1d1It5fRqhfGPCnKIBv48vGYsEbQjrAOxihFel6WaYyJOlvpg9ba64qJUFt6CoTle73_OwL58AmlkiCPgQ0QLt4/s1500/911yP--rJWL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="975" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroDuqt-mR9Quek0tq_9K35HPxtALsQWWHVe044GYjM3Uu3RhP54cJE5JNX8VlioYk_dNPS3EylNlxPFwzOq4gMk0w6yfcXiNX-OAm1d1It5fRqhfGPCnKIBv48vGYsEbQjrAOxihFel6WaYyJOlvpg9ba64qJUFt6CoTle73_OwL58AmlkiCPgQ0QLt4/w260-h400/911yP--rJWL._SL1500_.jpg" width="260" /></a></b></div><b>8. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/You-Like-Darker-Stephen-King-ebook/dp/B0CMM3QVT6/ref=sr_1_1?crid=NZ748W4C3Y21&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.FiUrIcgNexznjijipiDsqcBuRs_LlbxG6ZYqn05JhsTjROW-DZHCf-u2u5tetz3QO69ZbhmvBSbY64LkvkngIg.Sr2jqnsKwYXzXU_NqPAc_oRxama7vfjyKISPIMQmaDA&dib_tag=se&keywords=YOU+LIKE+IT+DARKER+by+Stephen+King&qid=1705312055&s=digital-text&sprefix=you+like+it+darker+by+stephen+king%2Cdigital-text%2C93&sr=1-1">YOU LIKE IT DARKER</a> by Stephen King</b> <i>(pub on May 21, Kindle, Audible and hardback) </i><br /><br />“You like it darker? Fine, so do I,” writes Stephen King in the afterword to this magnificent new collection of twelve stories that delve into the darker part of life - both metaphorical and literal. King has, for half a century, been a master of the form, and these stories, about fate, mortality, luck, and the folds in reality where anything can happen, are as rich and riveting as his novels, both weighty in theme and a huge pleasure to read. King writes to feel “the exhilaration of leaving ordinary day-to-day life behind”, and in <i>You Like it Darker</i>, readers will feel that exhilaration too, again and again.<br /><br />Two Talented Bastids explores the long-hidden secret of how the eponymous gentlemen got their skills. In Danny Coughlin’s Bad Dream, a brief and unprecedented psychic flash upends dozens of lives, Danny’s most catastrophically. In Rattlesnakes, a sequel to Cujo, a grieving widower travels to Florida for respite and instead receives an unexpected inheritance - with major strings attached. In The Dreamers, a taciturn Vietnam vet answers a job ad and learns that there are some corners of the universe best left unexplored. The Answer Man asks if prescience is good luck or bad and reminds us that a life marked by unbearable tragedy can still be meaningful.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQHA2iE8WsYyaTG3qAg17Gjr0XaNtyroFPA4_vGN7EyxNgtM4sL94caKg1u2xZRCGte2mG3G7ZLmc8Ut4Af8gw2C8qPcemepHItwBZ1uAiSH4jIup_Pl_EFvxK8CZE0xd2jC-lTAvl_WpSmK8zw3AuXFh4k1QJ6AK8QNSMmAHnyyddTQcDHC7ZTqxpaw/s1350/71yeFdbybeL._SL1350_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQHA2iE8WsYyaTG3qAg17Gjr0XaNtyroFPA4_vGN7EyxNgtM4sL94caKg1u2xZRCGte2mG3G7ZLmc8Ut4Af8gw2C8qPcemepHItwBZ1uAiSH4jIup_Pl_EFvxK8CZE0xd2jC-lTAvl_WpSmK8zw3AuXFh4k1QJ6AK8QNSMmAHnyyddTQcDHC7ZTqxpaw/w266-h400/71yeFdbybeL._SL1350_.jpg" width="266" /></a></b></div><b>9. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/When-Look-Sky-All-Stars-ebook/dp/B0CP5PV4XH/ref=sr_1_1?crid=T1BCN5UZ281M&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.7NSDxLKeXVB13GLmgfjVyQ.d6zcmAK9B-H5hHDWncuTw2ZU7YY-87oSi-Y7J8R4624&dib_tag=se&keywords=WHEN+I+LOOK+AT+THE+SKY%2C+ALL+I+SEE+ARE+STARS&qid=1705312094&s=digital-text&sprefix=when+i+look+at+the+sky+all+i+see+are+stars%2Cdigital-text%2C156&sr=1-1">WHEN I LOOK AT THE SKY, ALL I SEE ARE STARS</a> by Steve Stred</b> <i>(pub on Jun 24 Kindle and paperback)</i><br /><br />Dr. Rachel Hoggendorf has seen it all. An accomplished psychiatrist, she’s always prided herself on connecting to the patients who’ve been brought to the facility, no matter how difficult or closed-off they are. That is, until David arrives.<p></p>At first, she listens to what David has to say. How he claims to be four-hundred years old and possessed by a demon. She diagnosis him as having multiple personalities and approaches his treatment as such. <br /><br />But as their time together continues, David begins to share details he shouldn’t know and begins to lash out violently. When Rachel brings in her colleague Dr. Dravendash, David’s behavior escalates and it’s not long before they begin to wonder if David just might be telling the truth. That he’s possessed by a demonic presence ... and it wants out.<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /><br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejEv3B-_mBa5yIuIDeXzYlyXXNtPFqVUhBG9YbOxWdsD7Nr-GX1FO8RuqRTKoT7rYMLhVWfJZ5ftdBLB93zltAWDXJpnfNLq2USg-ESiSEwVjnL5Eyh8chtDkLLXf5iKWqTSibPlTe-RTFXL68TgHxdzWeUgq-hEjvqYIiNwTZ_WEVx4UaFvPUQtU-AA/s1500/719b1ZX5UwL._SL1500_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejEv3B-_mBa5yIuIDeXzYlyXXNtPFqVUhBG9YbOxWdsD7Nr-GX1FO8RuqRTKoT7rYMLhVWfJZ5ftdBLB93zltAWDXJpnfNLq2USg-ESiSEwVjnL5Eyh8chtDkLLXf5iKWqTSibPlTe-RTFXL68TgHxdzWeUgq-hEjvqYIiNwTZ_WEVx4UaFvPUQtU-AA/w266-h400/719b1ZX5UwL._SL1500_.jpg" width="266" /></a></b></div><b>10. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Incidents-Around-House-Josh-Malerman/dp/0593723120/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3B97KJFIF8KCB&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.OH7jqUtVK-VLaWlXjKKGkvDWPOw6G6fEFTd3bq6OJI36H88gKrfrKbF9lrIqyJTNMvflqKcITVYsX45FTInNeicTOV6tTDKWZ0cHSWCf1XH4gwk98O6LyY_ZdZ2FjRLmcfpt0bkkWQaNr1MC5RdJVw.FcX4lYmdss0jCebCJolV42GGd8wtnCqAO3t4qAABhi4&dib_tag=se&keywords=INCIDENTS+AROUND+THE+HOUSE&qid=1705312123&s=digital-text&sprefix=incidents+around+the+house%2Cdigital-text%2C107&sr=1-1">INCIDENTS AROUND THE HOUSE</a> by Josh Malerman</b> <i>(pub on Jun 25 hardback)</i><br /><br />To eight-year-old Bela, her family is her world. There’s Mommy, Daddo, and Grandma Ruth. But there is also Other Mommy, a malevolent entity who asks her every day: “Can I go inside your heart?”<br /><br />When horrifying incidents around the house signal that Other Mommy is growing tired of asking Bela the question over and over, Bela understands that unless she says yes, her family will soon pay. <br /><br />Other Mommy is getting restless, stronger, bolder. Only the bonds of family can keep Bela safe, but other incidents show cracks in her parents’ marriage. The safety Bela relies on is about to unravel.<br /><br />But Other Mommy needs an answer.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-92090004772589239782024-01-08T03:55:00.000-08:002024-01-08T04:10:08.894-08:00BATTLE LORD hits the bookshelves today<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOToiYD0QF8dlWrERIvkD25IOgpr76-Uy3f2qlAxb1IWa_Ssy4maliv6CQ0yimIsLcvS2QpZ20ds-Q8rq_r-KBDqhh6Jm5NObnGHimK-wLvaDM-Nsz0qU9zsvdk3BaM0R0OIH-UzFuZN0sfPbQNSLW735A9wR0ePtwhisqLm-WmludhEwIoGsGes1-tU/s1080/Wulfbury2_4x_1080x1080_OutNow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOToiYD0QF8dlWrERIvkD25IOgpr76-Uy3f2qlAxb1IWa_Ssy4maliv6CQ0yimIsLcvS2QpZ20ds-Q8rq_r-KBDqhh6Jm5NObnGHimK-wLvaDM-Nsz0qU9zsvdk3BaM0R0OIH-UzFuZN0sfPbQNSLW735A9wR0ePtwhisqLm-WmludhEwIoGsGes1-tU/w400-h400/Wulfbury2_4x_1080x1080_OutNow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b>Today, I’m delighted to announce that <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712766&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a> is published. It’s the second volume in the <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BTH8LSJ4?binding=paperback&qid=1704712766&sr=1-1&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_tpbk">WULFBURY CHRONICLES</a>, my saga of 1066 and the Norman Conquest of England. This will need to be a quick blogpost today because there is so much to do, and so after a swift recap on the story so far, I’ll hit you with all the main characters in the series as it currently stands.</b><p><b>As a quick footnote to today’s intro, I apologise if anyone has tuned in to this blog today looking for the latest installment in Thrillers, Chillers. Alas, as I mentioned last autumn, those detailed book reviews were taking up an awful lot of time. Time that could be more valuably spent writing new material of my own, so from the start of this year, I’ve discontinued Thrillers, Chillers. That does not mean that I won’t be mentioning new titles I’ve enjoyed now and then, but any reviews that do make this column from now on will be short, sharp and succinct.</b></p><p>Now we roll back the centuries until a whole millennium has passed, and face the oncoming storm of ...</p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Norman Conquest</b></div><p></p>I’m obviously not going to say too much today about the synopsis of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712766&sr=1-1"><b>BATTLE LORD</b></a>, for fear of giving away spoilers before you’ve already read it. But suffice to say that it picks up where <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712680&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> left off. Those who’ve read <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712680&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> will already know that Duke William the Bastard’s conquest of England is already in full swing. The battle of Hastings has been fought and lost, and the flower of the English thegnhood lies slaughtered on Senlac Ridge. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6tqX3pRC2BzIX7x8GGyIdcqSRw9l9CVMvIk7GdJXnvXCc6Hj3OM_mcEMgS_DNXDtaABp6s6GX9v0LHLeorI3KW2B8zujcSURuKS2BR1_BKdbili42XIKJxhMjqTT9HEIyxACml9B-wKW9rOubx2rgEXh2ezNkb_UWHAD4TNkh09RImzXCAzMrSaSwe4/s2400/norman%20battle%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2400" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6tqX3pRC2BzIX7x8GGyIdcqSRw9l9CVMvIk7GdJXnvXCc6Hj3OM_mcEMgS_DNXDtaABp6s6GX9v0LHLeorI3KW2B8zujcSURuKS2BR1_BKdbili42XIKJxhMjqTT9HEIyxACml9B-wKW9rOubx2rgEXh2ezNkb_UWHAD4TNkh09RImzXCAzMrSaSwe4/w400-h250/norman%20battle%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>But Duke William hasn’t captured the kingdom yet. Among his prisoners is Cerdic Aelfricsson, 17-year-old heir to the earldom of Ripon, whose ancestral home lies far to the north but is already occupied by a surviving remnant of the great Viking army of Harald Hardraada, which arrived in England a couple of weeks before the Normans and was destroyed by the ill-fated King Harold Godwinson at the battle of Stamford Bridge. Cerdic’s future looks bleak. The Normans are harsh masters, and have only spared him thanks to his promise that his title and lands can be theirs if they will allow him to show them the way. If nothing else though, Cerdic has found a kindred spirit in Yvette, a pretty Norman maiden who is also a hostage, as her father, Count Rodric d’Hiemois is an avowed enemy of Duke William.</div><div><p></p><p>For those who still need persuading, here is a breakdown of the key characters in the series so far:</p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGclB_fzry5WEVKw_7RRyQBCqGKVqxGStXLtvNEcU5hrsgN5P1Y60sz_U0k4_HnIVYqSQJt4AGmszhD5WTlYlyGvgjom9O0TuzMiklFonF0oVcGd1xJhnbJzN_SxDo3_F_wn7RsgyYgsZilXJr_UllZ0FYObGyPslRFd9F36yx12YaOC14MxTZQ5yiHQ/s1600/Wulfbury%20-%20Cerdic.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGclB_fzry5WEVKw_7RRyQBCqGKVqxGStXLtvNEcU5hrsgN5P1Y60sz_U0k4_HnIVYqSQJt4AGmszhD5WTlYlyGvgjom9O0TuzMiklFonF0oVcGd1xJhnbJzN_SxDo3_F_wn7RsgyYgsZilXJr_UllZ0FYObGyPslRFd9F36yx12YaOC14MxTZQ5yiHQ/w200-h200/Wulfbury%20-%20Cerdic.webp" width="200" /></a></b></div><b>Cerdic Aelfricsson:</b> The main protagonist in both <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712680&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712766&sr=1-1"><b>BATTLE LORD</b></a>. Cerdic, as second son to Earl Rothgar of Ripon, is heir to nothing. In fact, he is reluctantly training for the priesthood when the Viking horde of Harald the Hardraada lands on the Northumbrian coast, and his entire prospective future is engulfed in a whirlwind of fire and destruction ...<br /><br /><b>Eadora:</b> The ‘Flower of Swaledale’. A beautiful Saxon village girl, yearned for by Cerdic, but as she’s the unofficial lover of his older brother, Unferth, he can only yearn from afar. As a ceorl, her relationship with the lord of the manor’s eldest son is obviously fraught with difficulty, though all that will pale to insignificance when Harald the Hardraada’s Vikings invade the Northumbrian shore …<br /><br /><b>Rothgar Aelfricsson, the Earl of Ripon:</b> A great Saxon lord, respected across Northumbria for his warrior past but also for his reputation as a man of wisdom and justice. He and his younger son, Cerdic, are at odds over Rothgar’s decision to send the lad to the Church, but before that happens, the autumn of 1066 explodes with a war on two fronts, Harald the Hardraada’s Viking invasion of England in the north, and William of Normandy’s invasion in the south. As one of the key leaders of his people, Rothgar is caught in the middle …<br /><br /><b>Aethelric:</b> Earl Rothgar’s chaplain and Cerdic’s teacher and mentor, a gentle Saxon priest who is also hugely well-educated. Much of this he has imparted to Cerdic at an early age, ensuring the lad is not just literate and numerate but multi-lingual. He also has a broader political acumen than most of those in his calling, and shares deeply in Earl Rothgar’s concern that the England they’ve known and loved for so long is about to change dramatically for the worse.<br /><br /><b>Oswalda:</b> The Saxon village woman who, as midwife and wetnurse, helped raise Cerdic after his own mother died while bringing him into the world. As such, her status has been raised by Earl Rothgar and she and her husband live on their own small farm. She remains a key figure in Cerdic’s life and is probably the person he loves more than any other. Unfortunately, her homestead lies in the direct path of the invading Vikings.<br /><br /><b>Unferth:</b> Cerdic’s older brother. A warrior through and through, and something of an arrogant, roistering rake. However, he takes his future inheritance seriously, and when the chaos erupts in the autumn of 1066, is more than willing to ride with his father to face the enemy in the field. His relationship with Cerdic is stormy, though deep down the older lad respects Cerdic’s courage and intelligence and feels that he is wasted being sent to the Church.<br /><br /><b>Brithnoth:</b> An older village priest often at odds with Aethelric because he tolerates and even encourages some of the pagan traditions still lurking around the edges of Anglo-Saxon society in 1066. His position is based on a conviction that ordinary folk can’t be expected to surrender everything in life that once gave them pleasure. Aethelric considers this muddled thinking, and even dangerous to the Christian faith, but it will make no difference either way when the Vikings arrive, as they are respecters of no one’s beliefs save their own.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLLq18A4QYBQweQ1l9wpA-rLrUpm2SwZ59hDF1-zvIO2xfjWqphIfdnZYpkCxQxBvCwB4dIav6eQ4FOWaxwIlAuQg7nqYxfd2tNfp7LXs6RNL_LAkvAy426cMk9ryT1UstoIf0x_yaFhr9gFtiTihr5sMIoBlf40XPc2pQ4dvcBzOl7h4Yg4I92qVpuE/s736/norman%20battle%208.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="736" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLLq18A4QYBQweQ1l9wpA-rLrUpm2SwZ59hDF1-zvIO2xfjWqphIfdnZYpkCxQxBvCwB4dIav6eQ4FOWaxwIlAuQg7nqYxfd2tNfp7LXs6RNL_LAkvAy426cMk9ryT1UstoIf0x_yaFhr9gFtiTihr5sMIoBlf40XPc2pQ4dvcBzOl7h4Yg4I92qVpuE/w400-h233/norman%20battle%208.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><b>Aethelbere:</b> The marshal of Earl Rothgar’s household, whose presence on the battlefield can inspire confidence in even the weakest of men. A senior housecarl with much experience, Aethelbere is devotedly loyal to his master and firmly in control of the earl’s military resources. But like his master, he knows that any man who fights in each and every situation will eventually meet a sword quicker than his own, and he can’t help wondering if that time is nigh.</p><p><b>Haco:</b> Eadora’s older brother. A scheming, untrustworthy rogue, but also a natural opportunist who unashamedly sees Unferth’s relationship with his sister as a chance to make good, and when this backfires, looks further afield to find allies against those he believes have taken advantage of his family. As a ceorl, he isn’t much of an opponent in himself, but he remains a key antagonist in both novels.<br /><br /><b>Thegn Redwald:</b> The commander of Unferth’s small troop of housecarls, and a widely travelled warrior, who, though he knows, respects and fears the Vikings, is far more worried by the prospect of fighting the Normans. Held captive by them for several months, he has seen the effectiveness of Norman knights in battle, particularly how much their superior training, weaponry and armour is changing the face of warfare in these violent closing days of the Dark Ages.<br /><br /><b>Harald ‘the Hardraada’:</b> One of the most legendary of all Viking leaders. A highly successful warrior and adventurer, but famous also for his cruelty and barbarism. Rightly known across Scandinavia as ‘the Thunderbolt of the North’. In 1066, he comes to Northumbria, intent on claiming the English throne, in company with a huge Viking army, all the chieftains of which he has promised rich rewards, which they must claim for themselves as they maraud through the shires of this wealthy land.<br /><br /><b>Wulfgar Ragnarsson:</b> One of the Hardraada’s deputy commanders, and a fearsome Viking warrior in his own right. His origins are shrouded in mystery, but he controls his own small army within the greater army of his master and has several key aims during the invasion of England. First and foremost is the recapture of those lands he considers ancestrally his, the centrepiece of which is Wulfbury, the fortified capital of Earl Rothgar of Ripon.<br /><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRiXqOrkisdfdb46KLqmgFJ8wxZNdi3P55iGSjK30-6bGxOz_9UHpobFD3J-U71EWyCuY6lZ41Gn7zsk84EGk5w_67Zw1NEOc1-kX7c10PmnHAUXVBryv0QMgLjwK7TYGnKMEVoaKjaYVL-wqolRgF4S8FF4Y0_APeBYWWDIfraebqZSKoQCL4t03HY7o/s2432/Wulfbury%20-%20Sigfurth%20Bloodhair%202.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2432" data-original-width="1664" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRiXqOrkisdfdb46KLqmgFJ8wxZNdi3P55iGSjK30-6bGxOz_9UHpobFD3J-U71EWyCuY6lZ41Gn7zsk84EGk5w_67Zw1NEOc1-kX7c10PmnHAUXVBryv0QMgLjwK7TYGnKMEVoaKjaYVL-wqolRgF4S8FF4Y0_APeBYWWDIfraebqZSKoQCL4t03HY7o/w137-h200/Wulfbury%20-%20Sigfurth%20Bloodhair%202.webp" width="137" /></a></b></div><b>Sigfurth Blood-Hair:</b> Wulfgar Ragnarsson’s most savage enforcer. Lethal in combat, and a cold-blooded killer and torturer of his master’s enemies, whatever their status. When Blood-Hair and his murderous accomplices are unleashed in Earl Rothgar’s verdant domain of Swaledale, the vast majority of whose male population has been drawn away to fight the Hardraada, he is literally a wolf in the fold.<br /><br /><b>Harold Godwinson:</b> One of the most famous but shortest-ruling kings in England’s history. Earl of Wessex beforehand, and another fearless commander of men, King Harold, alas, will finally overface himself when tackling the Viking horde of Harald the Hardraada, and a couple of weeks later, marching south to take on the entire invasion force of Duke William of Normandy.<br /><br /><b>William the Bastard:</b> The infamous Duke of Normandy who will later be nicknamed ‘William the Conqueror’, the founder of a new medieval dynasty in what was previously Dark Age England. A skilled and ruthless warrior, who has outfought numerically superior enemies all his life. When this rapacious overlord sets his sights on something, there is no stopping him. His latest goal, of course, is the capture of England, and he’ll kill and maim as many of its occupants as he needs to, to bring it under his yoke.<br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEVDoF7U3AI7IFgL9DJ7ngtjeshXWkbdWCxXAyMD2mjsOUlWmAhbvseRCcUw_Zm4p3646A7tQ1P279S_hDyrEfpTHpGndSjyWXLIX-X5duzRFsEZC0XHSQvyTbFqKBEW3KoPzhjA3HG-7JxIq5FGOXdEStuPekpz7K5fUlWNMEQWf5U3LfO9_gF7MwW8/s1192/wulfbury%20-%20Yvette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="1192" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEVDoF7U3AI7IFgL9DJ7ngtjeshXWkbdWCxXAyMD2mjsOUlWmAhbvseRCcUw_Zm4p3646A7tQ1P279S_hDyrEfpTHpGndSjyWXLIX-X5duzRFsEZC0XHSQvyTbFqKBEW3KoPzhjA3HG-7JxIq5FGOXdEStuPekpz7K5fUlWNMEQWf5U3LfO9_gF7MwW8/w200-h113/wulfbury%20-%20Yvette.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Yvette d’Hiemois: </b>A young Norman woman of fine breeding and intellect, but a valuable hostage to Duke William. Yvette is the only child and heiress to Count Rodric of Hiemois, a great Norman baron currently at odds with the Duke and therefore living in exile. Inevitably, she forms an alliance with fellow captive, Cerdic, which soon blossoms into romance. As the war unravels into unimaginable horror, Yvette withdraws into herself, dreaming of better things, and increasingly fearful that the vengeance-fuelled Cerdic will continue this fight until everyone and everything is annihilated.<br /><br /><b>Bishop Odo of Bayeux:</b> Duke William’s brother and foremost deputy, and a grotesque, corrupt beast of a man, who cares nothing for his religious calling, seeking only to empower and enrich himself, and of course to debauch every female who falls into his grasp. So calculating is this odious creature that even Duke William is wary of him, though for the time being at least considers him a necessary device by which to dominate and terrorise his new subjects.<br /><br /><b>Count Cynric of Tancarville:</b> Another of the great Norman lords who triumphs at the battle of Hastings, and a cold, aloof figure, who is no less greedy and ambitious than the majority of his jackal-like comrades, but who isn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake, who thinks deeply and plans ahead. An intriguer, who places little trust in Duke William and is prepared to make alliances with the most unexpected parties to achieve his aims. <br /><br /><b>Turold de Bardouville:</b> Perhaps the greatest of the Norman knights, and Count Cynric’s personal champion. A ferocious opponent but another who takes no pleasure in killing without purpose and considers the terrorising of peasant folk, in particular women and children, beneath him. Half-English by birth, he is nevertheless entirely Norman in his outlook, but over time he comes to respect Cerdic’s courage and intelligence, and gradually forms an unlikely friendship with the lad, teaching him how to fight with a state-of-the-art new weapon, the Norman longsword.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQh3YF9J2pH_OYDpcjmCi_UWHMmjlLs3yzl4AzLm6ZHrbCXQZp62ICrR9nl2Qs_FSoyddCrbE8r0XCLQNrlFgCnozoIlHbxD3CLEz15iBjEfjGVBi7RKMuh3qesL5PfBGhiEaz7pcsNU4IbM0DyYTOhcOvKZi89jJGGQOSfWE_sjvoMhBfnWN_3twVlWk/s612/norman%20battle%207.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="612" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQh3YF9J2pH_OYDpcjmCi_UWHMmjlLs3yzl4AzLm6ZHrbCXQZp62ICrR9nl2Qs_FSoyddCrbE8r0XCLQNrlFgCnozoIlHbxD3CLEz15iBjEfjGVBi7RKMuh3qesL5PfBGhiEaz7pcsNU4IbM0DyYTOhcOvKZi89jJGGQOSfWE_sjvoMhBfnWN_3twVlWk/w400-h225/norman%20battle%207.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Joubert fitzOslac:</b> Count Cyrnic’s second son, and a man who has come to England not just to prove himself in battle, but to win the kind of wealth and position he could only dream about back home in Normandy. As such, he is brutal and sadistic. He thinks nothing of inflicting pain and terror if it will advance his position and is hated and feared even by many on his own side.</div><div><br /><b>Father Jerome:</b> Count Cynric’s personal chaplain, and one of a whole swarm of Norman clergymen who have accompanied the invasion of England, lusting for gold, power and position. Formerly a religious idealist, Jerome genuinely though he would come here to convert sinners, and then reap his just reward. Instead, the ongoing horror of war, slaughter and pillage preys on his mind, unhinging him to a horrible degree.<br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Roland Casterborus:</b> Count Cynric’s seneschal, and a skilled and honourable knight. He is steadfast to his Norman master, but his adherence to the new code of chivalry gnaws at his conscience, especially when he learns that the native English are not the degenerate apostates he was led to expect but practising fellow Christians. He also despises the rodent-like mercenaries who have accompanied the invasion and sees most of Duke William’s atrocities as cruel and unnecessary.<p></p><p><b>(Nearly all the images that I've used in today’s column were found floating around on the internet. With the exceptions of the one at the top, none were produced specifically to promote or illustrate the events or personalities in either of the novels, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712680&sr=1-1">USURPER</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1704712766&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a>. Nor were they tagged with the original creator’s names. If anyone has a problem with me using these images, please let me know and I will happily apply any credit where it is due, or, if required, take the image down).</b></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-11901183378966399642023-12-21T16:02:00.000-08:002023-12-22T02:42:28.903-08:00Part 2 of THE ICY REALM. Hope you enjoy.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkjIicA2zzy2tdZGFrDZUFXL_zOXTGcLaDyl-9dJR7tuPMtLIHqyylR80rl-aSHQTgfro5AU163TgoyDVV87TLABkltrlEeOTzJIkAd9nfeuvtXtsAgpKLdcyyN0cZXRw9yz4E87rMc-gs3MQS11cO87TAQCiBUk9Ef0cNYFSBkEuKd8y7uC-5esfpLs/s1280/snowy%20forest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkjIicA2zzy2tdZGFrDZUFXL_zOXTGcLaDyl-9dJR7tuPMtLIHqyylR80rl-aSHQTgfro5AU163TgoyDVV87TLABkltrlEeOTzJIkAd9nfeuvtXtsAgpKLdcyyN0cZXRw9yz4E87rMc-gs3MQS11cO87TAQCiBUk9Ef0cNYFSBkEuKd8y7uC-5esfpLs/w400-h225/snowy%20forest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><b>Well, we’re almost there. The big day looms. But before then, if you’ve got time amid all those chaotic last-minute preparations, here is the second and final part of my latest Christmas horror story, THE ICY REALM. If you’re only just tuning in now and aren’t sure what’s what, it’s probably best if you read Part 1 first, which you can find by simply scrolling down to my previous post (December 15). </b><div><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div><div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>THE ICY REALM</b></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;">2</h2></div><br />Alex said nothing on the return drive, but it was a struggle to get things straight in his head. First of all, he’d clearly imagined the business with the two marionettes. There was no other explanation. He’d thought he was locked in there for the holidays. He’d panicked and lost it … not that he was going to tell anyone that. He must already be a diminished figure in Erika’s eyes just for having got stuck in there in the first place. <br /> But the rest of it was harder to dismiss. <br /> The damaged books. The fact he’d seemingly been lured into that trap. Surely it wasn’t all just some ugly coincidence? And if not, what did it mean exactly? <br /> Erika threw curious sidelong glances at him, but increasingly, the weather was distracting them both. It wasn’t just getting dark now, the clouds that had regathered over the afternoon were opening again, progressively larger flakes dancing in their headlights as they wound along the narrow Lake District lanes, now narrowed even further by the snow banked to either side. The already minuscule strip of tarmac along the middle of the road was slowly covering over. Erika fiddled with the radio, to try and get a forecast, but all they heard was lots of fuzz and several broken, disembodied voices. A couple of times though, Alex heard phrases like <i>‘whiteout conditions …’</i> and <i>‘severe disruption …’ </i><br /> ‘Damn it,’ he muttered. <br /> ‘Told you,’ Erika replied primly. ‘A white Christmas doesn’t always mean a happy one.’ <br /> <i> ‘Deaths expected …’ </i><br /> ‘God above,’ he said out loud. ‘You hear that?’ <br /> <i>‘In the Icy Realm …’ </i><br /> ‘England has the weirdest weather,’ Erika replied. ‘One week ago, it was raining.’ <br /> ‘Did they really say “deaths expected”?’ <br /> She frowned. ‘Didn’t sound like it.’ <br /> ‘Did to me.’ <br /> <i> ‘Probably because you’re a special case …’ </i><br /> ‘What the hell!’ he exploded. <br /> ‘Alex, be careful!’ <br /> He swerved to avoid the snowbank they’d been veering towards. ‘I thought it said …’ <br /> ‘Don’t listen to that. Focus on driving. We want to get home in one piece.’ <br /> It was certainly a relief when they swung through the open gate onto the lengthy driveway leading to the Farm, because the snow was now coming down hard: the track itself was several inches under, the trees enclosing them more like skeletal white outlines. <br /> The drive went initially left of the lawn, before cutting right past the front of the farmhouse and snaking round to the side. A bright new layer of snow covered everything, untrammelled by tyres or footprints, yet as they went right, their headlights ghosting across the building, Alex spotted something on the doorstep. He drove by, biting his lip. Erika was too busy putting on her gloves and scarf to have noticed. <br /> They pulled up in their usual place at the side of the house. Alex applied the handbrake but stayed in his seat. He told Erika that he was going to try and fix the radio. <br /> ‘No probs.’ She jumped out, grabbed her shopping from the rear and headed indoors. <br /> Once she’d gone, Alex got out, pulling his own gloves on as he stumped round to the front of the house. At the same time, the phone began bleeping in his pocket. <br /> It was Mike. ‘Dad … I’ve been trying to get you.’ <br /> ‘Yeah … you know what the blackspots are like up here.’ <br /> ‘Dad, this weather …’ <br /> ‘Yeah, I know.’ They’d been expecting this, of course. <br /> ‘You’ve heard they’ve closed the M6 north of Preston?’ Mike said. <br /> ‘It might be clear tomorrow.’ <br /> ‘I don’t know, Dad. It’s a big risk on Christmas Day.’ <br /> ‘Don’t worry about it …’ Alex halted at the front door, where, as he’d seen from the car, a square red package, tied with a green ribbon, sat on the step. ‘Sod it,’ he muttered. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvv9px7y8wpV4t39qM8LRcjgw3xTN-awuPDdUDuY80ghSoTLsU0710GaH21BZvRklfbox27FxfnbWgt6ClbiqccZ4gsVEbzlPIHfjKkktSaBrE2-GpYr-Yy_Inuhd5S5nZqhATb0ThB7I6C4zjR2lH83gA7V95N_XCshg3K2twVSgOrJ6-isZwV3E1FPk/s568/present%20in%20snow%201.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="494" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvv9px7y8wpV4t39qM8LRcjgw3xTN-awuPDdUDuY80ghSoTLsU0710GaH21BZvRklfbox27FxfnbWgt6ClbiqccZ4gsVEbzlPIHfjKkktSaBrE2-GpYr-Yy_Inuhd5S5nZqhATb0ThB7I6C4zjR2lH83gA7V95N_XCshg3K2twVSgOrJ6-isZwV3E1FPk/s320/present%20in%20snow%201.jpg" width="278" /></a></div> ‘I’m sorry …’ <br /> ‘Don’t worry, mate. You stay at home. I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure <i>we’ll</i> be here.’ <br /> He cut the call and picked the package up. There were two tags attached. The first one read: <i>For Erika. Merry Xmas</i>. The second one: <i>Don’t wait till the big day. Open now.</i><br /> He tore it brutally apart, and a mouldy, fungus-riddled potato dropped into his palm. <br /> With a strangled cry, he flung it away. Lumbering back round the house, he glanced across the lawn, but so thick were the falling flakes that he couldn’t even see the trees. When he entered the kitchen, Erika was busy wrapping the new presents. They were primarily for Geoff, his younger brother’s children. He threw the book he’d bought onto the sideboard, and stood watching her, tormented. There was no road closure between here and Carlisle, so Geoff and his family could still visit. But could Alex really let that happen without issuing some kind of warning? <br /> But a warning of what? <br /> Erika glanced up with a big smile, which rapidly faltered. ‘What now?’ <br /> ‘Mike’s not coming.’ <br /> ‘Oh, right.’ Inevitably, she wasn’t too disappointed. ‘We thought that might happen. You know what I reckon the problem is? He thinks I’m not earning my keep.’ <br /> <i>You mean while you’re only a dance teacher,</i> Alex thought sourly, <i>and not a star of stage and screen? </i><br /> ‘Soon as that changes,’ she said, ‘he won’t think I’m leeching off you anymore, will he? Now, go and put the fire on in the lounge. Get yourself a drink. See …’ She held up a glass of Cointreau, ice cubes clinking. ‘I’ve not wasted any time.’ <br /> Alex threaded through the warren of passages, hanging his coat and scarf over the newel post at the foot of the staircase, then walking into the lounge and turning on the real-flame gas fire, which roared to hearty life. His phone rang again. <br /> ‘You too, Geoff?’ he wondered dully. <br /> But it wasn’t Geoff. <br /> ‘Alex … it’s Fiona Havergood.’ <br /> ‘Hello, Fee.’ He was only partly relieved. ‘Thanks for calling me back. To be honest, I’d forgotten I’d left you a message.’ <br /> ‘You were ringing about Jimmy Groober.’ <br /> ‘Yeah, I …’ <br /> ‘Jimmy’s dead.’ <br /> Even with the fire on, Alex went cold. ‘W…what?’ <br /> ‘Fell off his roof late last night. Bit weird. He was nude at the time.’ Considering that Fee had been a good friend of Jimmy’s, she sounded oddly matter-of-fact about it. ‘A neighbour saw him and came out. Apparently, they called up to him, asked what was wrong. He said something about if he’d stayed indoors, it would smell him out. It had sniffed its way after him through every room. That’s what he said, anyway.’ <br /> ‘<i>What</i> would smell him out?’ <br /> ‘There’ll be a name for it, but I’m an old woman now, Alex. I can’t remember. Anyway, it sounds as though he’d just had a shower … trying to get rid of his scent, or something. But of course, it was freezing … so, well, the cold overwhelmed him, and he fell.’ <br /> Alex could scarcely believe it. ‘Fee, Jimmy called me yesterday evening.’ <br /> ‘Trying to warn you, I imagine.’ <br /> ‘Warn me?’ He felt so sick with shock that he was struggling to make sense of any of this. <br /> ‘Jimmy liked you, Alex … he must have, if warning you was one of the last things he did.’ <br /> Again, it was all dispassionate and matter-of-fact. So much so that Alex genuinely wondered if this was truly the same Fiona Havergood who’d been such a friend of his and Jimmy Groober’s over the years. He couldn’t equate such casual indifference with that fiercely intelligent but rather lovely septuagenarian, whose genteel appearance concealed a vast knowledge of folk and fairy tales gleaned from the five children’s books she’d written on the subject and which made her a shoe-in each winter to direct the panto, a demanding task she’d performed with great diligence and good humour. <br /> ‘Fiona, what … what do you mean warning <i>me</i>?’ <br /> ‘Oh, Alex! Don’t tell me you’re not aware something’s going on? I mean, surely you’ve heard from him by now?’ <br /> ‘Heard from who?’ <br /> ‘Nils Karlsson.’ <br /> ‘K-Karls …’ Alex found himself stuttering. ‘I thought his name was Carling.’ <br /> ‘Well, you didn’t pay much attention to him, did you. You only had eyes for Erika.’ <br /> ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’ <br /> ‘I can tell by your voice that something’s not right.’ <br /> ‘Fee, what’re you saying?’ he demanded. ‘That this lad Nils Karlsson’s got some kind of issue with us? All these years later?’ <br /> ‘Nils Karlsson is also dead.’ Again, she spoke unemotionally, as though imparting a simple, unsensational fact. ‘He didn’t commit suicide, though. Not like his father, if that’s what’s worrying you.’ <br /> ‘It isn’t …’ <br /> ‘Died from exposure, apparently. His dad was from Iceland, but he lost everything during their financial crash. After that, his mother, who was English, brought Nils here. She didn’t last long though. Poor health, broken heart and that. Anyway, Nils was left on his own, a stranger in a strange land … bit of an oddball too. You must remember how weird his appearance was. I got the feeling he’d struggle to fit in anywhere …’ <br /> As Alex listened to all this with growing confusion, he drifted to the door and glanced out, just to ensure that Erika wasn’t in earshot. As it happened, she was coming along the passage towards him, only to turn into the dining room, from out of which he heard the pop songs on her Christmas playlist. From the tray she was carrying, which was loaded with festive napkins and such, she was setting out the table for tomorrow. She winked at him and took another sip from her glass of Cointreau. <br /> Fiona meanwhile was still talking about Nils Karlsson. ‘When he came to the Players, I think he thought he’d found his place. Amateur theatre … always looking for new members, everyone welcome, that sort of thing. But we’ve had a few like that over the years, haven’t we? You know, square pegs who’ll only ever find round holes …’ <br /> ‘Fiona!’ Alex interrupted. ‘Where’s all this going?’ <br /> ‘I’m saying that after his big disappointment with <i>Rumplestiltskin</i>, he went back to Iceland. But I don’t think he knew anyone there. A decade had passed, after all. Seems like he tried to refurbish his old family home, which was out in the wilds. Wasn’t used to the harsh weather, ended up getting caught in a snowstorm …’ <br /> ‘What has this got to do with Jimmy Groober? Or me?’ <br /> ‘And <i>me</i>, Alex,’ she said tersely. ‘Don’t forget <i>me</i>. In case you were wondering, I’m talking to you from the Oakhill Unit at the Infirmary. <br /> ‘You …<i> what?</i>’ As far as Alex knew, the Oakhill Unit was a psychiatric ward. <br /> ‘Had a bit of a fright the night before last. Nothing to worry about.’ <br /> But suddenly she sounded tense, her tone brittle. <br /> ‘Are you …’ he was stuttering again, ‘are you okay?’ <br /> ‘Well, I’m able to talk to you at least. That’s more than poor Jimmy, isn’t it? But Alex, your situation can’t be far removed from mine. By my estimation you’ll be number thirteen. Though … maybe not.’ She lapsed into brief thought. ‘Perhaps Erika will be number thirteen. You’ll be twelve. I certainly imagine that you two will be the final two … the ones they’ll have reserved harshest judgement for.’ <br /> ‘Judgement? What the hell are you saying, Fiona? That before he died, Nils Karlsson set something in motion for us? Some kind of revenge?’ <br /> A tinkling laugh responded. ‘Of course, that’s what I’m saying. But not <i>before</i> he died.’ <br /> ‘Fiona, what the actual fu….?’ <br /> ‘You see, in your two cases, I think it was the sheer immorality of it.’ <br /> ‘Look, Fiona …’ He wrestled himself under control. ‘I’ve got real problems up here, so you need to start making sense …’ <br /> ‘You gave Erika that part of Rumplestiltskin because you fancied her, didn’t you.’ <br /> ‘She was the best at the audition.’ <br /> ‘Yes, but you still fancied her.’ <br /> ‘This is so nuts …’ <br /> ‘Surely, you’re not denying it, Alex?’ She sounded amused again. ‘You’ve spent your entire career among professionals. You know better than anyone that Erika was never <i>that</i> good. That’s why you’ve never got her onto the big stage, isn’t it? You can’t <i>really</i> spin straw into gold, can you?’ That weird, tinkling laugh again. ‘See what I did there? But it worked to get her into your bed, didn’t it. I mean, I know it ended up costing you your marriage, but well, I imagine having a fresh young replacement in your grasp was some kind of compensation. But it <i>was</i> immoral, casting Erika for such a crass reason.’ <br /> ‘This is the biggest load of …’ <br /> ‘Tell that to Polly Willoughby, who on December 17 was arrested for severely beating her own grandchild with a fire-poker. She told the police that she was convinced someone was hiding under her bed. Terrified out of her wits, she dragged them out and attacked. Seems she had no idea why the child, who’d been staying over, was sleeping there. And neither did the child … when it finally regained consciousness. Or Gordon Compton, who on December 15 was taken into hospital to have his stomach pumped, along with all the guests at his Christmas dinner party … because every spoon in his drawer was contaminated with salmonella, even though he insisted that he’d washed them all before preparing the meal.’ <br /> Alex was stumped. ‘Polly Willoughby? Gordon Compton? They were on the Casting Committee.’ <br /> ‘Course they were. It’s everyone who was involved, you see. Thirteen of us in total. And these … <i>entities</i>, they only come on the thirteen days leading up to Christmas. Each one on a different date. And each one brings a special gift to the person in question.’ <br /> ‘A gift? You mean like a potato?’ <br /> ‘Oh no.’ She tittered again. ‘The potato’s only a sign of their displeasure. Mind you, if you accept it, that means the challenge is on …’ <br /> ‘Accept it?’ <br /> ‘You’ve obviously already done that, Alex. Opened the package I mean. No, the real gift, well …’ She became thoughtful. ‘Well … it’s not always a gift. The Yule Lads are typical of these mysterious Christmas visitors you hear about in so many cultures. They may bestow a gift, if you deserve it … but more likely they’ll administer a punishment. Mine’s still going on, I suppose … I spent the whole of December 21 running from one room to the next, seeing a different hideous face at each window.’ <div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSPcRAqoH5z7zYzdcW1GNQVJTkvkfRC-r4Ys72NDU4jPyLIOSS9v3eL8GMeYsTuXcfiTZa6LyKGWA12K5icfp6BOAmNHPGzXea5aVLXwrISiJ8GV0vglk895N9jNiMlyHKY_OrBBueQ1M3SlheCrk5c4BcSvwzarJhrsr_Jwloezc84IY7s2hnAJOlOM/s1060/face%20at%20window%201.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1041" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbSPcRAqoH5z7zYzdcW1GNQVJTkvkfRC-r4Ys72NDU4jPyLIOSS9v3eL8GMeYsTuXcfiTZa6LyKGWA12K5icfp6BOAmNHPGzXea5aVLXwrISiJ8GV0vglk895N9jNiMlyHKY_OrBBueQ1M3SlheCrk5c4BcSvwzarJhrsr_Jwloezc84IY7s2hnAJOlOM/s320/face%20at%20window%201.jpg" width="314" /></a> She tried to laugh again, but it was forced. ‘I suppose I’m right where I need to be now. I’ve always been nervous at night. Ever since Kenny died. So, it was a severe one in my case, but I was the show’s director, after all … heaven knows what’s going to happen to you and Erika.’ <br /> ‘Fiona,’ he said tightly, ‘you’re the fairy tale expert … tell me.’ <br /> ‘Oh, my dear, there are no experts. That’s likely why Nils Karlsson had to die. You can’t make deals with these people simply by reading books and working rituals, even over so many years … oh yes, doctor?’ Suddenly, she was talking to someone else. ‘Oh, yes. Just a friend … well, if you insist …’ <br /> The line went dead. <br /> Alex stared at his phone, the firelight flickering in its empty screen. <br /> Fee Havergood was one of the most stable characters he knew: organised, straightlaced, ridiculously well-educated. In no way a flake. If anyone else had said those things to him, it would have sounded like utter gibberish. Frenziedly, he bashed in another number. <br /> ‘You’re not dead, Jimbo,’ he said under his breath. ‘You’re just not.’ <br /> No one answered. And now something else was shot-firing inside his head. Something Fiona had said. It had been a throw-away reference, something she’d mentioned almost casually, and yet it was relevant, he was sure, because he’d seen it somewhere before … <br /> <i> Yule Lads. </i><br /> He stiffened. <br /> Yes … the Yule Lads. Dear God, that book in which Nils Karlsson’s mugshot was inserted. <br /> Alex galloped through to the kitchen, where the book was still lying on the sideboard, the photograph hanging out of it. He flipped to that page. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yule Lads</i></div><br /> As he scanned down past the crude image of carved stonework, he was only able to absorb bits and pieces of the text, but each fragment was nerve-jangling in its import. <br /><br /> <i>Among the most feared beings in the Icy Realm … wild spirits of the frozen mountains and snow-filled forests … <br /><br /> December 15: Þvörusleikir (Spoon-Licker), stealer of health … <br /><br /></i><div><i> December 21: Gluggagægir (Window-Peeper), stealer of privacy … <br /><br /></i></div><div><i> December 22: Gáttaþefur (Doorway-Sniffer), stealer of scent … <br /><br /> December 23: Ketkrókur (Meat-Hook), stealer of flesh … <br /><br /> December 24: Kertasníkir (Candle-Taker), stealer of light … <br /><br /> No magic can repel them, no hero defeat them. They fear nothing save their own voracious parents, who are always close by, the ogre, Leppalúði, and the hag, Grýla … </i><br /><br /> Alex ran back through the house. This was insane, of course. It had to be. Norse mythology, folklore, fairy tales? <br /> ‘What next?’ he muttered. ‘That dwarf off the <i>Singing</i> fucking <i>Ringing Tree</i>?’ <br /> But just because these entities didn’t exist, that didn’t mean there weren’t lunatics out there who believed they did. <br /> ‘Erika!’ He lurched into the dining room. ‘We’ve got to …’ <br /> The table was laid with expensive crockery and glassware, but the room was empty. The music now came from the lounge, which meant that Erika had taken her iPod in there. When he entered after her, she was dancing barefoot, in her ski pants and vest, her supple, firelit form twirling and pirouetting with sensual grace. <br /> ‘Erika!’ <br /> She stopped, pink-cheeked, smiling mischievously. <br /> ‘We’ve got to go,’ he said. <br /> Her mouth curved downward. ‘Go where?’ <br /> ‘We need to leave the …’ His gaze flirted to the conservatory, where he’d just spied a flicker of movement. This time it wasn’t snowflakes tumbling past the pane. <br /> He rushed in there. The deluge outside was reminiscent of a Hollywood movie, except that this was real snow, not an inexhaustible supply of goose down. Even so, for a half-second, he glimpsed a tall figure in a heavy coat, with a hood pulled up, walking away across the lawn. <br /> ‘Bastard!’ Alex dashed back through the downstairs to the kitchen, and then outside. <br /> Here, he halted. He hadn’t got his coat, gloves or scarf. But there was no time for that. An intangible foe was something to be feared, but when you had them in your sights, you didn’t let them go easily. He scrambled to the first corner of the house, where a three-foot length of rotted iron pipe, a leftover from the restoration work on the guttering last summer, was propped against the wall. He snatched it up. He wasn’t going to hit anyone, he told himself, as he ploughed into the flakes. That wasn’t his aim. But whoever this person was, he’d come all the way from Bannerwood. He’d been stalking them, and that meant he was trouble. <br /> But even before Alex reached the trees, a mere distance of thirty yards, he knew he’d made a mistake. He was caked in snow. It even slithered down the back of his sweater. He blundered on defiantly. A wall of vegetation reared ahead, the wood’s outer bulwark, composed entirely of privets, so they were meshed together and laden with white. <br /> He fought his way through. ‘Who are you, you scumbag? What do you want?’ <br /> In the wider spaces beyond the privets, the flakes drove into him like arrows. Already his fingers were numb, his toes tingling inside his socks and trainers. And now the wind was picking up too, adding a sword’s edge. He was still determined that he wasn’t going back. He’d known plenty rough characters in his past, so he’d certainly show <i>this</i> toerag, this unknown enemy, this faceless intruder who’d already killed Jimmy Groober. <br /> Alex stopped hard, face burning with cold, lungs heaving. <br /> Killed Jimmy Groober? <br /> Had he really done that? <br /> This same person? <br /> ‘Shit.’ Slowly, common sense worked its way back through thoughts rendered chaotic by anger and fear. With another savage gust, snowflakes whipped into him. <br /> ‘Okay … I’m out of here. <i>We’re</i> out of here.’ <br /> 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 pained and exhausted by the chill. The grotesque shape remained motionless, towering over him. If it had been a tallish figure in the shopping mall, it was all that and more now.</div><div> Alex offered the length of pipe as he retreated, showing that, whatever was afoot here, he’d be no soft touch. But when the figure made no move towards him, he turned and ran – and thudded headlong into a second interloper, near enough identical to the first, equally solid. He staggered back, winded again, now caught between the pair of them.</div><div> <i>You two will be the final two … the ones they’ll have reserved harshest judgement for. </i><br /> ‘That what you’re planning?’ Alex shouted. ‘Well, go on … bring it on!’ <br /> Neither figure moved, but as Alex was closest to the second, he saw that it was holding something in its gloved left hand. It hung down, but was clearly visible as a large, steel hook. <br /> <i> Ketkrókur (Meat-Hook), stealer of flesh … </i><br /> ‘Oh yes?’ Alex laughed dementedly. ‘That’s for me, is it? <i>You think it’ll be that easy!</i>’ <br /> He ended on a shriek as he lurched forward, swinging the pipe two-handed into the figure’s torso.</div><div> There was no give in it. The pipe rebounded and the figure didn’t even flinch. Alex swung again, this time making huge impact on the side of its head. Again, no response. He might have been hitting granite. Briefly, disbelievingly, he wondered if he was … though this second time, the scarfs came partly loose, exposing the top left-hand corner of the figure’s face, which even in the dimness, was quite clearly made from some smooth, pale, porcelain-like substance, with a small black hole where the eye should be. <br /> Alex raised the pipe again but saw that it had bent double. He flung it at the figure, and turned to run, veering around the first ghastly shape, which didn’t lunge out to grasp him, as he thought it might, plunging into yet more snow-clad evergreens. He burrowed through these, and beyond them, caught the full force of the intensifying blizzard, flakes gushing over him like water. He struggled to breathe as he turned in helpless circles, flailing. <br /> What was this? Where in God’s name was he? <br /> <i>The Icy Realm … </i><br /> He didn’t even know what those words meant. But he wasn’t in the Lake District anymore. He wasn’t even in England. He knew it from the way the snowfall swamped him, from the wind that blew ever more ferociously as if it travelled down through vast, glacier-gouged canyons, across pack-ice and desolate, frostbitten tundra. <br /> And then, without warning, a glaring light engulfed him. <br /> Alex shielded his eyes as a pair of dazzling headlamps slid to a screeching halt. <br /> A door banged open, and he heard Erika shouting. <br /> ‘Alex, for God’s sake! What’re you playing at?’ <br /> Halfdead, he tottered towards her, working his way hand over hand along the Jaguar’s body to the passenger door, flopping in through it like a stuffed, sodden dummy. ‘What … what’re you doing here?’ he stammered as she got in as well. <br /> ‘Are you kidding?’ She’d packed herself into her puffer jacket but was still shivering. She put the car in gear, and it scrunched forward along the drive. ‘You said we have to get away, so we’re getting away. I don’t know why … can’t see where we’d want to drive tonight. I’ve never seen a snowstorm like this.’ <br /> Alex, almost zoning out in the astounding warmth, shook his head weakly. ‘I … I don’t think there’s anything natural about it.’ <br /> ‘What do you mean?’ <br /> ‘Just keep driving.’ <br /> ‘I can’t see a damn thing.’<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlPT4GJ-dk51fn5-I1GoqNjXg2H_MPJfZy_8SLG9PUB1mT7tP8u6QuVnHEG7wByTzl8nEM8-YoMFEIk0SywwUm2H2XS7W7LfLVq3K82WiH05w8uIoDt4B41DHnLxuIYBaekfLHDFhmFyio7KEnNuT66dUjdVpe5DLrFXKD0z0b8k39uauW89sgCb7YJS8/s470/snowy%20path.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="470" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlPT4GJ-dk51fn5-I1GoqNjXg2H_MPJfZy_8SLG9PUB1mT7tP8u6QuVnHEG7wByTzl8nEM8-YoMFEIk0SywwUm2H2XS7W7LfLVq3K82WiH05w8uIoDt4B41DHnLxuIYBaekfLHDFhmFyio7KEnNuT66dUjdVpe5DLrFXKD0z0b8k39uauW89sgCb7YJS8/w320-h249/snowy%20path.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> ‘Just get us away … anywhere away from here.’ <br /> He glanced back over his shoulder. In the cherry-red glow of the taillights, the driveway was a white tunnel filled with flakes. But there was no sign of anyone following. Erika braked as they approached the gates. <br /> ‘Don’t slow down!’ he barked. <br /> ‘God’s sake, Alex … I can’t pull straight out. Where are we going, anyway?’ <br /> ‘Left.’ <br /> She hit the gas as they turned left, the Jag fishtailing. <br /> ‘What did you mean it’s not natural?’ she said. <br /> ‘Nothing. Turn of phrase.’ They wallowed on, at no great speed, the road ahead shifting in and out of visibility. ‘Need to go faster than this. Need to go much faster.’ <br /> ‘You try it,’ she retorted. ‘That scraping sound’s the car’s belly dragging along the top of the snow. We’re going as fast as I dare. Besides, I don’t think I should be anywhere near the wheel of a car at present.’ <br /> ‘What’re you talking about?’ <br /> ‘Alex, in case you’d forgotten, I’ve had more than a couple of glasses of Cointreau.’ <br /> He regarded her long and hard. He ought to have realised from her jerky driving, of course, not to mention her slurring voice. <br /> ‘How far are we going?’ she asked. <br /> ‘Just get us a bit further away,’ he said. ‘Get us to the M6 junction and I’ll take over.’ <br /> ‘The M6!’ She looked startled. ‘Why are we going there? We’re not going home, are we?’ <br /> He shrugged. ‘Only thing we can do.’ <br /> ‘Hang on!’ Finally, she got angry, pressing the accelerator harder, the Jag bouncing and jolting, the car’s rear end striking the snowbanks both left and right. ‘I’ve not brought any of our stuff …’ <br /> ‘None of that matters.’ <br /> ‘Alex, are you high?’ <br /> ‘Erika …’ <br /> ‘Look, I’m not going all the way home.’ She glared at him as she drove. <br /> Erika was a compliant partner when it suited her. That was most of the time. But not always. ‘Everything we’ve got’s at the Farm. What’re we going to celebrate Christmas with?’ <br /> <i> ‘Whoa … whoa, ERIKA!’ </i><br /> She hadn’t seen the sharp curve, or the snow-covered gate directly in front. It was made of steel, but only held by a single loop of chain, so at thirty plus, they crashed clean through it. Erika hit the brakes, screaming, but of course that did nothing. The next thing, they were careering down the steep hillside into Swindale like an out-of-control toboggan, the car turning sideways, every window plastered white. <br /> By the time they hit something, they’d picked up terrifying speed. The Jag’s engine stove in like an accordion, and both passengers were thrown violently forward. The combination of seatbelt and airbag saved Alex any serious injury, but Erika, drunk, hadn’t bothered with her belt, and as the car struck at an angle, her airbag didn’t prevent her slamming head-first through the side window, into the corner of a drystone wall tangled with barbed wire. <br /> Even then, it was several minutes before Alex, dazed by the body-blow his belt had dealt him, kicked open his buckled door and fell into what felt like a foot of crisp snow. He crawled painfully away from the steaming, written-off wreck on his hands and knees. <br /> ‘Alex …’ came a weak, whimpering voice. ‘Alex … help me …’ <br /> What seemed like minutes passed before he could sway to his feet and turn groggily round. He’d only travelled twenty yards or so, but despite the light still shafting from the twisted hulk of his car, it was only barely visible. <br /> ‘Alex ...’ came Erika’s voice again. To his surprise, her silhouette stumbled into view. ‘Alex, I can’t see. Her tone turned shrill. ‘<i>For God’s sake, I can’t see </i>… I’ve hurt my eyes …’ <br /> She lurched blindly towards him, reaching out on all sides. Dark viscous streaks marked both her cheeks. Alex’s own blood juddered in his veins. <br /> <i> Kertasníkir, stealer of light …</i><br /> He backed away. ‘Erika, you’ve got to stay here, okay? Just stay here while I get help.’ <br /> ‘Alex, my eyes …’ He’d never heard a voice so wretched, so tortured, so anguished. <br /> ‘Find yourself a tree. Rest against it. I’ll be back as quick as I can.’ <br /> He waded downslope. Ironically, the snowfall now seemed to be easing off. He halted again, looking up and around. The flakes were definitely thinning, the wind slackening. <br /> <i>‘Alex, for God’s sake!’ </i>Erika wailed. ‘My eyes … don’t leave me.’ <br /> He continued down. ‘I can’t take you with me.’ <br /> ‘Alex, please …’ <br /> Overhead, what remained of the clouds broke apart, revealing a blaze of winter stars. A silvery light spread across the snowy landscape, and he saw that the ground in front of him was levelling out. He also saw the glinting flat surface of the ice-covered beck. He tottered to a halt on the edge of it. The ice looked sturdy, but he didn’t try to cross, instead heading right, following its course. Which proved the correct decision, because a short distance later, further to his right but on higher ground, he spied the dull, ruddy glow of what looked like a cottage window. He stopped, racked with aches and pains as his adrenaline ebbed, but looking hopefully upward. Who was it lived there? <br /> The Elwells, of course. Who else? <br /> Even as he peered up, he saw another light appear, as if the cottage door had opened. They were used to the quiet in this part of the world, so they’d have heard the crash. With luck, they’d also see the lights of the car. He was about to hail them, when … <br /> ‘Alex … for God’s sake!’ <br /> He twirled, infuriated to see that Erika had tried to follow him. Though of course, she didn’t know which way he’d gone, and now was stepping out onto the beck. <br /> ‘Erika!’ he croaked. <br /> She was forty yards away, though; she couldn’t hear him. And in any case, she was already out there, shuffling forward. ‘Alex …?’ <br /> He watched helpless, as, almost in slow motion, she lost her footing and fell heavily onto her front, hitting the frozen surface full-length. And vanishing clean through it, a great slab of ice tilting up next to her, then falling flat again, reinserting itself neatly into the human-shaped hole.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjET7DQrhjGYFxVLuNJXq-9TnwQu3a1zNGFQhCW83C4lpDp5kf4ZdwJneH7eJ3S8kByK5VTdAmCU4plG1MQFH_amGSsKC1yNbe2WjdrcE57Lm6lAsOTK6VNMD949zuEAIKTQZ8wQxxzgvGdhW5ZTELkbZed_pzr5aUvpNsY2FVzM0A5aPhWrImzbfdGsbQ/s1920/ice.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjET7DQrhjGYFxVLuNJXq-9TnwQu3a1zNGFQhCW83C4lpDp5kf4ZdwJneH7eJ3S8kByK5VTdAmCU4plG1MQFH_amGSsKC1yNbe2WjdrcE57Lm6lAsOTK6VNMD949zuEAIKTQZ8wQxxzgvGdhW5ZTELkbZed_pzr5aUvpNsY2FVzM0A5aPhWrImzbfdGsbQ/w400-h225/ice.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div> </div><div> A second later, only powdery snow moved, blowing in wisps over the white-topped river. <br /> Alex was so battered and bruised that he couldn’t even totter forward to try and help, not that he’d have been in time. In addition, he was so nauseated by fear and shock that he had little bandwidth left with which even to feel upset. Instead, he swayed there, dazed, before slumping backward into the snow. </div><div> All he could do was sit and stare over the ice. <br /> ‘Bastards,’ he breathed again. So thinking, his eyes tracked up the hillside to the road. <br /> It was no surprise to see two figures up there, framed motionless against the moon. <br /> ‘Okay, you got her!’ he shouted. ‘All that’s left is me, yeah? So, come on down. Finish what you started. Or are you too scared?’ <br /> To his surprise, neither figure moved. And then the phone pinged in his pocket. Briefly incredulous, wondering if this might be them, he fished it out. And saw a text from Des Hepworth. <br /><br /></div><div><i>Hello, mate … I was going to hang fire with the Heidi Prince write-up, but I promised I’d send you something. I’ve not pasted the whole thing in because … well look, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s one critic’s viewpoint, but I won’t pretend she hasn’t ripped you apart. She’s worried that you’ve been going off the boil for a while, but she thinks this one really doesn’t cut it. Says it’s shallow, superficial. Says there’s no meat on it … </i><br /><br /> ‘No meat?’ Alex was speechless at first. Then he laughed out loud. ‘No meat! For real?’ <br /> He gazed up to the ridgeline again. His duo of tormentors remained in place. Black, anthracite outlines. Motionless. <br /> ‘Is <i>that</i> it?’ he shouted. ‘Surely to God not?’ <br /> But hey, maybe it <i>was</i>. The other deaths had been accidents, hadn’t they? Jimmy … Erika. Not that <i>he</i> hadn’t been punished. He glanced at the text again. ‘My worst fear?’ <br /> Not that it seemed a big deal at present. It would later, of course. <br /> Behind him, he heard people scrambling down the hillside from the cottage. The Elwells. Hopefully bringing one of those thick plaid blankets they had in their croft. Maybe a thermos of hot coffee too. When he tried to get to his feet, pain rippled through him. He stayed seated, glancing back up to the road again, from where the two figures had clearly retreated because they were no longer in sight. <br /> ‘Yeah, you’d better run,’ he jeered. ‘Meat-Hook! Scariest thing about you is your name.’ He tried to look round again, but the whiplash hurt too much. ‘I’m down here!’ he called. ‘Jack … Hetty! It’s Alex McQuade. I’m down here.’ <br /> From the grunts they made as they descended the slope it was an effort for them too. And it should be, at their age. No wonder they spent every Christmas down south … <br /> With their kids and grandkids … <br /> A new, different kind of chill crept down Alex’s spine. <br /> When he finally did look round, they were almost upon him. Lurching forward across the snow with unnatural speed. <br /> <i>The Yule Lads fear nothing … save their own voracious parents. </i><br /> Alex had just enough strength left to scream. <br /> He hadn’t considered how many kinds of meat there actually were.<p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgawIwjAeNoAEOX0t0ZqFGrVL847tTmbM09n8ClSWWysXnIw5jEnReMpggHDlYN-sQbSEasFfAv8s8WcxLiWMMIPBmbnfaoBfaGq_UTQME-sCyN1psyKTCMrUbq8CVl8T9IDZQ0PvZa_jDpePAE04ZsfVAhii7ulyXYAnrOYJo0UP6v_UTc1gYFF0E2mf4/s1280/christmas%20evil%2014.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgawIwjAeNoAEOX0t0ZqFGrVL847tTmbM09n8ClSWWysXnIw5jEnReMpggHDlYN-sQbSEasFfAv8s8WcxLiWMMIPBmbnfaoBfaGq_UTQME-sCyN1psyKTCMrUbq8CVl8T9IDZQ0PvZa_jDpePAE04ZsfVAhii7ulyXYAnrOYJo0UP6v_UTc1gYFF0E2mf4/w400-h225/christmas%20evil%2014.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><b><i>I hope that was okay for you good people. If you’ve enjoyed this eerie tale, perhaps you’ll be interested in two collections of Christmas-themed ghost and horror stories of mine, published over the last few years:</i> <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1670083236&sr=1-1"><i>THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE</i></a> <i>and</i> <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=pd_bxgy_img_sccl_1/257-6433603-1950107?pd_rd_w=9cipP&content-id=amzn1.sym.79b812bf-5c8b-4c0c-851c-784423adaff5&pf_rd_p=79b812bf-5c8b-4c0c-851c-784423adaff5&pf_rd_r=J521TDSJ0Z8GKMJWWFA6&pd_rd_wg=Yv0Y5&pd_rd_r=33a8a9ed-89cd-476b-a7fc-36b15102d4f1&pd_rd_i=1916205720&psc=1">IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER</a>.</i> <i>Or, if you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-A-Victorian-Ghost-Story/dp/B08LZQ19JF/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2WH91JOW3E76W&keywords=sparrowhawk+-+paul+finch&qid=1702652547&s=books&sprefix=sparrowhawk+-+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1">SPARROWHAWK</a>, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England. In the meantime, have a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year.</i></b></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-52643302859677003532023-12-15T07:40:00.000-08:002023-12-15T07:42:59.515-08:00Fancy some festive terror in the Icy Realm?<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgxQI759mJjcuToMAtSb5k8FtAi8rS9aKbE-t8t8dq69DgmZD7xPR0_gkpkCO4YiYMFFP8Bz95I4YLfMD6Br41N3qnDPM0hhYvVIusc4zSEN_2UBfNylIcJNi9jkLvc2r_mXW_3fVgD1c6dejBSZRL16fRjvYxLZqNqgzVQezLSdiTvZAeXleGDnRFVo/s400/scary%20winter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgxQI759mJjcuToMAtSb5k8FtAi8rS9aKbE-t8t8dq69DgmZD7xPR0_gkpkCO4YiYMFFP8Bz95I4YLfMD6Br41N3qnDPM0hhYvVIusc4zSEN_2UBfNylIcJNi9jkLvc2r_mXW_3fVgD1c6dejBSZRL16fRjvYxLZqNqgzVQezLSdiTvZAeXleGDnRFVo/w400-h266/scary%20winter.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>Well, it’s not quite time to start the festivities yet, but I thought I’d get the ball rolling a few days early with my annual Christmas horror story. I’m not going to go on and on about the tradition of ghost and horror stories at this time of year. We all know the drill by now (and we all love it, don’t we, eh?). Anyway, this is a brand new one. It’s got a wee bit of length on it, so I’m running it in two sections. This is Part 1. If you’re suitably intrigued, tune in for Part 2 this time next week, Friday December 22, when we conclude the tale. Hope you enjoy …</b><div><b><br /></b><div><b><br /></b><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>THE ICY REALM</b></h2><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>1</b></h2><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Alex was driving out of the multistorey when he received a call from Jimmy Groober. <br /> ‘Jimbo?’ he said. <br /> ‘Alex … mate!’ The caller sounded strained. ‘Just wait …’ <br /> ‘Jimmy?’ <br /> From the grunting and panting, Jimmy was in some kind of kerfuffle. It so distracted Alex that he drove straight into the rush-hour traffic. Horns tooted as he swerved into line. Hurrying pedestrians glanced at him from under their bob-caps. <br /> ‘Jimmy?’ he said again. ‘What’s the matter, mate?’ <br /> If he was honest, he was tired rather than concerned. He’d had a wearisome day. He didn’t need another problem on his plate right now. <br /> ‘Alex … listen to me. I’m telling you, you’ve got to listen!’ <br /> ‘Okay, I’m listening.’ <br /> ‘Where are you?’ <br /> ‘Northwestern Station. Just got in from London. I’ve been …’ <br /> ‘When you get home, you’ll find a package waiting.’ <br /> ‘What?’ <br /> ‘A Christmas present.’ <br /> ‘Okay.’ Alex was mystified. ‘That’s nice.’ <br /> ‘No, it isn’t. It really isn’t. Listen, buddy … whatever you do, don’t open it, okay? Do <i>not</i> open it.’ <br /> ‘Jimmy …?’ <br /> The call ended. <br /> Alex sat nonplussed as he swung left onto the one-way system. Fleetingly, he saw only the snowflakes driving at his windscreen. Jimmy Groober was the most down-to-Earth bloke he knew. A regular drinking buddy, he was a decade older and calmer than Alex, and as blue-collar as they came. He wasn’t the sort who got upset easily. He wasn’t the sort who got upset at all. Alex thought about calling him back, though he’d look a fool if it turned out to be a wind-up. Jimmy could be a joker when the mood was on him, though this hadn’t sounded like something humorous. He was a good actor, of course. Only at amateur level, though he’d possessed enough talent to go professional if he’d ever bothered trying. Even so, that voice had been desperate, filled with worry and … could it have been <i>fear</i>? <br /> Alex jammed his brakes on. <br /> Some idiot of a woman so loaded with brightly-coloured parcels that she couldn’t see where she was going had blundered into his headlights. She waved an apologetic mitten as she stumbled across the road. Alex drove on. It had been partly his own fault; he wasn’t paying adequate attention. Plus, the snowfall, while it wasn’t heavy, was a distraction. He hoped it would ease off before the end of the evening, as they were driving up to the Lake District first thing in the morning. <br /> When he was away from the town centre and the traffic had thinned, he called Jimmy back. Three times, but on each occasion it went to voicemail. Well, whatever the problem was, he’d find out about it in time. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have difficulties of his own. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div><br /></div>The main issue was <i>Dark in the Park</i>, Alex’s new play. It opened at the Young Vic in January, and that afternoon had been the run-through for the press. Alex knew from long experience that a writer wasn’t always the best judge of his own material, but even so, having watched it from the back of the theatre, from the wings, the gods, just about everywhere, he’d been thoroughly dissatisfied. And it hadn’t just been him. After the show, those critics who’d deigned to go into the bar had been lukewarm in their response. Okay, few of them ever gave anything away purposely, but you could usually tell if they’d enjoyed something. Even Heidi Prince from the <i>Guardian</i>, who was generally a fan of his, and a close friend of director Des Hepworth’s, had been noncommittal. <br /> ‘I’ll need to mull it over, darling,’ she’d said on her way out. ‘Let it percolate.’ <br /> That had hardly been encouraging. But if Alex was honest, his own concerns were foremost in his mind. It had been a polished enough production. The performances were topline, as you’d expect. But it had been the play itself. It simply hadn’t delivered, and he couldn’t understand why this hadn’t struck him previously. He’d written umpteen drafts before it had gone to rehearsal. He’d made constant adjustments, run it through again and again, workshopped it tirelessly, and each time he’d felt that it was getting better and better, until he’d finally been certain he had another hit on his hands. <br /> And yet now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, something was lacking. <br /> Parking at the front of the house, he sat there as the engine cooled. He wondered if he was just worn-out. There’d been much toing and froing to London this last month, which was a four-hundred-mile round trip. Then there’d been all those rewrites and rehearsals. <br /> Oh, it was all lovely, it was great, it was the best job in the world, but it was draining. <br /> ‘Yeah.’ He wound his scarf round his neck and climbed from the Jag. <br /> He was wiped out, plain and simple. Which wasn’t helped when he saw that the house was in darkness, because this meant that Erika wasn’t home yet. <br /> Sarah wouldn’t only have been home by now, she’d have had all the lights on, including the Christmas decorations, and the first thing he’d smell on entering would be whatever delicious treat she’d prepared for their dinner. He knew it was sexist and old-fashioned of him, but to be fair, Erika taught dance at the local Technical College. She normally finished at five, and it was now after seven and there was still no sign of her. Almost certainly, she’d gone for a drink with friends. He supposed that with it being Christmas Eve tomorrow, it was fair enough. But it did bug him given that she knew he’d been in London all day and still wasn’t here. He crossed the drive to the front door, feet crunching the thin carpet of snow, and only then remembered Jimmy Groober’s odd warning. <br /> <i>You’ll find a package waiting for you. Whatever you do … do not open it. </i><br /> There was no package there. Alex let himself in. A couple of bills had been stuffed through the letter flap, but there was nothing inside either, not even a chitty from a delivery service to inform him that they’d left a parcel in the shed. Damned if he was worrying about it, he went around the house, turning lights on. At least, the central heating had activated. He stumped upstairs to have a shower. If nothing else, the hot spray relaxed him. Which was why he almost jumped out of the cubicle when its misted door was suddenly yanked open, and a hand gripped his privates. <br /> ‘Bloody hell, Erika!’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t even know you were home.’ <br /> ‘Came in the back way,’ she giggled, sliding naked into the cubicle alongside him. <br /> She had short spiky blonde hair and a trim but shapely body. When she embraced him face-to-face, he smelled the Cointreau on her breath, but it wasn’t excessive, and he reminded himself again that this was the start of the Christmas holiday. <br /> ‘Awww … did I scare you?’ She pecked him on the lips. <br /> He tried not to sulk with her, which wasn’t difficult. It wasn’t as if she’d deliberately sought to surprise him. She usually parked her Juke at the side of the house and came in through the back door, which was why he hadn’t heard her. That was a bit naughty, of course: drinking and driving home, especially at this time of year. It wasn’t the first time, either, and that was something he’d need to admonish her for. Though perhaps not at this moment. Her slim form melded into him as they kissed. <br /> Erika was thirty now, but over twenty years his junior, and a sylphlike beauty next to his craggy, burly, bearded self. Alex was under no illusion that the advantages of this relationship outweighed the disadvantages. <br /> Later, when they went downstairs in their dressing gowns, she suggested a takeaway. <br /> ‘Good shout.’ He settled onto the sofa, fiddling with the TV remote. <br /> She dug into the top drawer of the bureau. ‘Indian, Chinese, Thai?’ <br /> ‘Any,’ he said. <br /> ‘That reminds me …’ She opened her laptop to access <i>Just Eat</i>. ‘There was a package for you at the back door. It’s over there.’ <br /> Alex stared across the room at the small, square parcel sitting on the bureau. It was about half the size of a shoebox, wrapped in shiny green paper and tied with a scarlet ribbon. <br /> ‘Who brought it?’ <br /> ‘Dunno. Shall we do Chinese? Have our usual banquet for two?’ <br /> ‘And it’s definitely for me?’ <br /> ‘Course it’s for you. There’s a tag on it … strange message though.’ <br /> ‘What do you mean?’ <br /> ‘Go and have a look. Won’t bite you.’ <br /> Alex went over. There were actually two tags. The first one read:<i> For Alex. Merry Xmas</i>. The second one: <i>Don’t wait till the big day. Open now</i>. <br /> Some kind of joke, almost certainly. Something heavy shifted inside. <br /> ‘Banquet C?’ Erika suggested. <br /> ‘Yeah, that’s fine. You had any contact with Jimmy Groober recently?’ <br /> ‘Only when you last did. When we were down the Star and Garter.’ <br /> ‘It’s just that, well …’ He mentioned the odd phone-call. <br /> She arched an eyebrow. Then gave that fetching lop-sided pixie grin of hers. ‘There you go. Just up Jimmy’s street, that. Probably some kind of jack-in-the-box. Boxing glove on a spring. It’ll punch you on the nose when you open it.’ <br /> Alex put the parcel back on the bureau. ‘For which reason, we’ll leave it.’ <br /> ‘Don’t believe in opening them early anyway,’ she said. ‘Sort of thing that brings bad luck.’ <br /> ‘What do you mean?’ <br /> ‘You know, breaks the rules. And we’ve got a long drive tomorrow, and now they’re saying it’s going to snow all night. Everyone says they want a white Christmas, but if you’re not ready for one, it can end in disaster.’ <br /> ‘Good Lord, Erika … let’s not tempt fate.’ <br /> ‘Don’t be silly, I’m only joking.’ With a final tap on the keyboard, she placed their order. ‘We’re spending Christmas at the Farm. You’ll be among friends and loved ones. What could go wrong?’ <br /> ‘What could go wrong is that we’ll be in the middle of nowhere in a winter storm.’ <br /> ‘We’ll be fine. This is England. Not Iceland.’ <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div><br /></div>Alex sat up in the pitch darkness, unsure what had woken him. <br /> His house was located on a suburban cul-de-sac, so noises late at night weren’t unusual. But all he heard now was dead silence. It was an affluent cul-de-sac of course, which meant the houses were large, detached and set back from the road, and from each other. So, while it might not be completely unusual to hear the neighbours, it wasn’t common either. Besides, though he couldn’t be certain what he’d just heard, he knew instinctively that it hadn’t been outside, but in. He scrabbled on the bedside table to find his glasses, gazing across the room at the digital clock, which read 03.15. Swinging his legs to the floor, he fumbled with his feet for his slippers. Getting up, he grabbed his dressing gown from the armchair. <br /> ‘What is it?’ Erika mumbled. <br /> ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’ <br /> He took the baseball bat from the side of the bed. <br /> ‘Alex?’ Erika said, now wide awake. <br /> There was no concealing it from her. She’d long lived in fear that a celebrity like him might be a target. Alex had advised her a hundred times that he wasn’t a celebrity. Okay, he’d been fêted in the West End, where they’d all been seduced by his work’s ‘roughneck charm and working-class honesty’ (Heidi Prince again), but who in Lancashire knew about that? <br /> ‘Do you have your phone?’ he asked. <br /> ‘Yeah. Why?’ <br /> ‘Keep it to hand, okay. Stay here.’ <br /> He padded along the landing to the staircase, the top of which came slowly into view as his eyes <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpzUsRYiUEhae_YVdAvKVL1h1_zUXR_b4ljJ4bUNUjsIywuzPqP1Gvn1jUdVSepfROaWWXVP1pCm8W6k4vCAqhrEuMdgleX0_pBGk4k9_iXZm-V5FbdtorT_mRBTHscgzb2okyXjbwBL-sVUILAeUTH1w1zJjDKP_hJZBzDmVmW4B6mJOD6OYAr2CmkGY/s400/stairs.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="250" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpzUsRYiUEhae_YVdAvKVL1h1_zUXR_b4ljJ4bUNUjsIywuzPqP1Gvn1jUdVSepfROaWWXVP1pCm8W6k4vCAqhrEuMdgleX0_pBGk4k9_iXZm-V5FbdtorT_mRBTHscgzb2okyXjbwBL-sVUILAeUTH1w1zJjDKP_hJZBzDmVmW4B6mJOD6OYAr2CmkGY/w250-h400/stairs.png" width="250" /></a></div>attuned. He listened again but heard nothing. <br /> There were all kinds of unwritten rules about what you were supposed to do in situations like this. Stay in your room, barricade the door, call the police. Or maybe turn all the lights on: let the bastards know you’d sussed them; give them a chance to escape before contact was made. Or alternatively, creep down with bat in hand and beat the living shit out of them.</div><div> That was how they’d have handled it in the part of town where he’d grown up, and maybe it was this that started Alex downstairs, but he wasn’t kidding anyone. His street-fighting days were long behind him. The truth was though, that somehow, he knew this wasn’t an intruder. It was far below zero outside. He couldn’t imagine there were many bone-idle scallies who’d put a foot out of bed on a night like this, let alone go on the rob. But it wasn’t just that, it was the silence down there. There was something calm and relaxed about it, no hint of a foreign presence. He stopped to listen again, but now – call it instinct, call it sixth sense, hell, call it ‘spider sense’ – he felt increasingly certain that nothing was amiss. <br /> He crossed the hall to the open lounge door. It was particularly dark in there because the Christmas tree, which was a massive affair, laden with baubles and streamers, was standing in front of the window. Despite that, a faint silvery light shimmered out, and he fleetingly saw flutters of movement in it. That stopped him in his tracks until he realised it was the snowflakes falling outside. <br /> He went in, slapping the light on. <br /> The lounge was empty. He pivoted, scanning every corner. <br /> And sensed movement. <br /> A white-faced figure appeared at his shoulder. <br /> ‘God almighty!’ he yelped. <br /> ‘It’s me,’ Erika said, tying her dressing gown. <br /> ‘I told you to stay upstairs.’ <br /> ‘No way, mister.’ <br /> ‘Well … everything’s okay, look.’ <br /> But that wasn’t totally the case. They searched the whole downstairs, finding nothing out of place, but when they came back into the lounge, they this time spotted something. The unopened present on the bureau now lay on the floor. It had been dislodged by a single item that had fallen from the wall. The entirety of the lounge, in fact most of the downstairs of Alex McQuade’s house, was decked with framed promotional posters from his many plays. <br /> This was one of them. <br /> ‘That’s all it was?’ Erika said. ‘A loose nail?’ <br /> Alex picked the image up. Its frame had broken, and the glass was cracked, but it was still possible to see the stylised artwork underneath. It depicted a madly capering, goblin-like figure with a rollcall of traditional pantomime caricatures behind it: the Dame, the Principal Boy, Baron Hardup, and so on. Across the top, in snow-capped letters made from what appeared to be twisted-together twigs, it read: <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>RUMPLESTILTSKIN</i></div><br /> ‘Jimmy Groober was in that show, wasn’t he?’ Alex said uneasily. <br /> ‘Think that was his first, wasn’t it?’ Erika replied. <br /> Alex threw his thoughts back ten years. <i>Rumplestiltskin</i> had seen Jimmy Groober, a natural born comedian and fellow stalwart of the Bannerwood Players, their local amateur dramatics society, make his debut as the pantomime dame, a role in which he’d brought the house down. Ever since then, the annual panto had been the highlight of the Players’ season (this year they’d done <i>Mother Goose</i>, and it had gone down a treat), and Jimmy Groober was one of its regular stars. <br /> Alex put the picture down and picked up the present. With a vicious rip, he tore it wide open. Under the wrapping was a small cardboard box. He tore that open too. A potato sat inside. Old and rather withered. In fact, from the faint aroma, it was turning rotten. <br /> Erika giggled. ‘If that isn’t a present from Jimmy Groober, nothing is.’ <br /> Alex didn’t laugh. ‘Jimmy’s pranks are normally funny.’ <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div><br /></div>The journey north was not too difficult. The M6 was busy with Christmas traffic, but the constant flow of vehicles had kept the road surface warm, so while the surrounding moors and hills were blanketed with snow, the carriageway was clear. <br /> Erika was happy to drive, while Alex sat in the front passenger seat, laptop on his knee, trying to figure out exactly what it was about <i>Dark in the Park</i> that just wasn’t working. At no stage though was he able to establish the problem, or problems, and he suspected the latter. The truth be told, none of his usual creative juices were flowing, his thoughts so awry that he couldn’t come close to interrogating the work the way he normally did when a rewrite was required, not of course that a rewrite would be welcome at this late stage. <br /> It didn’t help that he was distracted by other things. <br /> ‘Funny that Jimmy Groober wasn’t in, this morning, wasn’t it?’ <br /> ‘I don’t see why,’ Erika replied. <br /> They’d been delayed setting out because Alex, having rung Jimmy a couple more times and received no answer, had gone round to see him, only to find his small, terraced house sitting behind closed curtains. No amount of knocking had brought anyone to the door. <br /> ‘Probably gone to his sister’s,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he have a sister down in Norfolk?’ <br /> ‘Think so, yeah.’ <br /> It was a viable explanation, Alex supposed. If not his sister, confirmed bachelor Jimmy had a range of other ladies dotted around whom he still had amicable relationships with; sometimes more than that, even at sixty-five. <br /> Alex didn’t bother saying that this didn’t explain why the guy wasn’t answering his mobile. He called again while they drove, twice, but no answer was forthcoming. He even called Fiona ‘Fee’ Havergood, another mutual friend of theirs, who’d been the original director of <i>Rumplestiltskin</i>, but she wasn’t answering either. <br /> He closed his laptop. ‘Weird idea for a panto, wasn’t it? <i>Rumplestiltskin</i>.’ <br /> ‘It’s ten years ago,’ Erika said. ‘What’re you moidering about?’ <br /> ‘I’ve never seen it done anywhere else.’ <br /> ‘It was partly Fee Havergood’s idea, wasn’t it? She’s the “well-loved tales” expert. Anyway, think of all the fun me and you would never have had, if we hadn’t done it.’ <br /> Alex mused. A decade ago, the Bannerwood Players were struggling: understaffed, playing to half-full houses, unable to make the rent even on the scruffy old mission hall at the back of St Simeon’s Church. At the request of retired college lecturer, Fiona Havergood, the only other company member who was a professional author, though in her case it was kiddies’ fiction, he’d taken time out of his busy schedule to write <i>Rumplestiltskin</i> for them, and it had worked on all kinds of levels. Not just because he’d presented them with an exclusive and quality piece of work, but because he’d used all his pulling-power with the theatreland press, who’d responded generously, giving it rave notices. Even a couple of the nationals gave it glowing write-ups. Audiences had packed that hall for twenty nights on the bounce, and the Players had never looked back. <br /> ‘Good job you cast me, eh?’ Erika said, giving him a saucy look. <br /> ‘I didn’t cast you. It was the Casting Committee who cast you.’ <br /> ‘Anything you say.’ <br /> The Bannerwood Players had never been less than extremely grateful to have a popular playwright like Alex McQuade as a member. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he still exerted influence down there, even though he didn’t participate much in their productions. <br /> ‘It wasn’t like you weren’t the best at the audition,’ he said. ‘By a country mile.’ <br /> Even now it had been memorable, the shapely young dancer in her fiendish green face-paint, her trim body lithe and flexible in its green leotard, twisting and turning in that sexual yet menacing manner, delivering each line with a catlike hiss. <br /> ‘There was that other guy too,’ she said. ‘What was his name? Nils something?’ <br /> Again, Alex threw his mind back. He’d been involved with so many shows since then that he struggled to remember. ‘Nils Carling? He was okay. But he wasn’t a patch on you.’ <br /> ‘Really set his heart on getting that part, didn’t he?’ <br /> ‘Wish I had a quid for every actor I’ve seen make that mistake over the years.’ <br /> ‘Didn’t he walk out on the Players afterwards?’ <br /> ‘Wish I had a quid for every time that’s happened too.’ <br /> ‘Anyway, what was weird about it?’ she asked. ‘<i>Rumplestiltskin</i>?’ <br /> ‘Dunno.’ Alex pondered. ‘It’s a creepy story as fairy tales go. Whole new level of goblin nastiness.’ <br /> ‘Goblins <i>are</i> nasty, aren’t they? It’s Enid Blyton who gave them their back garden makeover. You wouldn’t want to know the real ones.’ <br /> ‘Real ones?’ <br /> ‘I meet them all the time,’ she said. ‘Whenever I’m round town. Even in the posh bars. “Any chance of a Christmas kiss, love?” “How about some festive slap and tickle?”’ She glanced sidelong at him. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, mate. And you still haven’t got me into the big time.’ <br /> ‘I’ve told you …’ Alex gazed ahead. ‘When the right part comes, I’ll push you forward.’ <br /> ‘Doesn’t have to be the right part. Any part will do, so long as it gets me an Equity card.’ <br /> ‘An Equity card isn’t the be-all and end-all. You want to make an impact, it needs to be the right part, trust me.’ <br /> ‘Well, you <i>write</i> the parts. It’s all in your hands.’ <br /> But she didn’t hammer this point too hard. Erika usually knew when enough was enough. <br /> Ahead of them, the Lake District fells were stark, soaring massifs of rock and snow.</div><div> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAdsVKlJRGxTKDukBDprO1eentzzRonD5y_LSfNQdi0EzNGLY48CcmOod122ZGd6BZnO1nXnaZqTgUIVAx8SLg-OUtPzfhT6qx8cMfd2H7tCQYEmdNC4y8L0vC7ob_3nfXAoH549LKNIGQ58ru7WUNOruGjRAgxDHT28xBNrosmWtpwRM1mIefqg0U38/s1440/snow%20terror.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfAdsVKlJRGxTKDukBDprO1eentzzRonD5y_LSfNQdi0EzNGLY48CcmOod122ZGd6BZnO1nXnaZqTgUIVAx8SLg-OUtPzfhT6qx8cMfd2H7tCQYEmdNC4y8L0vC7ob_3nfXAoH549LKNIGQ58ru7WUNOruGjRAgxDHT28xBNrosmWtpwRM1mIefqg0U38/w400-h225/snow%20terror.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><br />‘Hello, Fee,’ Alex told the answering machine. ‘It’s Alex McQuade. I’ve been trying to get Jimmy Groober, but he’s not answering. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s anything wrong, but … well, you’ve not had any contact with him, have you? Feel free to call me back. I know it’s Christmas, but I’m always happy to chat.’ <br /> He glanced from the car to where Erika was taking the bags in through the side door. The Farm looked gorgeous in its winter finery. The house itself wasn’t pretty, a sprawling structure of granite with various wings and annexes, multiple chimneys and different-levelled roofs of heavy slate. But it was in a beautiful if remote position, on high wooded ground overlooking Swindale. The expansive lawn at its front and the encircling woods were already deep in snow, the steel blue sky only intensifying its glimmer. <br /> Alex had bought and renovated the place, making it into his personal weekend retreat, over a decade ago, after the phenomenal success of <i>Witchcradle</i> had ‘catapulted him into the top bracket’, to quote the <i>Sunday Times</i>. This was probably the prettiest he’d ever seen it, and yet he still wasn’t able to relax, and that wasn’t just down to his sudden inability to string two words together, though that was troubling enough. Again, during the last twenty minutes of the journey, he’d delved into his laptop, trying to fix <i>Dark in the Park</i>, but as before, hadn’t been able to pinpoint the problem let alone perform some corrective surgery. Frankly, the last time he’d looked at it, it had been nothing more than a higgledy-piggledy mass of disjointed words and ideas. Oh, it ran smoothly enough when he read it aloud, but where was the meaning, what was the subtext? <br /> Determined that he wouldn’t look at it again until Christmas was over, he got out of the car and grabbed what remained of their baggage. <br /> Inside the farmhouse, most of the <i>olde worlde</i> layout remained, so it was a rabbit warren of passages and small rooms. The two largest were the lounge/conservatory, which was at the far side of the house, the view from its glazed annex looking down through a break in the trees, along the length of the immense, picturesque valley that was Swindale, and the kitchen, where the central table could seat sixteen and the huge cast-iron range was an Edwardian original. He’d had storage heaters installed, because the place could be bitterly cold in winter, and was pleased to see that the two caretakers, Jack and Hetty Elwell, who lived in a small croft just down the valley from here, had turned the heaters on in time for their arrival, and had tidied the interior up nicely, hanging it with festive greenery, before heading south to spend Christmas with their children and grandchildren, which they did every year. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_2n_VXrvyUZC8jqByCw3me8LHbqiy9dVHiW-TQSsUMRylXawg8QRaDY6JwskpCkpTi_1eM1DZU6MZU-qZzuK2to7_GagAyPG62DIieFMetOgUnGolXNoB0ypgshG0b1ExbAZg3VSVyv50DtOaSSkohCBus3PBZu-_75krpFeWurZPkdcfg3CynZR4PU/s2048/lovely%20snow%201.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1728" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_2n_VXrvyUZC8jqByCw3me8LHbqiy9dVHiW-TQSsUMRylXawg8QRaDY6JwskpCkpTi_1eM1DZU6MZU-qZzuK2to7_GagAyPG62DIieFMetOgUnGolXNoB0ypgshG0b1ExbAZg3VSVyv50DtOaSSkohCBus3PBZu-_75krpFeWurZPkdcfg3CynZR4PU/s320/lovely%20snow%201.jpeg" width="270" /></a></div> Erika was in the conservatory, the central feature of which, the hefty spruce fir, was festooned with crackers and tasteful, hand-carved ornaments (many, no doubt, Jack Elwell’s own work). She peered down the valley, which was almost Alpine in its grandeur, Swindale Beck a frozen ribbon meandering along the centre, clumps of pine standing out from the snow here and there, and tucked away high on the northwest flank, the Elwells’ cottage, which was tear-jerkingly reminiscent of so many Christmas miniatures he’d seen over the years.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> ‘As a child, I used to dream of festive seasons like this,’ Erika said.</div> He stood behind her. ‘You should’ve been around in the Seventies and Eighties. We had them regularly.’ <br /> ‘I don’t just mean the snow. I mean the setting. It’s magical.’ <br /> ‘Well, a bit of magic can’t hurt now and then.’ <br /> ‘It’s your brother and his family who are coming tomorrow, isn’t it?’ <br /> ‘Yeah,’ he confirmed. ‘They’re only in Carlisle, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for them.’ <br /> ‘In that case, I need to nip into Shapwick to get a couple of last-minute presents.’ <br /> ‘Okay, but we’ve only got about an hour and a half of daylight left.’ <br /> ‘That’s all I’ll need. What about your Michael?’ <br /> Alex shrugged. ‘Manchester’s a bit further. Mike’s not sure if him and his girlfriend are going to be able to make it.’ <br /> ‘Still doesn’t like me, does he?’ <br /> ‘He’s never been rude to you, has he?’ <br /> ‘Not in recent times. Not like when he was a kid. You mentioned goblins on the way here. That was your Michael all over.’ <br /> He put his arms round her. ‘Took his mum’s side, that’s all. <br /> ‘Sometimes he was a horror.’ <br /> ‘Like you said, goblins are.’ <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><div><br /></div>Alex’s main memory of Christmas shopping as a child was an atmosphere of breathless excitement. The shopfronts helped, glittering with evergreens and tinsel, not to mention he fairy lights zigzagging overhead, the Santas ringing bells and calling greetings from bustling street corners, the crib in the town centre, its life-size figures kneeling in straw. But Britain didn’t seem to be that kind of place anymore. Even with snow on the pavements, the atmosphere in Shapwick was drab. There weren’t as many shoppers as there’d used to be because there weren’t as many shops. Too many windows were boarded or filled with dust. The town’s festive lights were up but seemed somehow lacklustre. <br /> For all that, Erika still had things she wanted to buy, and one of them was a surprise for Alex, so after they’d parked, they split up, having agreed to reunite in forty minutes. <br /> Alex drifted into Shapwick Mall, where <i>Slade</i> were playing over the tannoy. Again, too many outlets weren’t currently in business. Despite this, his feet followed their usual path to one of the few shops open, the multileveled bookstore at the end of the main concourse. The only person on its ground floor was a young woman with green hair seated behind the till. She was too absorbed in her phone even to glance at him as he trudged upstairs to the first floor. At which point his own phone rang. <br /> He dug the device from his pocket. It was Des Hepworth. <br /> ‘Hi, mate,’ Alex answered. <br /> ‘Alex … just had a note through from Heidi Prince.’ <br /> ‘Yeah?’ <br /> ‘She’s going to send us the final draft of her review before she clocks off for Christmas.’ <br /> ‘Okay …?’ Alex waited. <br /> ‘She didn’t need to do that, of course, but she’s a mate … and I think she’s basically giving us a heads-up.’ <br /> ‘I see.’ A heads-up was rarely a good sign. <br /> ‘Des sounded awkward. ‘I thought the play was pretty good, myself.’ <br /> ‘You thought?’ <br /> ‘I mean I think.’ In truth, Des sounded as though he didn’t know what he meant. <br /> ‘Can you copy me in when you get it?’ Alex said. <br /> ‘Absolutely. Look … it’s only one review. Don’t worry too much.’ <br /> <i> Sure, it’s only one,</i> Alex thought. <i>But like you say, Heidi’s a mate. What about the ones who aren’t? </i><br /> Pocketing the phone, he walked across the shop’s first floor, which was bare of both staff and customers. Though he tended to buy crime novels for his personal reading, Alex invariably visited this area first. He thought of it as the Drama Department because there was a whole section here given over to published stage-plays, and that was something you rarely found in high street bookstores. Not that he normally purchased works by other playwrights; he preferred to see them on stage. This was all about massaging his own insecure ego. <br /> Sarah had always blamed this on his working-class origins. ‘You don’t think you belong in this world,’ she’d told him. ‘You’re sure they’ll find a way to throw you out. But no one gets born to this, Alex. You worked your way in like everyone else.’ <br /> He’d believed that; many artists suffered from imposter syndrome because other shortcomings in their life made them feel unworthy. But you couldn’t rationalise away your deepest fear, not when you walked a constant tightrope between success and failure. <br /> ‘You’re a damn good writer,’ Sarah had said. ‘And you’ve got more to say than most.’ <br /> On this occasion it felt even more important than usual to remind himself of that. <br /> The plays occupied several parallel bookcases, with seven shelves each. To the shop’s credit, it had a wide range of titles, but he usually had no problem locating his own. This time, though, as he ran his finger along the appropriate shelf – McLellan, McMorrow, McNally, McPherson – there was an empty gap where his own plays usually were, before it went on to Medoff, Meisl … <br /> He stood bewildered, then spied two thin booklets, definitely plays, lying on the floor halfway along the aisle. He swooped them up. <br /> <div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Enemies at the Door</i> by Alex McQuade</div><br /> and <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>All the Devils Are Here</i> by Alex McQuade.</div><br /> Both were grubby and creased, as if they hadn’t just dropped from the shelf, but had been kicked around. When he opened <i>Devils</i>, the interior was gooey, a greenish slime sticking several pages together. From the next aisle came a guttural chuckle, and then a crude hawking sound and what might have been someone spitting. <br /> Slowly tensing, Alex walked round the corner. At the far end of that next aisle, a dishevelled figure stood with back turned. He wore a ragged green parka over a red hoodie, the hood of which was pulled up and begrimed with filth. What looked like dirty pyjama trousers were tucked into a pair of ratty, worn-out boots. The figure’s big shoulders heaved as he chuckled again, and once again hawked and spat into something, before tossing it over his shoulder. It skittered face-up along the aisle. <br /> </div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Hunting Season</i> by Alex McQuade</div><br /> ‘The hell!’ Alex said aloud, but when he glanced up, Mr Shabby had vanished round the next corner. ‘He hastened in pursuit. ‘What the actual …?’ <br /> There was no one in the next aisle, but here, <i>Witchcradle</i> lay on the floor. This one had been torn down the entire length of its spine. He trembled as he scooped it up. This wasn’t just random vandalism. Surely, this was targeted? At first, he was lost for ideas. He could go downstairs and complain. But what would the girl behind the till be able to do? She could hardly confront the vandal on her own. She could call the police, but would they turn out for a couple of damaged books when they didn’t even bother investigating burglaries anymore? <br /> Suddenly, suspecting he was being watched, he spun round. <br /> There was no one there, but his gaze fell on something else curious. On a shelf directly behind him, one particular book was clearly out of place. They were still in the Drama Department, but this was a hardback work of nonfiction. What was more, it had been placed there with its front facing outward. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Icy Realm</i></div><br />Its cover depicted several rows of what looked like Viking runes carved in stone and covered with frost. More arresting though was the photograph that had clearly been used by someone as a bookmark, the upper part still showing at the top of the book. It was a portrait, but whoever it was, only their eyes were visible. <br /> Staring directly at Alex. <br /> Stiffly, he took the book down. <br /> Its strapline read: <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A Compendium of the myths and folklore of the Nordic lands</i></div><br /> That meant nothing to him, but his impulse was still to flip it open on the page where the picture had been inserted as a marker. It was the start of a new chapter. Another image displayed a bunch of semi-distinct figures, humanoid but, as before, etched crudely onto what looked like a Viking runestone. Across the top, it read: <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Yule Lads</i></div><br /> But it was the photo that was the main attraction. <br /> Alex had to blink several times before he could comprehend what he was seeing there. Because incredibly, unbelievably, it depicted a face he knew. <br /> Nils … Nils Carling? <br /> Had that been his name? The guy who’d wanted to play the part of Rumplestiltskin all those years ago. Who’d said he’d been born to play it. And had then lost out because Erika had auditioned so well. But this wasn’t Nils Carling as Alex remembered him. This was a more recent version. Back then, the guy had been young and fresh-faced, with white-blond hair. Here, he was older, heavier, balding, his cheeks pouchier, his features pitted by age. <br /> ‘Little bastard,’ Alex said under his breath. This settled it. He <i>was</i> being targeted. <br /> From somewhere close by, he heard another guttural, piglike chuckle. <br /> He hurried to the end of the aisle and diverted left into the main shop. Again, there was no sign of the dishevelled figure, but another of Alex’s plays lay on the floor. <i>Blind Alleys</i>, the first one to make the professional stage. As before, it had been torn, spat on, kicked. From downstairs, he heard the shop doorbell jangle, as if another customer was entering the premises. Or leaving. <br /> He raced down. The girl with green hair still sat absorbed in her phone. But she glanced up as he lurched towards the door. ‘Excuse me! That book?’ <br /> ‘What?’ he replied, distracted. He glanced at the book in his hand. <br /> <i>A Compendium of the myths and folklore of the Nordic lands. </i><br /> ‘You are going to pay?’ she asked curtly. <br /> ‘For Christ’s sake, love … you have a go at me, when there’s been some tramp upstairs ripping books apart. Here!’ <br /> He chucked a crumpled tenner at her and dashed outside. <br /> He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d kept the book, but surely it was a clue to what was going on. A deliberate clue even, which was equally odd. Out on the concourse, <i>Slade</i> had now been superseded by <i>Wizzard</i>, but the festive anthems still failed to work their magic in that empty place of scuffed linoleum floors and dark, empty windows. Not that this mattered. When he glanced left, he saw a shabby shape in a green coat and a red hoodie walking away down a side corridor. <br /> Alex didn’t think for one minute that this was Nils Carling. He now remembered the guy properly: he’d been unusually short and squat, a Tolkien dwarf in terms of his stature, in every way perfect to play Rumplestiltskin, had Erika’s approach to the audition not been so captivating. This figure though, was much taller. Over six feet. For that same reason, Alex didn’t run after him. He wasn’t tackling someone like this on his own in a deserted shopping centre. The guy could have a knife, or syringes, or anything. Instead, he followed at a careful pace, his target never more than fifty yards ahead. <br /> Until he turned abruptly right and entered through a shop door. <br /> Surprised, Alex hurried forward. Again, the shop appeared to be closed. An empty display stand occupied the window. Overhead, a signpost read: <i>Christmas Shop</i>. One of those charity outlets. They opened around September, selling festive tat, but any business they did would be concluded by this time on December 24. <br /> Shoving the book he’d bought into his jeans back pocket, Alex pushed tentatively at the door. When it cracked open, he hesitated. This could be construed as looking for trouble, but he knew that he couldn’t go back to the Farm without having investigated. What kind of Christmas would he have if he didn’t at least try to get some kind of answer? <br /> The interior was small and poky, fragments of tinsel hanging from naked shelves, the floor covered with scraps of wrapping paper and a thin scattering of pine needles. But a door at the back stood ajar. Alex held his ground. That next door had to be where the guy had gone. There was no other hiding place. ‘Hello?’ he called out. ‘Anyone at home?’ <br /> He’d already decided that if the guy reappeared, he’d produce the book of Norse myths and claim that he’d seen him drop it. The photo was still inside, so it would be interesting to see the reaction.</div><div> However, no sound issued from that back room. <br /> Gritting his teeth, Alex advanced and pushed the next door open. The space beyond lay in extreme dimness, but it had the aura of a stock room. He could sense clutter. Reaching out, he found a switch and threw it. An electric bulb came on, and he was startled to see how much Christmas still lurked in there. Stacks of open boxes overflowing with cheap baubles and plastic evergreens, a whole pile of glitzy fake Christmas trees zip-tied into bundles and propped in a corner. In addition, somewhat classier, a neat row of festive marionettes hung limply along the back wall. Alex pivoted round, scoping out every nook and cranny. As before though, there was nowhere obvious for a fugitive to hide. <br /> His gaze fell on the marionettes again. There were thirteen of them, and at first glance he’d taken them as representative of the season, but now that he looked closely, while, yes, they were wearing Christmassy type garb – thick boots, warm, colourful clothing with white fur trims, caps with bells on and such – they were remarkably soulless, their expressionless faces made from clean white porcelain, holes where their eyes should be. <br /> Then the door to the back room closed. And a lock turned. <br /> Alex spun round. ‘Hey … hey, whoa, wait!’ <br /> He dashed across the room, but now heard the door at the front of the shop closing as well, and then another lock turning. <br /> ‘Hey … wait! There’s somebody still in here. <i>For God’s sake, wait!</i>’ <br /> The lights went out. <br /> Alex froze for several seconds. When he finally scrabbled at the wall, he found the light-switch and flipped it. But the darkness remained. <br /> ‘For God’s sake!’ he shouted. ‘<i>What’s the matter with you?</i>’ <br /> But only now was the full nightmare of his predicament dawning on him. <br /> This was a shopping mall, and the lights had probably all gone off automatically. That meant the mall was now closed. And tomorrow was Christmas Day. <br /> ‘Hello!’ he shouted frantically. ‘<i>There’s still someone in here! Hello!</i>’ <br /> He imagined his voice echoing down the empty, darkened walkways. And as such, though it was totally unlike him, he flew into a panic, whirling round amid the heaped boxes and shelves, rebounding from one to another. Things fell. Something broke. He didn’t care. <br /> ‘<i>For Christ’s sake!</i>’ he yelled. <br /> And as quickly as the hysteria had come on him, it subsided. He snatched his phone from his pocket. Only a smidgen of juice remained, but that was enough to call Erika. <br /> But before he did, something moved in the darkness. <br /> It was only very slight, but he heard it clearly. <br /> He activated the phone-light, spinning round again, seeing nothing except the disorder he’d caused. And the row of marionettes, in particular the two at the nearest end, whose heads were no longer drooped downward. <br /> Alex tried to speak but could only make an odd clucking sound. <br /> Their heads were now upright, as they stared at him with those black holes where their eyes should be. He backed off unsteadily, the marionettes still watching. <br /> When he turned and ran, he did so blindly, crashing into another door he hadn’t noticed because it was half-hidden behind a curtain of hanging tinsel. Clawing madly at it, he located an escape bar, which he rammed downward. The door burst open, emitting him back into the icy cold. An alarm immediately sounded. <br /> ‘Alex, for God’s sake!’ Erika said. <br /> She’d come to a standstill some ten yards away, arms filled with bulging paper bags. They were in the outdoor passage leading to the car park. <br /> ‘I, erm …’ He was almost as tongue-tied now as he had been when trying to rewrite his play in the car. ‘I … went the wrong way.’ <br /> ‘You’ve set the alarm off.’ <br /> ‘I know, I … it was an accident.’ <br /> ‘We’d better find someone and tell them.’ <br /> ‘No, no … we’ve just got to go.’ He lurched towards her, took her by the elbow and frogmarched her along the passage. <br /> ‘Alex, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.’ <br /> ‘It’s fine.’ <br /> ‘What’s the matter?’ <br /> ‘Nothing,’ he said gruffly. ‘Let’s get back before it starts snowing again.’</div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>TO BE CONTINUED</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>(on Dec 22)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHKO8_KXRWB2Qfb9NfBj-gRl1hv9NXllu6qsSPsi5BJzlu4x7hTTkI0ZfWidp3de-JTWWpgLufo3OALROtSddHd5ztAgruEolrHHc5VIEw076x2Nq7lhqHpWVmltS_ZL31L3RLBLpAMTBYfVXV46rwXqWMDv32JgU2CQiQ6mj7WqBLTsMFecQOtQUFTI/s1920/snowy%20and%20scary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1920" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHKO8_KXRWB2Qfb9NfBj-gRl1hv9NXllu6qsSPsi5BJzlu4x7hTTkI0ZfWidp3de-JTWWpgLufo3OALROtSddHd5ztAgruEolrHHc5VIEw076x2Nq7lhqHpWVmltS_ZL31L3RLBLpAMTBYfVXV46rwXqWMDv32JgU2CQiQ6mj7WqBLTsMFecQOtQUFTI/w400-h250/snowy%20and%20scary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div></div><div>(<b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;"><i>If you are enjoying this spooky tale, perhaps you might be interested in two collections of Christmas-themed ghost and horror stories of mine, published over the last few years: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1670083236&sr=1-1">THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=pd_bxgy_img_sccl_1/257-6433603-1950107?pd_rd_w=9cipP&content-id=amzn1.sym.79b812bf-5c8b-4c0c-851c-784423adaff5&pf_rd_p=79b812bf-5c8b-4c0c-851c-784423adaff5&pf_rd_r=J521TDSJ0Z8GKMJWWFA6&pd_rd_wg=Yv0Y5&pd_rd_r=33a8a9ed-89cd-476b-a7fc-36b15102d4f1&pd_rd_i=1916205720&psc=1">IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER</a>. Or, if you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-A-Victorian-Ghost-Story/dp/B08LZQ19JF/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2WH91JOW3E76W&keywords=sparrowhawk+-+paul+finch&qid=1702652547&s=books&sprefix=sparrowhawk+-+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1">SPARROWHAWK</a>, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England).</i></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;"><i><br /></i></b></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-6265554541566125022023-12-04T23:57:00.000-08:002023-12-05T00:17:02.163-08:00Be afraid: the Ghosting Season has arrived<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOpDvtQdg9eB0_1TByT8UEY78CngH-nQKqy2-5O9-jpYRG82PDUflhQgjFuL0p9wDEtKMUNs1imGD2k0cG0ZfGKKB4OmpWXlsNvtDcSLproq3qm38VsWYFNhmfvgJ1CJjkT-K34wS6_yIP2-kFQKGCyH-soY_o43kg-V9vH7a21PAp1cp-VxHXNQuEwk/s703/Christmas%20evil%205.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="465" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOpDvtQdg9eB0_1TByT8UEY78CngH-nQKqy2-5O9-jpYRG82PDUflhQgjFuL0p9wDEtKMUNs1imGD2k0cG0ZfGKKB4OmpWXlsNvtDcSLproq3qm38VsWYFNhmfvgJ1CJjkT-K34wS6_yIP2-kFQKGCyH-soY_o43kg-V9vH7a21PAp1cp-VxHXNQuEwk/w265-h400/Christmas%20evil%205.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>I’ve always been delighted to write ghost and horror stories set during the festive season. In fact, if anything, there’s no greater pleasure. Though, ironically, it’s often the case that to see these tales actually hit the presses in time for the happy occasion, one needs to write them much earlier in the year. It hasn’t been unusual for me to be penning Christmas scare-fare as early as April or May. As you can imagine, that’s not always the best time to be evoking thoughts of snow, ice, or candy canes dangling from glistening evergreen boughs. But we’ve finally reached that time of year again, so if nothing else, I can present you with a few choice snippets from some of the many Yuletide parables I’ve had published over the years, and perhaps include links to where you can get hold of them.</b></div></b></div></div><b><br />In addition, I’ll be offering a detailed review of that tireless US scary fiction editor Ellen Datlow’s most recent anthology, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Other-Horrors-Anthology-Solstice/dp/1803363266/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8">CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HORRORS</a>, which you can find in the Thrillers, Chillers section at the lower end of today’s blogpost. </b><br /><br />First of all, I quick reminder that my second historical novel for Canelo, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701621483&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b>, the immediate sequel to the first one, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701621439&sr=1-1">USURPER</a></b>, which will be published on January 8 next year. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuEdRs0HuxtekrJ6JNfSBxg8XSnMRNPG6zAIBXyQAGtISmz7CIna02tNcp0XQNFbP5zmDfBHesMbgUZcUumM65eDnbmMLzAn7AjsaLHFjgigipQe-BRtB6diC-KwbnYkoaEvMa5xVD6w128MKnwDptmakrktE6V9INEInPkEJDvgSgegy5xgqJ16tyLEc/s1099/battle%20lord%20-%20final%20art.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="1099" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuEdRs0HuxtekrJ6JNfSBxg8XSnMRNPG6zAIBXyQAGtISmz7CIna02tNcp0XQNFbP5zmDfBHesMbgUZcUumM65eDnbmMLzAn7AjsaLHFjgigipQe-BRtB6diC-KwbnYkoaEvMa5xVD6w128MKnwDptmakrktE6V9INEInPkEJDvgSgegy5xgqJ16tyLEc/w400-h284/battle%20lord%20-%20final%20art.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />As I write this blog, it’s a deep freeze outside. We already have a very snowy December, and that suits the mood of <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701621483&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b> well, as it takes us through the English winter of 1066/67, which was also bitterly cold – the slaughter on Christmas Day famously saw the Westminster snow turn ‘searing crimson’. It centres around disinherited Saxon lord, Cerdic of Wulfbury’s fightback against his Norman vanquishers. <br /><br />And now that part of today’s post that you’ve all doubtless been waiting for. The approach of Christmas and the onset of … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Ghosting Season</b></div><br />First up, this year, as in other years, I’ll again be publishing a short horror story with a Christmas theme on this blog, though we’ll need to get a little bit closer to the main event before that occurs (it’s still only Advent, after all). Before then, here are a few juicy extracts from some of the many Yuletide horrors I’ve had published over the years. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Mo69ek5HpLwtDPXsgfq2QoAfM2UCzKX2MxJMVjt-3j3HW4YIMY3OAppLoJ4fKS-GWP0uqIg-R8xG5YKKa-JqN0Y_uXpfiEERwh_Q5t31sFyIdTSodDYE2r57dAplHHl7xnGxHDOZNUXYwhDCMmvD9OXlSINE3Rx5REY3zi3RxAGoYSCBMChfJA3OBAs/s640/scary%20christmas%208.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Mo69ek5HpLwtDPXsgfq2QoAfM2UCzKX2MxJMVjt-3j3HW4YIMY3OAppLoJ4fKS-GWP0uqIg-R8xG5YKKa-JqN0Y_uXpfiEERwh_Q5t31sFyIdTSodDYE2r57dAplHHl7xnGxHDOZNUXYwhDCMmvD9OXlSINE3Rx5REY3zi3RxAGoYSCBMChfJA3OBAs/w400-h225/scary%20christmas%208.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br />Where possible, I’ve sought to include links to those stories, so that they can still be enjoyed in full. In addition, I’ll be interspersing them all with a few random but generic ‘festive chiller’ images, none of which – and here’s your <b>WARNING IN ADVANCE</b> – has any actual connection to any of the works of fiction here referenced. <br /><br /><br /><i>I dumped my bag by the bed and checked out my new surroundings. Beyond the curtain, the window looked down on the forecourt, which thanks to the risen moon, lay shimmering and frigid under its mantle of white. I discovered that the room was warm thanks to a single radiator pipe passing along the skirting board. The jug, as I’d expected, contained water, which smelled and looked fresh. It was almost as if the Parnells had been expecting me. Or someone. But then I remembered that they claimed to regularly have callers on Christmas Eve. <br /> “Some Christmas Eve.” I sat on the bed and rooted in my bag. <br /> There wasn’t much in there. Some spare toiletries and the essentials I’d needed for the meeting I hadn’t managed to make. Frustrated, I stood up. I couldn’t understand what was keeping Parnell with my phone. I opened the bedroom door. <br /> She was standing outside. <br /> Agnes. <br /> Facing me from a couple of inches away. <br /> As if she’d been there all the time, staring at the door. <br /> She fixed me with a steady, waxen smile. And made no effort to move out of my way. <br /> “I, erm … I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I was just wondering about my phone?” <br /> “There’s no power yet,” came the voice of James Parnell, standing somewhere out in the corridor. The lights had been turned off, so I couldn’t see him. “It’s still dead, I’m afraid.” <br /> “It’s okay …” I was semi-hypnotised by Agnes Parnell’s pale, rigid smile. “Perhaps I can get it later?” <br /> “Of course,” Parnell said. “Or if not later, tomorrow.” <br /> “Tomorrow … yes.” And I closed the door again. <br /> The hell with tomorrow! I’d give them an hour, let them get to bed, and then I’d retrieve the phone myself. This whole thing was beyond weird. If there’d been a lock, I’d have turned it … <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701705914&sr=1-1">The Merry Makers</a>, 2019</b></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmnFs9VfLNf7O3fIFVpnu1ClLmDjvceZ2O3K_HNzSYj2zJ84fiNE3hsh79c9UGqdmRBcA5Qy7_y_EFgh9x2kAuOItDwb57RjwcHYizaQacSeYq3O7lHAH3CG-yY7DdetQEdIx6KoU3KER7BAs6ODoIr14Aar-YzLmR7OYUrwh-oQoBFK8El2tIaWFosg/s1280/christmas%20evil%2014.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEmnFs9VfLNf7O3fIFVpnu1ClLmDjvceZ2O3K_HNzSYj2zJ84fiNE3hsh79c9UGqdmRBcA5Qy7_y_EFgh9x2kAuOItDwb57RjwcHYizaQacSeYq3O7lHAH3CG-yY7DdetQEdIx6KoU3KER7BAs6ODoIr14Aar-YzLmR7OYUrwh-oQoBFK8El2tIaWFosg/w400-h225/christmas%20evil%2014.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The flat-roofed houses were brown or beige, as if moulded from mudbrick, the glow of mellow lamplight visible from each interior, donkeys and camels yoked outside. In the very centre, on a raised mound, there was a stable, its front removed, revealing a baby in a manger and toy soldier sized figures of Mary and Joseph kneeling one to either side. Above them, a single star was suspended. Somewhere on the floor one of the wires to the fallen Christmas trees sparked, and the star began to shine with a pale, silvery luminescence. At the same time figures started moving in the town. Tookey watched in fascination as three or four men – again no more than toy soldier size – but distinctly sinister in hoods and cloaks, and with curved daggers, roved up and down the narrow streets, moving along electric runners which he hadn’t noticed previously. One by one they visited each house, the internal light to which would then turn blood-red – to the accompaniment of tinny shrieks.</i></div></div> “What the …?” Tookey breathed. He had some vague memory of a school lesson during which he’d been told about that bad-tempered bastard – wasn’t his name ‘Herod’? – having all the babies killed to try and get to Jesus. But Christ, you didn’t put something like that in a Christmas decoration! <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706162&sr=1-1">The Christmas Toys</a>, 2012</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngAFWDCJBGAw8Qlp5ULnefzk1Kjw-CGz8DHfT02qWp3Xbqb7BtXkcjY0QCGmhoARb-27tSNEVklF8c3Nuq15Y79Qn1X9Uwjo1u6cE8qoqLY6pkB-OZkVT-duqKy7zXo73DKHZIc4Tj_k5uvH845x4NSuAGDqzRGPIQ-Nh1uB4ZlCObVSbj5RcJ0GNnYw/s736/evil%20christmas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="736" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhngAFWDCJBGAw8Qlp5ULnefzk1Kjw-CGz8DHfT02qWp3Xbqb7BtXkcjY0QCGmhoARb-27tSNEVklF8c3Nuq15Y79Qn1X9Uwjo1u6cE8qoqLY6pkB-OZkVT-duqKy7zXo73DKHZIc4Tj_k5uvH845x4NSuAGDqzRGPIQ-Nh1uB4ZlCObVSbj5RcJ0GNnYw/w400-h319/evil%20christmas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Gemma was seven years a cop, and near-enough thought she’d seen everything. But a murder victim wrapped up like a Christmas present was something new. She used the light from her phone to examine the figure more closely. The paper covering it was bright red and speckled with holly leaves, but it was immediately evident that an adult person lay underneath. The outlines of arms, legs, feet, shoulders – even breasts, when she looked closely – were recognisable. There was no obvious sign that blood or any other bodily fluid had seeped out, but she couldn’t be certain of that …</i></div></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/2017/12/brightly-shone-moon-that-night-part-1.html">Brightly Shone the Moon That Night</a>, 2017</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSk14x7e_TxSKz7v5az3d_dtwn2k57DuSeYQHA7LRlmd65N6ar7-s8KTo2stVOGgQPL7E83V2Qe5us4MzUcosUOktEwToaSHr55pbUHbkRqUfTelTJ1zxngfaPzfxkqrZ1SqkU-ZuHYkHVsArczk3h_hJteXdQ3vnzMjAlFuN4meOM-j_ADkRzY6YQkrk/s600/christmas%20evil%208.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSk14x7e_TxSKz7v5az3d_dtwn2k57DuSeYQHA7LRlmd65N6ar7-s8KTo2stVOGgQPL7E83V2Qe5us4MzUcosUOktEwToaSHr55pbUHbkRqUfTelTJ1zxngfaPzfxkqrZ1SqkU-ZuHYkHVsArczk3h_hJteXdQ3vnzMjAlFuN4meOM-j_ADkRzY6YQkrk/w400-h266/christmas%20evil%208.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>“I warn you, exposing frauds is my trade. My reason to live.”</i></div> Still nothing. <br /> Without further warning, Hetherington stepped around the corner. “It’s my …” <br /> The figure waiting there startled him for all kinds of horrible reasons, not least its lugubrious frown and lifeless, painted eyes. But mainly because the last time he’d seen it, it had been downstairs. It was the life-size Marley’s Ghost effigy. Not sitting now, but standing upright against the rear wall, its head no longer drooping. <br /> “It’s my …” Hetherington stammered again. <br /> Was this the same marionette? He noted the unstitched tear in the left shoulder of its frockcoat. Had someone carried it up here? Along with his camera? Why in God’s name exert all this effort just to perpetrate a hoax? Or was it a costume? <br /> Can that be it? Was this someone dressed up? <br /> Dazedly, he reached out to touch the thing. <br /> “It’s my, my ...” <br /> His fingers made tentative contact with the figure’s bare, wooden cranium. It was hard, hollow. <br /> “My business …” <br /> Abruptly, its jaw clacked downward, the vivid red gash of its mouth extending all the way to its breastbone. <br /> “BUSINESS!” a distant voice shrieked in the back of his memory. <br /> The next thing Hetherington knew, he was stumbling away across the workshop. Aside from the jaw, he’d never seen the thing move. Not once, not at all. He told himself this over and over. And yet now, even though he could hear sounds behind him – that paint-pot clattering and rolling again, as if something had kicked it while coming in his wake – he refused to look back. <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701705914&sr=1-1">The Unreal</a>, 2015</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANq4ci5dFS2eWvTMEEuY3uvgqqdesTFV9d6Optbg7FK1Q1Dfx7xjrqHc94peCsDVRPaObglFlFTD2Y9CGbK1LH5eXbO1kY2WMHliN0tWPRicsTrccHKcPeL7AYGV6XiLnf9WcYu9fSknBbKN2oW6aFVeD7ASRxbY3aVe-zCTgTopW1PFCu_KJfbS4WPQ/s1920/christmas%20evil%2016.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1920" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANq4ci5dFS2eWvTMEEuY3uvgqqdesTFV9d6Optbg7FK1Q1Dfx7xjrqHc94peCsDVRPaObglFlFTD2Y9CGbK1LH5eXbO1kY2WMHliN0tWPRicsTrccHKcPeL7AYGV6XiLnf9WcYu9fSknBbKN2oW6aFVeD7ASRxbY3aVe-zCTgTopW1PFCu_KJfbS4WPQ/w400-h250/christmas%20evil%2016.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>“Can I help?” came a voice from behind.</i></div></div> Capstick spun around. A tall, lean figure in a gray suit and clerical collar, with a pale face and short sandy hair, had entered the hall behind him. <br /> “Oh, I’m sorry …” Capstick stammered, not sure whether to address the man as ‘Father’ or ‘Reverend’. “But, well, this may sound a bit ridiculous …” <br /> “Gentleman of the road, are you?” <br /> “What?” Capstick was startled. Surely, he didn’t look that bad? He brushed self-consciously at his beard. “Erm … no, though I will admit to being lost.” <br /> “So many do at this festive time of year.” <br /> As the vicar wove his way forward through the seats, Capstick saw that he was actually quite old, his face wrinkled and with a yellowish tinge, his eyes rheumy. His hair, which was colourless, was extraordinarily thin; it looked sandy from a distance because he’d greased the few lank strands of it that remained backward over his liver-spotted scalp. His suit, once smart, was dusty and crumpled. <br /> “I’m stuck in town by accident,” Capstick added, slightly distracted by this. “Trying to find some … well, first of all, some accommodation. And secondly, some transport out of here.” <br /> “The first of those we can help you with ... of course we can.” The vicar smiled, his bloodless lips drawn back on brownish pegs, and laced his fingers together. “The second, alas, no …” <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706162&sr=1-1">Midnight Service</a>, 2012</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKW1yMXqzkSR_HwWJKWoPUwIbbpCfVPY4soeeffzEQAZiLjh-_dmh-So7Qgz9Hug6vVM-KrPDDjIsECgeyvAw0kce3DX7uYmfA5_eEJSseVy_RSIM2ueFF36fZano1Hk6sa4g5rWpz4TklLcZQdFpQ33mKN6tIYv1z50sI6lh6SDYmQBAniuoUOFCWWDM/s1920/christmas%20evil%2015.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKW1yMXqzkSR_HwWJKWoPUwIbbpCfVPY4soeeffzEQAZiLjh-_dmh-So7Qgz9Hug6vVM-KrPDDjIsECgeyvAw0kce3DX7uYmfA5_eEJSseVy_RSIM2ueFF36fZano1Hk6sa4g5rWpz4TklLcZQdFpQ33mKN6tIYv1z50sI6lh6SDYmQBAniuoUOFCWWDM/w400-h225/christmas%20evil%2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />“You wanted me to die, and I wanted you to be happy. So, this is the price I paid.”<br /> “What are you talking about?”<br /> Her smile faded. The green eyes lost their lustre and receded into their sockets; her teeth became prominent, skeletal. “You know why my parents never revealed my resting place to you, John? Because suicides can only be buried in unmarked graves.”<br /> “Suicides?” The word struck him like a hammer blow. “But Leticia, you’re no …”<br /> His words petered out. Could she have? Was it possible? It was almost too horrible to contemplate, but suddenly the likelihood seemed immense. Had he – good Lord, no! – had he driven the poor child to such a brink of despair? His eyes filled with tears, which immediately crystalised in his lashes.<br /> “Oh, don’t fret, my love,” she said. “It wasn’t so bad. What are a few extra drams of medicine to an ailing, sickly girl?”<br /> “Leticia, you did not take your own life! Please tell me you didn’t!”<br /> “Why not? This place is a measure of the worthlessness of that life.”<br /> They were now moving around the downstairs of the house. Only Leticia’s unearthly radiance lit the way. He saw endless familiar features. The maroon wallpaper with the white polka dots, which Leticia hadn’t liked but which he had insisted on buying, and which now clad the entire ground floor, where it had sagged into a million damp, frozen crinkles. In a corner of the drawing room, Leticia’s piano stood laden with snow, as though it had only just been brought in from outside. Over the hearth hung the oil painting of themselves they’d commissioned after their wedding; it depicted a young couple whose demeanour was chillier than it should have been. Appropriately, it now dangled with icicles. <br /> Leticia glided through all this decayed memorabilia painlessly, though her naked feet were black with frostbite ...<div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-Victorian-ghost-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205712/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706314&sr=1-1">Sparrowhawk</a>, 2010</b></i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8nC0a5ZYXfxtwo0xwbyMcawo4_6TA1GU_cRBx8hsITV5VZ6JwHHKs9QURC-PK4pRZjWmcWYIS8NzE1surL6PqxvLUghwNHG2OVGp7RYKA-Eyw0iI_gylWfOm-Yo8Z7jtQJBDJ3fF49U9uxdUeSyIzVaPOsU_FP32JCAWMNV5jaLZLv57sFEcEO54DPM/s400/christmas%20evil%209.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8nC0a5ZYXfxtwo0xwbyMcawo4_6TA1GU_cRBx8hsITV5VZ6JwHHKs9QURC-PK4pRZjWmcWYIS8NzE1surL6PqxvLUghwNHG2OVGp7RYKA-Eyw0iI_gylWfOm-Yo8Z7jtQJBDJ3fF49U9uxdUeSyIzVaPOsU_FP32JCAWMNV5jaLZLv57sFEcEO54DPM/w300-h400/christmas%20evil%209.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>I stared fixedly at the kitchen door. For a time, there was nothing else in the world but that door – and what I suspected lurked just beyond it. I was unable to move; I didn’t dare move, terrified that if my feet scuffed on the floor they would alert the thing to my presence, even though such thoughts were patently ludicrous – it had followed me all the way home. Even if it hadn’t, it knew where I lived; according to our myths, it knew where every child lived. <br /> There was a soft crunch of snow, this directly on the other side of the door, and then a further pause. Was it listening in through the planks as I was listening out? My nerves were taut as cello strings, my hair standing on end. But I quickly broke from this stupor when the doorhandle turned. <br /> I lurched forward and rammed home the upper bolt. Immediately, the handle ceased moving. There was another prolonged silence. I stood rigid, eyes goggling. Then the handle turned again, this time with violence, and there was a long, dull groan as a significant weight was pressed against the door from the other side. I was far from confident the single bolt would hold, especially when the weight was withdrawn and, instead, a heavy blow landed. Followed by another blow and another; loud, echoing reports, increasingly angry, which must have been heard all along our street. The kitchen door was solid oak, but it shook and shook, and I imagined that its screws would flirt from their moorings under such an assault. <br /> It was a sure sign of how enthralled by fear I was that only now did it strike me to drive home the lower bolt as well. At first this was difficult: the assailant was hammering on the woodwork, not just with hands but with feet like iron clubs, and the lower section of the door vibrated so hard that it rarely lined up with the jamb – so hard that I thought it would shatter inward – but at last I managed to slide the bolt into its mount, and then ram my key into the lock and turn that too. All violence without instantly ceased. <br /> The silence that followed this was perhaps the worst part of it, for all I could do was hover there in a state of near-paralysis, unsure whether my unwanted visitor had slunk off into the night, or was still present, contemplating another means of ingress … <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701705914&sr=1-1">Krampus</a>, 2015</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ_4YGRPNvKoZos1E7YKCyVWdROtuXY64C8FABJ6SWMEL-2L5AHVZW4bQt5S5zqkjUs2gahKrUfGzkTvcEXWk3ow4E4iKW9QItjK5KdtOADDJo7c5b7RCYD7UZH7FZcXoGq6HUAh-tdtRV8BDS0M_sM76de9oUeXmvRNwxJOM4ajHZB-6_BK_lBkKTAlk/s400/christmas%20evil%2012.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="400" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ_4YGRPNvKoZos1E7YKCyVWdROtuXY64C8FABJ6SWMEL-2L5AHVZW4bQt5S5zqkjUs2gahKrUfGzkTvcEXWk3ow4E4iKW9QItjK5KdtOADDJo7c5b7RCYD7UZH7FZcXoGq6HUAh-tdtRV8BDS0M_sM76de9oUeXmvRNwxJOM4ajHZB-6_BK_lBkKTAlk/w400-h268/christmas%20evil%2012.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>“It’s a grand-looking place,” Arthur said. “Can’t think what it’s doing all the way out here in the wilds of Derbyshire.”</i></div></div> He reached for the knocker, but the door creaked open as soon as he touched it. <br /> They glanced through and saw an arched stone passage with low wooden beams across its ceiling. It ended at a flight of four broad steps, which led up into a living area. A rosy flush of firelight was visible up there, and a pleasant scent struck their nostrils, a combination of oranges and cinnamon, and something else – evergreens. The reason for that soon became obvious. The beams in the entrance hall had been decked for Christmas: alternating strands of ivy and holly had been woven around them. The only sound was a distant crackle of flames. <br /> To Arthur it was extremely welcoming, but Gabby had different ideas. <br /> Oddly, she began to tug on his arm, trying to draw him away. “We should go, Daddy. We should go right now.” <br /> He glanced down at her, puzzled by her worried frown. “What’re you talking about?” <br /> “I bet it’s the furry house,” she said. <br /> “What?” <br /> “It was in that book you got me. It said that out on the moors, when people are lost, the furry house comes and the people go inside and think they’re safe. And the furry house disappears, and they go with it. And they’re never seen again.” <br /> Arthur chuckled and tapped on the doorjamb with his knuckles. “Darling, this isn’t a fairy house. Look, it’s as solid as you and me.” <br /> “That doesn’t mean anything. They have to look real to trap people.” <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706162&sr=1-1">The Faerie</a>, 2008</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWdFyO2ruYLsHLENuKnZz6VbajkxX8V68pmNHuGk9Sf71rSD3zMiS0mhRNRB3UiWtS9XipXSFNOOTwTCIMeIAkqvcMqHIIO0AeYza3RjRZPcE8Jhy_WocG9a-G9WiFm-2OX20_oi7aH6lTGGTl0KW_dCrOnejteB2FhtxdzHgWkRkiKze1c0baFZ6bB3Y/s400/christmas%20evil%2013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWdFyO2ruYLsHLENuKnZz6VbajkxX8V68pmNHuGk9Sf71rSD3zMiS0mhRNRB3UiWtS9XipXSFNOOTwTCIMeIAkqvcMqHIIO0AeYza3RjRZPcE8Jhy_WocG9a-G9WiFm-2OX20_oi7aH6lTGGTl0KW_dCrOnejteB2FhtxdzHgWkRkiKze1c0baFZ6bB3Y/w400-h300/christmas%20evil%2013.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>I was walking back towards the colliery forecourt through the screens when I suddenly sensed what I thought might be another presence.</i></div></div> All my fears and suspicions about this place came back to the fore, and it struck me hard that I was up here alone late at night. Not glancing left or right, I hurried across the hangar-like space, focusing on the dim rectangle of light that was the double doors at its far end. The mere thought of that terrible voice we’d heard the last time we were up here tempted me to run. At first, I resisted – when you run, it brings your enemy out into the open, and I wasn’t sure I could handle another headlong chase. But the icy darkness around me was filled with menace, and what did I have to look forward to when I got outside again? That barren track winding between clutches of skeletal, snow-covered ruins, the opaque mist in the Valley bottom, another scramble through the tangled woods. And of course, these weren’t just irrational fears. Pete’s eviscerated corpse was a vivid memory. <br /> Good Lord, were those footsteps I could hear? Was someone coming up behind me? <br /> “I’m right behind you,” a voice said. <br /> Or did it? Was it my fraught imagination? <br /> I went fleetingly hysterical, spinning around to gaze into the frozen blackness. I saw nothing, but still turned back and ran hell-for-leather the remaining ten yards to the doorway – only for a silhouetted figure to step into it and block my path. <br /> I screeched like a trapped animal. Trying to halt, I stumbled, fell, and slid forward on my knees. The figure stared silently down at me. It wasn’t tall, but it was bulky and misshapen with an immense, dome-like head … <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706366&sr=1-1">Season of Mist</a>, 2010</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSMObQ-fFc64-xT7Ma9hoo-0niUVl1-C3kcvOFDu57JJAKLvuV-1JJCwrtw0Dg_ZXbAYzTAxxNfb_PgkoEJxVMLcGgdSCcUbbiamd4XRroXnmWMrU62kzk7QqqbE5V8Vq0IzTobZIuLdgKPy42uWK9o7FKEf5rSAgpajU0iAXA-rf0QLMhJtC-rsxqjM/s2032/christmas%20evil%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2032" data-original-width="1920" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSMObQ-fFc64-xT7Ma9hoo-0niUVl1-C3kcvOFDu57JJAKLvuV-1JJCwrtw0Dg_ZXbAYzTAxxNfb_PgkoEJxVMLcGgdSCcUbbiamd4XRroXnmWMrU62kzk7QqqbE5V8Vq0IzTobZIuLdgKPy42uWK9o7FKEf5rSAgpajU0iAXA-rf0QLMhJtC-rsxqjM/w378-h400/christmas%20evil%203.jpg" width="378" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Eric had long been a student of the supernatural, but he wasn’t keen on the Holker Hall mystery. After all, this wasn’t some spectral pussy cat with a cute purr, or a thirsty pub ghost who drew himself generous measures after hours and in so doing helped drum up custom. There was little to snigger at in this tale, and those members of the Bradleigh public who knew about it responded accordingly. The myth wasn’t known widely enough for the hall to be shunned; the Groves still played host to adventurous children and picnicking families, especially in summer, while the ornate old building was a source of architectural interest, but that was about it. Few went near the place at night, and none on Christmas Eve. These spooks didn’t just scare you; they signed your death warrant. It was only a story of course, but why take the chance?</i></div></i><div><i> He still wasn’t sure if he believed it, though now, as eight o’clock came and went, then nine and finally ten, he was increasingly distracted from the drunken frolics in the banquet lounge to the opaque winter darkness. He could well imagine the miles and miles of frozen, unlit woodland lying between himself and civilisation. Once or twice, he thought vague forms were cavorting out there, though that was unlikely. It was way too early yet; the mummers were only supposed to emerge from the Groves at midnight. Of course, no-one could say for sure, because allegedly no-one had lived to tell … <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706162&sr=1-1">The Mummers</a>, 2000</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUwoTLeKREAcR0TIp0RL8QiQXRmbknltXUaLx_nuDG7GtW-KmFIETs3a8bZcPA6oOk_xtRry9mJkJhI0uizEJ5fdDM6zA2gBoE_ALkjkCxS8XF80o15_4V6Ok_E6yggtQnL9dEbscXZuA24ZcOVy8bxUjUPZARTH91WBqZDkJpobNhHBNSNPPaq8PuNuM/s1600/christmas%20evil%2010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUwoTLeKREAcR0TIp0RL8QiQXRmbknltXUaLx_nuDG7GtW-KmFIETs3a8bZcPA6oOk_xtRry9mJkJhI0uizEJ5fdDM6zA2gBoE_ALkjkCxS8XF80o15_4V6Ok_E6yggtQnL9dEbscXZuA24ZcOVy8bxUjUPZARTH91WBqZDkJpobNhHBNSNPPaq8PuNuM/w400-h300/christmas%20evil%2010.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>“Something … something was in the road,” she stuttered. “It was like a snowman, only the most evil snowman I’ve ever seen.”</i></div> “Come on, Roni,” Graham said, “how can a snowman be evil?” <br /> “It was grinning. Horribly. It had icicles for teeth, and its eyes were like human eyes – all crossed and bloody, like they’d been gouged out of someone’s head.” <br /> Rick and Graham listened to her, astonished, but by her flowing tears and bubbling nose, she was one hundred percent serious, at least in her own mind. Rick gazed along the driveway ahead of the skew-whiff Datsun. It was covered in rutted snow, but nothing else was visible. “There’s no snowman now,” he said, “unless you flattened it.” <br /> “I swerved to avoid it,” Roni retorted. “That’s why we got stuck in the snowdrift. Oh God, that thing was so hideous!” <br /> As Graham assisted her back towards the house, Rick scanned the surrounding trees. Moonlight shafted through them, cutting the frozen mist into spectral, knife-like forms. The snowy woodland floor bathed everything in eerie but beautiful phosphorescence. Picture perfect. But he pondered what Roni had said about the thing that had supposedly waylaid them – a snowman, for God’s sake. But even if it had only been an optical illusion, or the fantasy of an overwrought brain, it had given her a genuine scare. He wondered how he himself would react if he spotted some white, lumpen monstrosity shuffling through the frosted undergrowth, perhaps circling around to block his route back to the house. <br /> And he beat a hasty retreat. <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701705914&sr=1-1">The Stain</a>, 2007</b></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0UsTGURfKDd2DQzTh2zq2l842ESRqGJuqT0NV67gjDxtzoiopLi_2D5_ZVMBUM42dD4I0tVpLg2eRO6RDSmO6QAWiZCqjxSwr4rfE7X8-plVuqeZcXgEcPhHcbDcegQnS0lOuJsER_VBMGsCbvppiMKYdJiQkyRXLqo7LchU2TfzJoX5pxXF8Lm3DjQ/s612/Christmas%20evil%206.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="612" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP0UsTGURfKDd2DQzTh2zq2l842ESRqGJuqT0NV67gjDxtzoiopLi_2D5_ZVMBUM42dD4I0tVpLg2eRO6RDSmO6QAWiZCqjxSwr4rfE7X8-plVuqeZcXgEcPhHcbDcegQnS0lOuJsER_VBMGsCbvppiMKYdJiQkyRXLqo7LchU2TfzJoX5pxXF8Lm3DjQ/w400-h225/Christmas%20evil%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>Another thought now struck him – an outrageous one. <br /> He turned again, rounding on the statue still standing in the aperture. Was it his imagination, or did it look slightly taller than previously? He approached until he was standing only a foot away. The last time here, he’d torn the ivy off to expose its face. That face now was hidden in shadow, its feature indiscernible. Alec leaned forward slowly until they were almost nose to nose. <br /> It opened its eyes. <br /> They were fiery red, their pupils tiny black beads. <br /> “Shit,” he breathed. <br /> It struck him, lashing out from the ivy it had hidden beneath. The blow caught him in the chest and sent him staggering backward – but not before he was able to point his Glock and get off three quick shots, all of which he was sure were dead on target, yet none of which appeared to have any impact. <br /> The thing sprang out completely from under its cowl of winter foliage. <br /> Alec saw a tall, misshapen form clad in the rags of old robes, its limbs wrapped individually with aged, mummy-like bandaging. He managed to regain his balance just inches before toppling backward into the well, and then they were facing each other again. <br /> Long, ratty hair hung past the thing’s ember eyes. A new smell filled the air: dampness, mildew. <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701706162&sr=1-1">The Killing Ground</a>, 2008</b></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPa3prodvWP3gbFn8QAGLfbuTEIGOVE63BpqKAHAwz61krJWCid0xAHpaFvG0qCavymknwYGxqP6XkBLySwqROPlDyjyyyp5L0Ll3dla8WNqOv7XObnpcWiwf890hmFhVoBzqRvFX4Lz2MEbFpL8vJ73PS_MfEOqzErbJPd_EeUjCsbRo0SKZoR_OK7zs/s1000/christmas%20evil%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPa3prodvWP3gbFn8QAGLfbuTEIGOVE63BpqKAHAwz61krJWCid0xAHpaFvG0qCavymknwYGxqP6XkBLySwqROPlDyjyyyp5L0Ll3dla8WNqOv7XObnpcWiwf890hmFhVoBzqRvFX4Lz2MEbFpL8vJ73PS_MfEOqzErbJPd_EeUjCsbRo0SKZoR_OK7zs/w400-h200/christmas%20evil%2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br />On the far side of the table, Miss Scrivener’s shrunken form still slumped in front of the fire. Phil threw himself through the middle of the feast, knocking aside trays and trenchers, dishes piled with fruit, goblets and tankards. When he reached the diviner, he squatted beside her, placing fingertips on her sweat-damp neck. She moaned and shifted. More sweat beaded her forehead; her hair was a mass of rat-tails. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed. <br /> “Miss Scrivener,” he coaxed her. “Come on … we’ve got to go, right now.” <br /> “Can’t …” she whimpered. “Can’t move …” <br /> “For God’s sake!” His voice tautened as he heard feet clumping back down the covered stairway. “Get your bloody arse moving!” <br /> This jerked her, if not quite awake, certainly out of her reverie. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he hoisted her to her feet and began pushing/dragging her from the fire. He couldn’t take her over the top of the table, so they had to go around the end of it, but at least it would be the western end, the one opposite the foot of the staircase. No sooner had they reached it, however, than figures emerged into view at the foot of that stair, and as Phil had now rounded the table and was heading back towards the door, they came fully into his eyeline. <br /> He tottered to a halt. <br /> There were shadows in the hall; firelight flickered. Perhaps all this was playing tricks on him. At the very least it blurred the detail of three mouldering, yellow-green forms, initially indistinguishable under the ragged, rancid drapery of what had once been burial clothing, though in two cases at least, age-tarnished plating clunked and clattered, the rusted chain below it hanging hollow and mud-brown on limbs shrivelled to sticks … <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2020/11/new-title-news-ill-met-by-darkness.html">Spirit of the Season</a>, 2020</b></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></i><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKuSiysOkw5kmLMGZkYnAkfyaDrSNfU28UjW1HCtTySg6r5QlSggZ3Qa96-FMYhnrv5R7J_oenxdzzXbWRRylfwxyn3JB3aaOCAyKf16HTq41bv6_kTw-1CKqUpMyuE5a_DPD8k0AVFkHT1icBJU9HJ1ZWAwYewnTvteDAAbY90GPyY3p7JN4xtnIKsU/s533/Christmas%20evil%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="378" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKuSiysOkw5kmLMGZkYnAkfyaDrSNfU28UjW1HCtTySg6r5QlSggZ3Qa96-FMYhnrv5R7J_oenxdzzXbWRRylfwxyn3JB3aaOCAyKf16HTq41bv6_kTw-1CKqUpMyuE5a_DPD8k0AVFkHT1icBJU9HJ1ZWAwYewnTvteDAAbY90GPyY3p7JN4xtnIKsU/w284-h400/Christmas%20evil%204.jpg" width="284" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic;"><i><i><br /></i></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS …</b></div><b><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. </b><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Other-Horrors-Anthology-Solstice/dp/1803363266/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701705318&sr=1-1"><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZwslBTSRgCYaqkXofSOl5iiNWkzWK5hLA-Dp_he1Ng-gkPZ666Lam4PhpsFlU_jpQQuDBwfFtT9xloJnEHLzydyDd9vq7-zhOQbIW7RlpCr6hRpA6i2VMCwEnjMtiVSbb6xmM6yr9tw_RS2JZ2Gl91lp3db6KyL4vci_oWXrJsTRi-2hscVQYycstM1k/s1500/christmas%20other.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="984" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZwslBTSRgCYaqkXofSOl5iiNWkzWK5hLA-Dp_he1Ng-gkPZ666Lam4PhpsFlU_jpQQuDBwfFtT9xloJnEHLzydyDd9vq7-zhOQbIW7RlpCr6hRpA6i2VMCwEnjMtiVSbb6xmM6yr9tw_RS2JZ2Gl91lp3db6KyL4vci_oWXrJsTRi-2hscVQYycstM1k/w263-h400/christmas%20other.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Other-Horrors-Anthology-Solstice/dp/1803363266/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1701705318&sr=1-1">CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HORRORS</a></div></b></div><div><b><i>edited by Ellen Datlow (2023) </i></b><br /><br />Ellen Datlow is one of the most respected anthologists and editors currently working in the field of dark and fantastic fiction today. She won her first major award in 1989 and has clocked up so many more since then that it’s difficult keeping track. She is also famous for discovering numerous horror-writing talents and for flying the flag for short scary fiction at a time when far too many mass market publishers have tried to ignore it. <br /><br />For this reason, among many others, any new Ellen Datlow anthology is an event, and this latest, <b><i>Christmas and Other Horrors</i></b>, a timely event indeed. <br /><br />Before we dive into the contents, let’s first check out the publishers’ official blurb: <br /><br /><i>Hugo Award-winning editor, and horror legend Ellen Datlow presents a terrifying and chilling horror anthology of original short stories exploring the endless terrors of winter solstice traditions across the globe, featuring chillers by Tananarive Due, Stephen Graham Jones, Alma Katsu, and many more. <br /><br />The winter solstice is celebrated as a time of joy around the world – yet the long nights also conjure a darker tradition of ghouls, hauntings, and visitations. This anthology of all-new stories invites you to huddle around the fire and revel in the unholy, the dangerous, the horrific aspects of a time when families and friends come together – for better and for worse. <br /><br />From the eerie Austrian Schnabelperchten to the skeletal Welsh Mari Lwyd, by way of ravenous golems, uncanny neighbours, and unwelcome visitors, Christmas and Other Horrors captures the heart and horror of the festive season. <br /><br />Because the weather outside is frightful, but the fire inside is hungry ...</i><br /><br /></div><div>Everyone, it seems, loves a good scary story at Christmas. So much so that it baffles me the high street booksellers aren’t crammed with them from October onwards. The explanation for why they mysteriously aren’t is another story entirely, but it should make us all the more grateful that globally renowned editor, Ellen Datlow, is here to save the day. <br /><br />Datlow is already famous for her high-quality horror anthologies; there are almost too many of them out there to count, and she has covered a wide range of central themes, but this year, the festive chiller buffs among us will be delighted to learn that she has opted to put the Christmas season under her microscope. <br /><br />Of course, Ellen Datlow being Ellen Datlow, you mustn’t come into <i><b>Christmas and Other Horrors</b></i> under the impression you’ll be reading about lunatic Santas stalking wayward housewives through their snowbound homes on Christmas Eve, or heralds arriving from their own distant past to warn their misbehaving descendants about the horrors awaiting them in future Christmases if they don’t mend their ways. <br /><br />There are certainly elements of these to be found in this latest bumper crop of Yuletide terrors, and more than a few contributions that you’d classify as traditional in tone, but Datlow’s books are well-known for having real meat to them, and this one is no exception. These are stories from the literary horror stable, high brow efforts with plenty going on beneath the surface, in addition to which, the editor throws her net far more widely than might usually be the case with Christmas collections in terms of subject matter. <br /><br />Yes, we do have mythical entities arriving on dark and snowy nights. Yes, we do get references to candy canes, plum puddings, stockings hanging over the fireplace, and other familiarities of the Anglo/American/Germanic festival, but in this book at least we are not solely talking about Christmas. The strapline for <i><b>Christmas and Other Horrors</b></i> is ‘A Winter Solstice Anthology’, and that is the key. <br /><br />The Winter Solstice (which falls on December 21/22), has meaning in other calendars as well as the Christian one. In the Jewish faith, Hanukkah, or the Festival of Lights, falls between late November and late December, while in many worldwide belief systems now forgotten, the shortest day of the year also had portentous significance. The one unifying factor here of course is that all these holidays were and are grand events, believers gathering to worship, celebrate and enjoy each other’s company, and Datlow clearly sets out to be inclusive on all these fronts. <br /><br />But even beyond this crossing of boundaries and entwining of cultures, the editor has clearly pressed her authors hard to hatch something deeper than usual when it comes to the meaning of the season. <br /><br />Don’t be worried, though. While I’d say there’s only one story in this anthology that I consider to be truly terrifying, the vast majority will still, as the popular phrase goes, ‘creep you out’. <br /><br />I won’t go through the entire Table of Contents (there are eighteen stories in total), because inevitably there are one or two tales in here that didn’t really land for me. But the lion’s share will happily darken any reading-night spent by the winter fireside. I won’t go into too much detail for fear of giving away spoilers. <br /><br />First of all, I’m always slightly biased towards the traditional. I won’t deny it, and I’m glad to say that, for all the lovely writing and thoughtful subtext that remains on show throughout, Ellen Datlow has still included a whole bunch of rattling good Christmas yarns that you can easily see making it into some future Best Christmas Spook Stories edition. <br /><br />To start with, in Christopher Golden’s eerie chiller, <b><i>The Importance of a Tidy Home</i></b>, two homeless guys are fascinated by a mysterious group of shadowy beings who prowl the snowy Twelfth Night streets wearing plague masks, apparently taking it personally if they visit any house in an untidy state. In a similar tone of home invasion horror, Richard Kadrey’s <i><b>The Ghost of Christmases Past</b></i> presents us with a modern suburban woman, who lives in stark fear of the mythical Christmas Eve child-eaters that inhabit so many legends, and who every year, nails her house up, even though it is slowly but surely driving her husband crazy. <br /><br />In two stories you could certainly classify as ‘warnings from beyond,’ the fear factor goes up several notches. In <i><b>All the Pretty People</b></i>, Nadia Bulkin hits us with an annual party, which turns progressively nastier when a guest arrives from the afterlife. This is a particularly strong entry, which benefits from some very neat, tight character-work, though for my money, the best story in the entire anthology – and yes, it’s probably the most traditional of them all – is M. Rickert’s <i><b>Lord of Misrule</b></i>, which sees a disturbed teacher haunted each Christmas by the spectre of an uncontrollable child. Not a word is wasted in this ultra-dark bone-chiller, though the concept is broad enough to spin a Christmas horror movie out of it. <br /><br />Meanwhile, the two entries that are probably most ‘Tales from the Crypt’ in tone are <i><b>The Ones He Takes</b></i>, in which Benjamin Percy tells the tale of an abducted child, who returns home one wintry Christmas Eve and stutters out a terrifying story about a Father Christmas that no youngster alive today would recognise, and Nick Mamatas’s <i><b>The Blessing of the Water</b></i>s, in which a convict breaks out of jail, desperate to continue the Epiphany sacrifices that he is certain will keep the local goblins at bay. <br /><br />Of course, the supernatural isn’t the only thing to fear when the end of the year comes around. Even beyond the world of dark fiction, there is a flipside to Christmas. While others are having fun, some very decidedly aren’t. Jollity all round can only enhance the suffering of those less fortunate than ourselves. On top of that, there are strange aspects to Christmastide, which don’t always boast wholesome origins, or necessarily reflect well on those who indulge. Good will to all men is not always at the heart of it. <br /><br />Ellen Datlow doesn’t skimp here either, adding several of what I’d call psychological horror stories to the line-up. <br /><br />In <i><b>Our Recent Unpleasantness</b></i> by Stephen Graham Jones, a paranoid suburbanite becomes convinced there is a real, malevolent presence in his middle-class neighbourhood, but is it all in his head? Likewise, and this is a very strong entry in the book, in Kaaron Warren’s <i><b>Gràve of Small Birds</b></i>, a mean-spirited celebrity chef visits a remote Irish island for a winter solstice festival, but her inner viciousness will be her undoing. And then we have legendary author, Tananarive Due, who in <i><b>Return to Bear Creek Lodge</b></i>, once again takes us deep into the heart of a dysfunctional family. In this one, an innocent youngster dreads his annual Christmas trip to the woods to see his grandma in her creaky old house. She’s an aged tyrant (a genuinely horrible one), but the curious creature she keeps company with is even worse. <br /><br />The last story I want to mention here probably defies categorisation, but it’s so pertinent to the world today, and such an original idea, and so all-round scary, that it could easily get snapped up for a big-budget movie adaptation. I’m talking about Gemma Files’s <i><b>No Light, No Light</b></i>, in which eco-terrorists plan to use thermite charges to blow open a semi-dormant volcano and thus reverse the pattern of global warming, but in so doing they release an ancient power. <br /><br />What you’ve essentially got with <i><b>Christmas and Other Horrors</b></i> is a bunch of expertly crafted, adult-in-tone fairy tales set in or around the ‘happiest time of the year’. Please don’t misunderstand; it’s not sad or depressing or in any way negative about or disrespectful of the holiday season. It’s redolent with festive atmosphere, but it’s got lots to say that may not always be comforting (as did Dickens, of course), and it offers a varied range of macabre interest, often of a sort you won’t have encountered in Christmas fiction before, and yet all of which fits perfectly into the seasonal mold. </div><div><br /></div><div>Probably best to get it soon, though. Time is rolling on and the goose is getting fat.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>(The wonderful painting of the giant skeletal thingy in the wintry woods is by that master of the grotesque, Boris Groh. The other images were found online with no notice of ownership attached; in any of these cases, if the original artist would like to make him or herself known to me, I will happily add that information to the blog, or if required, take the picture down).</i></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-58906357973043972362023-11-06T14:24:00.001-08:002023-11-07T01:51:40.939-08:00Check out the final artwork for Battle Lord<b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKa_BmCk9M46xfUZwd7pIAZ0c7ZJOfXCHIeEsZEO1-np4H8BPQeXg2S6OA9PhfFBEkQGl8DIFcHc59SNeCW3JwpT3qQD3WFgU8kIDDhR1Rr9RRzLH2jrsf4GOpqn8pzGQxXv075MEJFNe8KmRCXCAr23GnRXoezH_xn2yzZ3LwaO-qQgzaSXCYS-Melw/s1099/battle%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="781" data-original-width="1099" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKa_BmCk9M46xfUZwd7pIAZ0c7ZJOfXCHIeEsZEO1-np4H8BPQeXg2S6OA9PhfFBEkQGl8DIFcHc59SNeCW3JwpT3qQD3WFgU8kIDDhR1Rr9RRzLH2jrsf4GOpqn8pzGQxXv075MEJFNe8KmRCXCAr23GnRXoezH_xn2yzZ3LwaO-qQgzaSXCYS-Melw/w400-h284/battle%20cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><b><br /></b></div>Today, I’m delighted to be able to reveal the final cover for <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3LUHR2FZ9KHYX&keywords=battle+lord+-+pw+finch&qid=1699309249&s=books&sprefix=battle+lord%2Cstripbooks%2C75&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a>, which is Volume 2 in <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BTH8LSJ4?binding=kindle_edition&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_tukn">THE WULFBURY CHRONICLES</a>, and now slated for publication in January next year. I’ll be talking a little more about that further down. In addition to that, I’ve got an announcement to make regarding my Thrillers, Chillers series, which I feel is finally approaching the end of its natural life. More about that later on, as well. <br /><br />In the meantime, though, on the subject of thrillers, chillers and other writings of that ilk, I’ll be posting another detailed review, and this week it’s the turn of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kin-Kealan-Patrick-Burke/dp/1479110493/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1699309159&sr=1-1">KIN</a> by Kealan Patrick Burke. <br /><br />As usual, if you’re only here for the book review, you’ll find it at the lower end of today’s blogpost. Feel free to jump straight down there and check it out. Before then, though, let’s roll back the centuries to … </b><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Darker Ages</b></div><br />I’m guessing that most people reading this column will be familiar with my recent diversion from the world of crime and thrillers into the land of historical adventure fiction, as initially seen in my book of last April, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BTH8LSJ4?binding=kindle_edition&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_tukn">USURPER</a></b>, which told a blood and thunder tale set during the Norman invasion of England. <br /><br />It wasn’t a total diversion, by the way; there’ll be more crime-thriller news from the Côté de Chez Finch in the next few weeks. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ChNNQ5ZuA3ovMu4BEkApEAEx9e32Vxc6T850IPAqFnxGFjLN159EBcY66MH7mHzuz7hewo4pqtbZLoaymWjo89Ggpep9VOOEDGRf6OiLIbptqUKQ9rrqIlkVaVyQ8u90A2IyEKogA-z0XW1ugnMf-L-gIdpZIEbXFl7SDI0vgXxqn3cx8UAjS9v9BlY/s460/usurper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ChNNQ5ZuA3ovMu4BEkApEAEx9e32Vxc6T850IPAqFnxGFjLN159EBcY66MH7mHzuz7hewo4pqtbZLoaymWjo89Ggpep9VOOEDGRf6OiLIbptqUKQ9rrqIlkVaVyQ8u90A2IyEKogA-z0XW1ugnMf-L-gIdpZIEbXFl7SDI0vgXxqn3cx8UAjS9v9BlY/w261-h400/usurper.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BTH8LSJ4?binding=kindle_edition&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_tukn">USURPER</a></b> seems to have done pretty well. It got some good reviews and garnered some very pleasing<br /> thumbs-ups from a range of respected authors … <br /><br /><i>An action-packed, coming-of-age, adventure set against the upheaval and battles of 1066 … <b>Matthew Harffy </b></i><br /><br /><i>Fearsome battles, believable characters, uncommon valour. A relentless page turner … <b>David Gilman </b><br /></i><br /><div><i>An authentically blood-soaked historical epic to rank with the best … <b>Anthony Riches </b><br /></i><br /><i>With all the brutal power of a battle-axe to the head, Finch brings 1066 to life in new and vivid ways … <b>Steven A McKay </b></i><br /><br />Well, as mentioned, next January, the second volume in the Wulfbury saga, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3LUHR2FZ9KHYX&keywords=battle+lord+-+pw+finch&qid=1699309249&s=books&sprefix=battle+lord%2Cstripbooks%2C75&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b>, will hit the bookshelves, though it’s available for pre-order right now of course. Here’s a quick thumbnail outline: <br /><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAOXylhTbWKAXv3ERa20-4VB-LX_sMgEFU3MDdn4vBKZG6JeLrtnb8TtLRL396RMP0XOvmoJucKuT3BK96Jc6aJXhiYmYxfv3yvleFDQzxcSGOt3l6Dz5CVYZzXcQMshD92IHx5SWgnb98s75mdGGjoqz2nIz31f227s0fPh_mYUBjKGjhDxrbP3hXZs/s259/hastings%20aftermath.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDAOXylhTbWKAXv3ERa20-4VB-LX_sMgEFU3MDdn4vBKZG6JeLrtnb8TtLRL396RMP0XOvmoJucKuT3BK96Jc6aJXhiYmYxfv3yvleFDQzxcSGOt3l6Dz5CVYZzXcQMshD92IHx5SWgnb98s75mdGGjoqz2nIz31f227s0fPh_mYUBjKGjhDxrbP3hXZs/w320-h240/hastings%20aftermath.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It’s October 1066. The battle of Hastings is over, and King Harold and the flower of his English army lie slaughtered. But the Normans have suffered too, and from this point on, can only advance with caution. Though this doesn’t stop them harrying the English people: burning, raping and pillaging. <br /><br />The prisoners they have taken are equally mistreated. One of these is Cerdic Aelfricsson, second son and sole surviving heir to the earldom of Ripon, whose extensive holding in the north of England is centred around the hill fortress of Wulfbury. <br /><br />Wulfbury is the only reason Cerdic is alive. He has teased his captors with information that this earldom and all its treasures can now be theirs, though he makes no bones about the fact that they must first steal it back from Wulfgar Ragnarsson, a Viking warlord whose private army splintered away from Harald the Hardraada’s invasion force and captured it for themselves. <br /><br />The household of the Norman count, Cynric of Tancarville, is the particular group in whose chains Cerdic resides. Not trusting their duke to give them their due reward, they are strongly tempted to march north, but they know that will be through enemy territory, while the Viking opponent awaiting them grows stronger every day. <br /><br />Before then of course, they still have duties to discharge for their duke, namely the capture of the Saxon fort at Dover, and England’s religious capital, Canterbury, then the hardest nut of all to crack, London. Only then of course, can the duke genuinely claim the crown of England. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpI6wBKyG_abeATRnr0G6HKeSkPr8uxrl-VSI0NwGxct5Oa58H53ADNMdR8dBAf3fM6dan-L6x1YUB9kCy0p9TcmNOaonb3Nt63i7Dizc0TkwCG5SbcnKu_n06gupAV3fKHsY5xG3oteZyvH5h1KmdOjqssALlRpdXRNb_fNqFjfb3psI0Ih2hToHxrmQ/s877/saxon%20warriors.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="515" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpI6wBKyG_abeATRnr0G6HKeSkPr8uxrl-VSI0NwGxct5Oa58H53ADNMdR8dBAf3fM6dan-L6x1YUB9kCy0p9TcmNOaonb3Nt63i7Dizc0TkwCG5SbcnKu_n06gupAV3fKHsY5xG3oteZyvH5h1KmdOjqssALlRpdXRNb_fNqFjfb3psI0Ih2hToHxrmQ/w235-h400/saxon%20warriors.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>All through this ordeal of chaos and war, Cerdic can only use his wits to survive. At the same time, though, he becomes increasingly close to a fellow hostage, Yvette d’Heimois, the English-speaking daughter of a Norman count currently living in exile, and two Norman knights, Turold and Roland, the former whose mother was English, the second whose adherence to the code of chivalry leads him to show compassion to the prisoners. <br /><br />That said, the benign presence of Yvette, Turold and Roland is counterbalanced for Cerdic by several ferocious adversaries: Joubert, Count Cynric’s cruel and uncontrollable son, Yvo ‘the Slayer’ de Taillebois, his personal attack-dog, and Duke William himself, an implacable tyrant, who hasn’t yet earned his epithet ‘Conqueror’, but is currently known for all sorts of reasons as ‘the Bastard’. </i><br /><br />If you like the sound of <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3LUHR2FZ9KHYX&keywords=battle+lord+-+pw+finch&qid=1699309249&s=books&sprefix=battle+lord%2Cstripbooks%2C75&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b>, as I’ve already said, you can pre-order it right now. Or, if you need further persuasion, check out a few reviews and see what you think on it on its day of publication, January 8, next year. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Thrillers, Chillers no more</b></div><br />It’s my sad duty to report that my<b> Thrillers, Chillers, Shockers and Killers</b> column, which I’ve been running on this blog since 2015, and in which I think I’ve now reviewed several hundred books, will shortly be finishing. <br /><br />I should say straight away that airing my thoughts publicly and extensively on those works by other authors that I have particularly enjoyed has been one of the great joys of my life in recent years. But, for various reasons now, I need to bring this to a close. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMzUoH26rOvOUoYwpx2g3Ftijma3oMtM9fIGRhOVlbSmK1sjl79752ebjjFXFGkv6s6HVxLgu2yt0XbijY7qEPYZPfbwa9Ue7x4v_p-tjJ2I85zZ0yLSCCVJZZUfNKtgG8-HWT9bI9CMXvr0H9ScwF5b-IAsM2MnnEIWjOBqKVH98NAbJ9GmZzCuzzCE/s5760/book%20piles.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5760" data-original-width="3840" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWMzUoH26rOvOUoYwpx2g3Ftijma3oMtM9fIGRhOVlbSmK1sjl79752ebjjFXFGkv6s6HVxLgu2yt0XbijY7qEPYZPfbwa9Ue7x4v_p-tjJ2I85zZ0yLSCCVJZZUfNKtgG8-HWT9bI9CMXvr0H9ScwF5b-IAsM2MnnEIWjOBqKVH98NAbJ9GmZzCuzzCE/w266-h400/book%20piles.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>Most people who are familiar with this blog will probably recognise that I offer very detailed reviews of these novels, anthologies and story collections. Some might say I actually go into too much detail, and that writing hundreds and hundreds of words each time is an OTT response and maybe too much for the average internet browser to bother reading. <br /><br />In truth, I suspect this latter may be the case. <br /><br />Many’s the time sadly when I’ve had only a very limited response to these reviews, which is a huge amount of time wasted. Don’t get me wrong … I’ve not been doing this so that people will discuss my book reviewing skills (such as they are) online, though it’s nice if an author responds, and that happens quite a lot, but ultimately it’s an exercise in trying to spread the word about a great piece of fiction that has made an impact on me personally, and it’s too often the case that I’ve seen no evidence I’m achieving that … so, what’s the point? <br /><br />Of course, what it really boils down is that, even if each of these reviews generated a waterfall of chatter, they’ve simply become too time-consuming an exercise. I have my own writing to do – two more novels are in the offing, with more to add, while I also have several short story commissions – so it’s just not possible to keep taking out two or three days twice a month to write continuous book reviews. (On top of that, it does take the enjoyment out of reading, having to make copious notes in a pad while you’re working your way through a damn good book). <br /><br />I won’t be putting it to bed straight away. I’ve still got several reviews in the barrel, which I’ll post over the next couple of months, and I’ll always post a quotable paragraph on social media if I really like a book, but I suspect that 2024 will be the first year in quite some time when the <b><i>Thrillers, Chillers, Shockers and Killers</i></b> section of this twice-monthly blogpost is basically no more. <br /><br />And now, speak of the Devil … <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />A series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-i_E64EZTJ3NkTQpbP-CNocjSKuB3vo6dnh7mc-jywj0bL7SHN8utzuygITHfwj_d71PwUK5k2Zb-iAqP4Jv6DEHv-YPf8uCGtW4xkRlOpd5YoN3WkcMr9ge0Y73zS0UjfyfYa_LGb3JoYVtxMkFHcgX3eqm-vH7Ef83uPWjoe1TrwEVE1oZd1CGYuE8/s1095/kin.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1095" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-i_E64EZTJ3NkTQpbP-CNocjSKuB3vo6dnh7mc-jywj0bL7SHN8utzuygITHfwj_d71PwUK5k2Zb-iAqP4Jv6DEHv-YPf8uCGtW4xkRlOpd5YoN3WkcMr9ge0Y73zS0UjfyfYa_LGb3JoYVtxMkFHcgX3eqm-vH7Ef83uPWjoe1TrwEVE1oZd1CGYuE8/w274-h400/kin.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kin-Kealan-Patrick-Burke/dp/1479110493/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1699309159&sr=1-1">KIN</a> <i>by Kealan Patrick Burke (2012) </i><br /></b><br /><b>Outline</b><br />When Claire Lambert is found on the side of the road near Elkwood in rural Alabama, raped, mutilated and blinded in one eye, Jack Lowell, the black farmer who discovers her, knows immediately who’s to blame. A local hillbilly clan, the Merrills, controlled by their fearsome father, Papa-in-Gray, and their odious, deranged mother, Mamma-in-Bed, have been terrorising the district for ages. While content to leave their neighbours alone (mostly), they are always ready to waylay visitors, not just robbing, torturing and killing them, but cannibalising the remains afterwards. And by that, I mean literally cannibalising them, as in cooking and eating them, and burning what’s left-over on huge, greasy bonfires. <br /><br />Claire’s small group of happy-go-lucky hitchhikers has suffered exactly this fate, but Claire herself escaped and in the process managed to kill one of her captors. <br /><br />None of this, by the way, has happened ‘on camera’. We learn all about it through Claire’s dazed recollections and the few things she manages to say to her reluctant rescuer and then to a retired doctor, who patches her wounds but is hesitant to publicise the incident because both he and Lowell now know that the Merrills won’t rest. One of their victims has escaped, someone who can now implicate them in multiple homicides. Not only that, she slew one of their own. <br /><br />Lowell’s dim-witted but good-natured son, Pete, drives Claire away when she’s fit to travel, and only just in time, the vengeance of the Merrill family then falling ferociously on both the farmer and the good-hearted medical man, the latter taking the blame posthumously when local lawman, Sheriff McKindry, finds fragments of Claire’s friends scattered in his cellar. <br /><br />The story of the mad, murdering doctor is accepted by the state police, and Claire is despatched home to her sorrowing family in Ohio, unable to persuade anyone that it was a whole group of men who attacked them. Her older sister, Kara, won’t listen, because she hopes the terrible issue is now over. Relatives of the other victims feel much the same way. With one exception. <br /><br />Thomas Finch, the brother of Claire’s deceased boyfriend, and an ex-boyfriend, himself, of Kara’s, is a veteran of the Iraq War. As such, he’s now an embittered, introspective man, whom Kara doesn’t like or trust anymore, and who seems to be constantly on the verge of doing something self-destructive. Secretly, he’s tortured by the memory of shooting an innocent Iraqi woman and her child, and later covering his back by lying that they were suicide bombers, though no one else knows about this except his old combat buddy, Beau. Finch does believe Claire that the real murderers down in Alabama have got away scot free, and seeks permission of the bereaved families to go and look for them. Most don’t want anything to do with him; they are comfortable middle-class citizens, so even though ravaged by grief, they can’t conceive of a vigilante rampage. One, however, a wealthy chap, agrees to bankroll Finch’s mission of vengeance, which allows him and Beau to buy high-power weapons. <br /><br />Young Pete, meanwhile, is also ready to get payback. Despite his endless good humour, with his Pa dead and his home burned, he’s been left with nothing but the family truck. He heads north to Detroit, to try and hook up with Louise, his former stepmom, but Louise, though she’s glad to see him, is currently dealing with a wannabe gangster boyfriend and all the trouble that brings, and eventually is severely wounded just trying to prevent Pete from getting involved himself. <br /><br />Pete thus drives to Ohio, to check on Claire. He really is an innocent soul. It never enters his head that she might regard him as a real-life reminder of her terrible ordeal rather than the friendly kid who helped her. But Claire, who’s been strictly forbidden by Kara from accompanying Finch and Beau back to the South, now sees Pete as a new kind of salvation. Because, the moment Kara looks the other way, he can drive her down to Alabama. And whatever revenge is going to be had on the diabolical Merrill clan, she can have a piece of it too … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />Back in 2012, I would have wondered how much more an author could have wrung out of the ‘hillbilly horror’ genre. Much earlier, in 2001, I attended World Horror in Seattle and heard opinions from various US writers that they felt this particular neck of the literary backwoods was now thoroughly explored. <br /><br />However, Kealan Patrick Burke gives it a new lease of life in his rural thriller, <i><b>Kin</b></i>, though not in ways you might expect. <br /><br />Yes, the terror of the malformed and the inbred is all there, the extreme sexual violence is there, the distortion of religious belief, the deep, dark woodland filled with dense, thorny undergrowth. The Southern Gothic atmosphere pervades it from the start. We are in a familiar world, and a familiarly ominous one, where local law enforcement pay lip service to their badges, doing no more for visitors than offering friendly advice that they ignore such and such a wooded back-road; where said roads inevitably lead to mysterious ramshackle farms, heaps of junked, rusted machinery, loads and loads of seemingly abandoned cars; and where hairy bad guys in dungarees are likely to leap out of the trees at any second, armed with hatchets, knives and bows. <br /><br />But I say it again, <i><b>Kin</b></i> is what I’d call a ‘rural thriller’ rather than a traditional ‘hillbilly slasher’, Burke setting up the brutal attack on the innocent band of hikers before the novel has even started, and instead of focussing on their appalling and protracted suffering, choosing to analyse the events that follow (and inevitably spin out of control). <br /><br />I’ve often wondered when watching movies like <i><b>The Texas Chainsaw Massacre</b></i>, <i><b>Wrong Turn</b></i> or <i><b>The Hills Have Eyes</b></i>, how the few survivors of such ordeals would ever have been able to get on with their lives afterwards. We got a hint of it in <i><b>Deliverance</b></i> and <i><b>Wolf Creek</b></i>, where, in the former, the very least they could expect were repeated sweat-soaked nightmares, and where, in the latter, there was a general disbelief that such events could ever have happened, the survivors themselves coming under suspicion of murder. <br /><br />But in <i><b>Kin</b></i>, Kealan Patrick Burke takes it a whole lot further – and here’s the really clever bit, because when this author is talking about ‘kin’, he isn’t just talking about the cannibal clan at the heart of the horror, he’s also talking about the response their atrocious act elicits from the siblings of those slain. In fact, that’s what he’s talking about mainly. So often in this kind of tale, we meet a tightknit group of uneducated killers living in rural isolation, fearing and hating the rest of the world, and subsequently prepared to die for each other even though there is much abuse and cruelty among them. Well, newsflash! – other ordinary folk, the ‘men of the world’ as they are referred to in this book, care about each other too, and in <i><b>Kin</b></i>, the Merrill clan of Elkwood are about to learn that the hard way. <br /><br />Even so, the author doesn’t use this as a reason to simply drag us through a gutter of depraved self-justifying violence. Fighting back against deadly criminals with equal deadly force would be a big step for any civilised person to take; not just a terrifying prospect, but a moral quandary all of its own. And this is the key aspect of <i><b>Kin</b></i>. If your life was genuinely ruined by an act of such horrific violence as this, and the outrage was compounded by the indifference or incompetence (or both) of local police forces – so much that you felt there was no option but to take the law into your own hands – what kind of agonies would you go through as you, firstly, sought to convince yourself that this was the only solution, and, secondly, then had to persuade sufficient others to form an effective posse? <br /><br />Even in America, where there are guns aplenty, it takes the war veterans Finch and Beau, two men used to conflict and whose lives, on the whole, have already ended, to light the touchpaper. Pete only gets involved because he too has nothing left in his life: his Pa is dead, his home incinerated, his erstwhile mother, Louise, a woman with serious problems of her own. Even Claire, the most damaged character in the story, only goes back to Elkwood because she is being so smothered with care and concern (and at the same time subjected to anger and annoyance for having brought this tragedy on their family) that she knows she’ll only be able to cut loose by taking direct action of her own. And even then, they all follow hard and bumpy roads reaching these conclusions. <br /><br />I’ve seen some critiques of <i><b>Kin</b></i> that take issue with its middle section, where the killers themselves are off the page and, instead of watching them commit more heinous deeds, we ruminate painfully with their stressed and indecisive victims. Of course, what may be boring to some, to others (to me, for instance) is the thing that marks this novel out as more of a thriller than a horror, because it means that we’re dealing with things ultra realistically, a sad, grave tone that is maintained throughout the narrative. <br /><br /><i><b>Kin</b></i> might be a story that we’ve seen before, but rarely will we have seen it done in as grown-up fashion as this. For example, the Merrills are not simply mad, bad and dangerous to know because they come from the country. There are other country folk in here, like Jack Lowell and even Mamma-in-Gray’s brother, Jeremiah Crawl, who, while both from the boondocks, are not evil. <br /><br />The Merrills are the way they are because Papa-in-Gray, their patriarch, is hopelessly insane, a paranoid religious maniac who has consciously sought segregation and raised his family with such fear and suspicion of the rest of society, treating its corruptive influence as literal poison, that it will only lead to one thing when they encounter it. (I should say that though we’re in authentic serial killer country here, our main antagonist so overwhelmed by delusion that he might as well get what he can from his fellow men because he’s completely dehumanised them in his own mind, the cannibal element feels perhaps a little unnecessary. I can’t help thinking this brings a degree of lurid sensationalism into the novel that it doesn’t really need). <br /><br />The other thing that impresses me about the Merrills is that they’re not indestructible. We’re a world away from Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees, who just keep coming no matter what you do to them. The Merrills are brutal bullies, but they’ve never squared up to combat vets before, and the result of that is inevitable and foreseeable. Not only that; they aren’t totally solid with each other: son Luke, for example, has developed a conscience, and Papa, though he cruelly and horribly punishes the boy, remains wary of him for the rest of the book. <br /><br />On the whole, though, you almost start to feel for the Merrills in the end, mainly because their simple understanding of what they believe to be an ultra-hostile world has so failed to prepare them for reality that, at times, they are more like silly children than deadly criminals (though you don’t linger with that misconception for long). When their demise occurs, it’s deserved but inevitable, and they almost seem to feel this themselves, predicting the end of their world with a sad, fatalistic air. Papa remains in denial until the end, of course: Mama was a saint, God is still on their side, he’ll find another woman and have new sons, all will come good. It’s all so pathetically deluded. Not that he doesn’t thoroughly deserve the biblical end that awaits him in the final pages. <br /><br />In terms of the other characters, Sheriff McKindry is an equally complex villain. It’s an old trope, the corrupt southern lawman who’ll go out on a limb to keep things just the way they are. In this version, he’s as much a thief and scavenger as the Merrills, but he too is finally aware that he’s got in over his head, and he genuinely regrets this, as well as the sufferings of all those others caught up in the Merrills’ web, which up until now he’s turned a blind eye to. <br /><br />I was less enamoured by Finch and Beau, who, dare I say it, are a little bit stock, and like so many veterans in modern day fiction, spend a lot of time talking about how nothing seems to matter anymore, though once again they have clear, defined voices and as we’re still in the real world, neither of them, thankfully, is Rambo. <br /><br />That leaves only Pete and Claire of our main cast, who, between them, are a very different pair of heroes from the norm, and each very engaging in his/her own way. Claire would normally be fetchingly pretty; she was once, but now she’s been gruesomely disfigured, and switches continually between sweetness and anger. Pete, a young black kid with learning difficulties but a cheerful outlook, lives in a tragi-comic fantasy, where just because he was in the truck that picked Claire up when she was first hurt means he’s destined to be her boyfriend. He’s no hope on this score, of course, but one of the most attractive things about him is, even when he starts to realise this, he never lets it diminish his positive outlook. <br /><br />As you’ve probably realised, I enjoyed <i><b>Kin</b></i> immensely. It was a quick read, though very well written – almost lyrical at times. I do think there are perhaps one or two moments of introspection too many, when we lose the thread of the action because characters are thinking deep, immersive thoughts. But to other reviewers this is a good thing, even steering the book in a literary direction. <br /><br />Ultimately, of course, it’s all in the eye of the beholder. I’d just say this: read <i><b>Kin</b></i>. It doesn’t do what it says on the tin, but for that reason I think you’ll thorough enjoy it. <br /><br /><i>As I so often, and so ill-advisedly do after reviewing books on this blog, I’m now going to attempt to cast Kin on the off chance that it gets made into a movie or TV series. So many of the books on here should get that treatment, but never seem to. But in this case, as with all others, here’s hoping. (And remember – the one good thing about this is that I have no limits on how much I can spend on my actors). <br /><br />Claire – Kara Hayward <br />Pete – Tyrel Jackson Williams <br />Papa in Gray – Dennis Quaid <br />Luke – Josh Hutcherson <br />Louise – Gabrielle Union <br />Finch – Sean Faris <br />Beau – Omari Hardwick <br />Sheriff McKindry – Scott Glenn</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-26720743838229234652023-10-03T02:09:00.002-07:002023-10-03T07:28:51.974-07:00Haunted house horrors: a very cool Top 20<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhO51S_NoMZWpRjq9y8QuxZINQnmA4Qs2Oj2u-2u5cyqDvUQYnDxz5Ue1i7_GFfnak85GVapzFoUJg5Zp3aBcSwNe-1W8A_Fzw4Sla-h2hLH6v3MjcQu4wtJLufL1eY0wWil8-z0oVyzkWo1R9bdao03iVqUQ5fVyzhe-bWlUei6zDxXeV9pDQ7EIOyU/s696/scary%20victorian%20house%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="696" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhO51S_NoMZWpRjq9y8QuxZINQnmA4Qs2Oj2u-2u5cyqDvUQYnDxz5Ue1i7_GFfnak85GVapzFoUJg5Zp3aBcSwNe-1W8A_Fzw4Sla-h2hLH6v3MjcQu4wtJLufL1eY0wWil8-z0oVyzkWo1R9bdao03iVqUQ5fVyzhe-bWlUei6zDxXeV9pDQ7EIOyU/w400-h353/scary%20victorian%20house%20(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><b>Welcome to October, everyone. The true beginning of what I suppose you could call the Haunting Season. Halloween is still a few weeks off, and Christmas even further, but with the darker evenings, longer nights and that sudden, distinctive nip in the air, you at last know that you’re into the waning of the year and your thoughts turn instinctively to all things eerie.</b></p><b>So, today, just for a lark, I’ll be selecting 20 classy haunted house books to talk about. In addition to that, on an only indirectly connected note, I’ll be offering a detailed review of Chris Ewan’s Halloween thriller, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Tides-Chris-Ewan/dp/0571307450/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696275565&sr=1-1">DARK TIDES</a>. </b><br /><br />If you’re only here for the Ewan review, you’ll find it as always in the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section at the lower end of today’s blogpost. Feel free to shoot on down there straight away. In the meantime, before any of that … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Podcast city</b></div><br />As summer came to an end, I was the grateful recipient of several invitations to participate in podcasts. The first of these was <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/paul-finch-1066-crime-writing-being-in-a-shieldwall/id1631182936?i=1000626424696"><b>ROCK, PAPER, SWORDS</b></a>, a regular series from top historical authors <b>Matthew Harffy</b> and <b>Steven A McKay</b>, which focusses on historical action fiction and rock music. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknItauscgTxLFmfFis2kHHNJCpE6OwerUcOqLZtX6uRcpq1okMl-XZP3I67KAxKjp6NPyaRCBvFnMiOrAeqFJTMIdYkw3ywL9X5VfrI8ZigLBzEEGimhHlaUSxKK7u3bFuntZZ-7j4NRGay8feRlLtpvb_T_iZPPdoNKtzUoTpPV8IAxBV0ctkt17kzk/s1655/battle%20lord.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1655" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknItauscgTxLFmfFis2kHHNJCpE6OwerUcOqLZtX6uRcpq1okMl-XZP3I67KAxKjp6NPyaRCBvFnMiOrAeqFJTMIdYkw3ywL9X5VfrI8ZigLBzEEGimhHlaUSxKK7u3bFuntZZ-7j4NRGay8feRlLtpvb_T_iZPPdoNKtzUoTpPV8IAxBV0ctkt17kzk/w209-h320/battle%20lord.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>That concept alone ticks a number of important boxes for me, especially as my most recent novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696275694&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, falls into the historical action-adventure category (as will the sequel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696275771&sr=1-1"><b>BATTLE LORD</b></a>, out next January) so I was delighted to guest for them. You can find that one <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/paul-finch-1066-crime-writing-being-in-a-shieldwall/id1631182936?i=1000626424696"><b>HERE</b></a>. <br /><br />In addition to that, composer and podcaster <b>Ian Cleverdon</b> invited me to join him on <a href="https://shows.acast.com/half-hour-mentor"><b>HALF HOUR MENTOR</b></a>, an ongoing series featuring regular interviews with people who are deemed to be sources of inspiration within their chosen fields. I was particularly flattered to be asked onto this show, as you can imagine, especially as Ian deemed the final interview so worthwhile that he ran it to an hour rather than half an hour. So, if you’re interested, you can find this one in two parts, <b><a href="https://shows.acast.com/half-hour-mentor">ONE</a></b> and <b>TWO</b> on the same site next Saturday. <br /><br />And now, as promised earlier, onto … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Houses of the unholy</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(All you rock fans, see what I did there?)</i></div><div><br /></div>Old scary house stories are always going to be something of a mixed bag. They aren’t always effective, mainly because there have now been so many of them, and yet the haunted house story seems to have a lasting appeal, which ranges right across a whole variety of genres. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_2q2t-A4AuAK550GtS97bmcqsS9GzSzIiyUMcLPonF-CGjaSCydfl-gce2aoOC0ckZ__1BaFt_kT6mRq5Lb3mXvQSAR7Va1O9BBkVaoJs3Thyqqiw6Apeo7R8nf8y6-ORHXWhcbNfn-Abg4jhiHmvAYFyh_IgZeabVPcdo5qSygKt2o3qetXy0ukmds/s406/Lurker_Panther_1973.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_2q2t-A4AuAK550GtS97bmcqsS9GzSzIiyUMcLPonF-CGjaSCydfl-gce2aoOC0ckZ__1BaFt_kT6mRq5Lb3mXvQSAR7Va1O9BBkVaoJs3Thyqqiw6Apeo7R8nf8y6-ORHXWhcbNfn-Abg4jhiHmvAYFyh_IgZeabVPcdo5qSygKt2o3qetXy0ukmds/s320/Lurker_Panther_1973.webp" width="197" /></a></div>To start with, they are meat and drink to the world of the crime thriller; take JB Priestley’s <b><i>Benighted</i></b>, also published as <b><i>The Old Dark House</i></b> (1927) or Agatha Christie’s <i><b>And Then There Were None</b></i> (1939) and <b><i>Hallowe’en Party </i></b>(1969), all adapted as major Hollywood movies (the latter relocated from the English Home Counties to Venice by Kenneth Branagh). </div><div><br /></div><div>Evil old houses have also provided key focal points in science fiction: HP Lovecraft and August Derleth’s <i><b>The Lurker at the Threshold</b></i> (1945) and William Hope Hodgson’s <i><b>The House on the Borderland</b></i> (1908). Even the world of comedy has had fun with scary old houses. Take, for example, Oscar Wilde’s <b><i>The Canterville Ghost</i></b> (1887) and Josephine Leslie’s fantasy rom-com, <b><i>The Ghost and Mrs Muir</i></b> (1945), while from Hollywood there were two classic Bob Hope vehicles, <i><b>The Cat and the Canary</b></i> (1939) and <i><b>The Ghost Breakers</b></i> (1940). (Who could forget Hope’s immortal one-liner: ‘I’m familiar with big empty houses. I used to do vaudeville’).</div><div><br />But, understandably, it’s the world of horror fiction where the haunted house as a concept has most made its mark. <br /><br />In fact, it’s now a sub-genre of supernatural fiction all on its own, and it never seems to get old. I’m not sure exactly why that is, but I’d hazard a guess that a house is invariably someone’s home, and homes are supposed to be places of comfort and refuge, safety zones where the occupants should feel warm and secure, and from where they can easily repel the woes of the world. Subsequently, when these places are invaded, even by human adversaries, it has a horrible impact. So, imagine the impact when the incursion is by some malevolent nether-being, a ghost or demon. No wonder it preys on all our minds. <br /><br />At the same time, of course, haunted houses don’t just exist in myth or fiction. They are actually supposed to be real. Even those of us who don’t go looking for ‘true’ ghost stories, have encountered hundreds of tales of houses that were ‘not quite right’ or were reputed to be troubled or disturbed. If you live here in the UK, near enough every neighbourhood boasts one, but there are some cases so celebrated that they make international news. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuAk44ChrYJEs-q_iFcT4E_v609DDTev5yNjHzydQLwKFgBH8ej8S0oK4ono-SdLc4T12titF_RI92GqZz3WyQciEaThYOe3BXnzPTGLF-HBP5i8mUTWVvkUdpExXaEaFYUHBj560wFpdR_ob1oOu4gOwbfVQ1iymaB7jM1PiJtumdtyBvhWPN-dU9bU/s3029/284_Green_Street,_Enfield.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3029" data-original-width="2638" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuAk44ChrYJEs-q_iFcT4E_v609DDTev5yNjHzydQLwKFgBH8ej8S0oK4ono-SdLc4T12titF_RI92GqZz3WyQciEaThYOe3BXnzPTGLF-HBP5i8mUTWVvkUdpExXaEaFYUHBj560wFpdR_ob1oOu4gOwbfVQ1iymaB7jM1PiJtumdtyBvhWPN-dU9bU/s320/284_Green_Street,_Enfield.jpg" width="279" /></a></div>The so-called Enfield Poltergeist, an entity that supposedly terrorised a suburban house in North London (pictured right) in the mid-1970s, some of the manifestations captured on live news cameras, became the epicentre of an international paranormal enquiry. </div><div><br /></div><div>Likewise, the centuries-old haunting of Glamis Castle in central Scotland is reputed far and wide and allegedly has hit both occupants of the grand old estate and visitors to it with every type of terrifying phenomena.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could list these examples endlessly, but the point is that we’re all familiar enough with the concept of the haunted house story to enjoy it thoroughly whenever one comes along, and there has been no shortage of writing on this very subject. Dark fiction specialists from the earliest days got in on the haunted house act: Edgar Allan Poe with <b><i>The Fall of the House of Usher</i></b> (1839), MR James with <i><b>Lost Hearts</b></i> (1895), Henry James with <i><b>The Turn of the Screw</b></i> (1898) and Algernon Blackwood with <i><b>The Empty House</b></i> (1906). But for today’s purposes, coming forward a little closer in time, I’ve selected 20 haunted house novels by some of the best writers on the more recent market.</div><div><br />The first ten I’ve already read and heartily endorse. The second ten I’ve yet to read, so in those cases I’ve simply offered the blurb from the back of the book. If nothing else, this second list will hopefully provide interest and temptation. <br /><br /><i>Very quickly though, before we get into that, this being my own blog and all, I hope it’s not too remiss of me to mention that I too have contributed to the canon, with two haunted house novellas of my own: 1) In <b>The Killing Ground</b> (2008), most recently included in my Christmas collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696276030&sr=1-1"><b>IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER</b></a>, a man-and-wife private eye team are hired by a film star to investigate a possibility that the medieval spectre supposedly roaming the precincts of his new home on the Wales/Herefordshire border is responsible for the disappearance of several local children. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFrm3kz_o5UMY-oGWG0zWyx8YLCLkxPX0JYeFmvJRe-X9lNDSuxiTOJz9C83MQqnPy-YAi2mxLBHzwoMjexhP1ZSs_oHNn-az0fHPyIjSLAzcqmlejUYIifRbCz09SoHeG-nMAoizNdx2mxbrbP1xwJOF_OXYuSoxn9OEII5drt2NWHWo_ddJN0PcnGc/s1000/71MoB3GSA5L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="625" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOFrm3kz_o5UMY-oGWG0zWyx8YLCLkxPX0JYeFmvJRe-X9lNDSuxiTOJz9C83MQqnPy-YAi2mxLBHzwoMjexhP1ZSs_oHNn-az0fHPyIjSLAzcqmlejUYIifRbCz09SoHeG-nMAoizNdx2mxbrbP1xwJOF_OXYuSoxn9OEII5drt2NWHWo_ddJN0PcnGc/s320/71MoB3GSA5L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>2) In <b>The Stain</b> (2007), which most recently appeared in another Christmas collection of mine, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696276097&sr=1-1"><b>THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE</b></a>, a bunch of wannabe film-makers seek inspiration from a sprawling manor house in the New Forest, where an infamous horror movie of the 1960s was shot, the mere filming of which has allegedly invoked a demonic presence that was never there previously. (This one’s been optioned twice by different film companies, but – surprise, surprise – it’s never made it to development as yet). </i><br /><br />And now, the plug over and done with, today’s main event: <br /><br /><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>20 HAUNTED HOUSE NOVELS TO SHED DARKNESS INTO YOUR WORLD OF LIGHT</b></h2><br /><b>BOOKS I STRONGLY RECOMMEND … </b><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Q330xbE4eMq8rGmCr8iqVX9hGimksDXf0xN5yPnZL_nPnfF27hMlPBr5Vn_hKHOwtOY7qUtiNXODjNbvrcOH8A7V7ip4zAJWPyz5v8c0ZUYyaPNknQgz_qrvxGZFQDTEDUFENctqopuOqAQjqdED6rTJbp5dBasmhhYliqp-6yG8buvo9RUPiQv9lbU/s500/s-l500.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="305" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Q330xbE4eMq8rGmCr8iqVX9hGimksDXf0xN5yPnZL_nPnfF27hMlPBr5Vn_hKHOwtOY7qUtiNXODjNbvrcOH8A7V7ip4zAJWPyz5v8c0ZUYyaPNknQgz_qrvxGZFQDTEDUFENctqopuOqAQjqdED6rTJbp5dBasmhhYliqp-6yG8buvo9RUPiQv9lbU/w244-h400/s-l500.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>1 The Amityville Horror <i>by Jay Anson (1977) </i></b><br /><br />The alleged true account of a terrifying haunting, which caused such sensation that it spawned numerous sequels and imitations, and a whole series of movies. Though there is huge doubt as to whether any of the events it reports happened, journalist Jay Anson hit gold when he recounted the story of the Lutz family, who claimed that a demonic presence had influenced the real-life mass murder that had occurred in their pleasant Long Island home in the early 1970s, and the subsequent horrific haunting that finally caused them to flee. Primarily, this was down to Anson’s spare, journalistic style (it all comes at us in diary form) and the absolute conviction of its tone. Whether you believe in it or not, it’s still one of the scariest reads on the market and a landmark in haunted house fiction.<br /><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaatmMiOuB74sBoZZds30Vdl9a3OIZVSV6Lq3j-v8j2rpdd5QDOcN2Ip6jSvKI9Yoi1ZODY7Us41U8mhqoU6A8fPd8WP8Q8xh-fwu40bE7973lkMoHwpwiKCifihltom4939His29rmmiP3y4hxDNtC2GJh58FBK5HEAprWEkL2ilJmTPvd5AbVjYscLs/s386/HauntingOfHillHouse.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="386" data-original-width="257" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaatmMiOuB74sBoZZds30Vdl9a3OIZVSV6Lq3j-v8j2rpdd5QDOcN2Ip6jSvKI9Yoi1ZODY7Us41U8mhqoU6A8fPd8WP8Q8xh-fwu40bE7973lkMoHwpwiKCifihltom4939His29rmmiP3y4hxDNtC2GJh58FBK5HEAprWEkL2ilJmTPvd5AbVjYscLs/w266-h400/HauntingOfHillHouse.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>2 The Haunting of Hill House <i>by Shirley Jackson (1959)</i><br /> </b><br /><div>Made three times now for the screen, <b><i>The Haunting of Hill House</i></b> was inspired by a road-trip Shirley Jackson took to recce the most haunted houses in her native New England. It seems that she heard some very spooky stories en route, and yet with this masterpiece, trimmed her finished product down to the basics, relying on suggestion rather than</div><div>outright manifestation, leaving the group of paranormal investigators staying in isolated Hill House confused about whether they were genuinely in touch with dark forces or being duped by the psychological torment of one of their own number. The first movie version, The Haunting, filmed by Robert Wise in 1963, was by far the closest in spirit to this unforgettable original, but read the book too.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkFazIaDtNffAmz4ELrGTIpqr6xeV_-BiSEmkzJ36w23rGZtNLX-c_kOSC2tYqlFG_LnSApA9vFB4JrMtxOJUmFDYTRzKooAWHHaO71YCRbAnwELAY_S0KNznUtBAmd42DR0khyphenhyphen9Pg-II2HzfmgEKtJLadO7-Qm1fTwWI0xBJbD_gOErjztB2Mfk3J0A/s1000/61kW8S3W4ML._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="647" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZkFazIaDtNffAmz4ELrGTIpqr6xeV_-BiSEmkzJ36w23rGZtNLX-c_kOSC2tYqlFG_LnSApA9vFB4JrMtxOJUmFDYTRzKooAWHHaO71YCRbAnwELAY_S0KNznUtBAmd42DR0khyphenhyphen9Pg-II2HzfmgEKtJLadO7-Qm1fTwWI0xBJbD_gOErjztB2Mfk3J0A/w259-h400/61kW8S3W4ML._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>3 The Elementals <i>by Michael McDowell (1981) </i></b><br /><br />The Southern Gothic slams head-on into haunted house horror of the first order. With an affluent Alabama family, handsome men, beautiful women and heated passions, we’re surely in Tennessee Williams territory here, and that’s how it feels, but that’s the late lamented Michael McDowell’s plan from the outset, as he plunges us into a supernatural nightmare. The haunted spit of land on which the family take their annual vacation, the mysterious unclaimed holiday home gradually sinking into the sand next door, and the obscene but unknowable entities reaching out from it, all make for a Deep South-flavoured devil’s brew, which starts slowly but builds to a fearsome climax. Poppy Z Brite didn’t call it ‘one of the most terrifying novels ever written’ for no reason.<br /><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYr9mJJ5ZDz3BONnsHj7R2w7JVs8Hl4dvvTQF97BtnQ9s9msHJ5oYRfA1yH5Oob10rJq_q4cp0AoCJ2PxcuraMcJPWZ7bEdMOrsPktdEMXB2B3pRzZIv8DzoZ8Z9lVnIjammv4OjvadVB26HMg3CL-GFjzXPk8FQkB4hcW3aKWTghmknYUvMmpAw8rgA/s1000/81zqohMOk-L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="652" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgYr9mJJ5ZDz3BONnsHj7R2w7JVs8Hl4dvvTQF97BtnQ9s9msHJ5oYRfA1yH5Oob10rJq_q4cp0AoCJ2PxcuraMcJPWZ7bEdMOrsPktdEMXB2B3pRzZIv8DzoZ8Z9lVnIjammv4OjvadVB26HMg3CL-GFjzXPk8FQkB4hcW3aKWTghmknYUvMmpAw8rgA/w261-h400/81zqohMOk-L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="261" /></a></div></b><b>4 The Shining <i>by Stephen King (1977)</i></b><b><br /></b><br />It’s probably more difficult to disassociate this novel from the film adaptation (three years later) than almost any other, but it’s vital to do so, as they are very different. Stanley Kubrick made his mark in horror cinema history with his movie of the same name, but it’s crucial to remember that though this was only Stephen King’s third published novel, it’s probably the one that most put his name on the map. It’s the same basic story as the film, a caretaker and his family marooned by snow in a secluded hotel in the Colorado Rockies, but in the novel, the hotel itself is the source of the evil rather than the many ghosts that walk its corridors, with Jack’s son, Danny, who takes the pivotal role, battling the intangible being through his telepathic powers. A classic.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizJ7_cLsEBT9jLfMM-O14Vy0N78FhIHpJmPbrH0qte9YvMLDbLLYBZ8pGmEo2FO-u5LcaoKT_mt7A1Eu-Jk92uiqb3lUQ2yd5oKq3pY-QAhyphenhyphenFR8-2l4l_hXTR6PIAfnMs4x0gtTWzL4wZpocXLUU-ppQzJ4yczVcjWvrYc7PnsEUFwy4uBD9E2feVtA6M/s500/514ijTYOyPL.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizJ7_cLsEBT9jLfMM-O14Vy0N78FhIHpJmPbrH0qte9YvMLDbLLYBZ8pGmEo2FO-u5LcaoKT_mt7A1Eu-Jk92uiqb3lUQ2yd5oKq3pY-QAhyphenhyphenFR8-2l4l_hXTR6PIAfnMs4x0gtTWzL4wZpocXLUU-ppQzJ4yczVcjWvrYc7PnsEUFwy4uBD9E2feVtA6M/w250-h400/514ijTYOyPL.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>5 Burnt Offerings <i>by Robert Marasco (1973) </i></b><br /><br />Most of the books in this list came before the movie versions, though in the case of this one it was almost the other way round, playwright Robert Marasco penning the screenplay first, even though the project wouldn’t appear on celluloid until three years after the novel was published, (and by then the original script had been dispensed with). If it sounds like a familiar story – a nice New York family moving out of town into a glorious residence that they just can’t believe they got for such a bargain price, only to discover increasingly disturbing oddities – I urge you to read it all the same, as the malignancy here is of a very unique and unexpected sort, and the slow build-up of tension as the family gradually succumb to it is disturbingly convincing. Very scary.<br /><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcFgMtSunvlxJ7oVG89DdXIUAnslf5WligP7to0gG0kC3hCMDpIZXi92FxKX1Nh8cIoNESonKyEWx7CYJtaDI0GhDzFcMPWiE4xzxNaarRP-ppGITHxqiOzH6Ws3McAn3MPyUzi3hYQVqFdozFgkdfL9Bop9a1nz3Eq0IVRh8lx05HnfGjF3FwY-PrThI/s1000/91sMQKMxOIL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="655" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcFgMtSunvlxJ7oVG89DdXIUAnslf5WligP7to0gG0kC3hCMDpIZXi92FxKX1Nh8cIoNESonKyEWx7CYJtaDI0GhDzFcMPWiE4xzxNaarRP-ppGITHxqiOzH6Ws3McAn3MPyUzi3hYQVqFdozFgkdfL9Bop9a1nz3Eq0IVRh8lx05HnfGjF3FwY-PrThI/w263-h400/91sMQKMxOIL._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="263" /></a></div></b><b>6 The House on Cold Hill <i>by Peter James (2016)</i></b><b><br /></b><br />In this age of ‘TV ghost hunters’ many may leap to the conclusion that the average haunted house will comprise creaky floorboards, orbs and maybe the odd door opening on its own. For most, that would be enough to keep them away, so how do you react if your new pad is found to contain hellish supernatural entities, mysterious unknown beings who are hell-bent not just on scaring you and your family, but on terrorising you all to death and beyond? Thriller writer Peter James throws everything but the kitchen sink at us in this non-stop assault by the dead upon the living, refusing to hold back on the horror, even turning the most modern hi-tech appliances to the cause of evil. A traditional ‘haunted houser’ given a very updated spin. <br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQoJN08ftHZ1gvcNIMnt2Sn2gEdwmxMEd_sPFefik7XUAvLMlh3Pem6YiSZXwQWzgvBHXZyWr8As9goCJL2C5lgkVOfwIkMDazboV0PRGRcSTQOpGG6Z0gB0um1U7LVUzdRR9sQjrRAAY0owmg2UEGCUd56ThRYuWVCncwp2_bY3h3E83GwjWIGhLKDUQ/s2120/9780312868857.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2120" data-original-width="1400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQoJN08ftHZ1gvcNIMnt2Sn2gEdwmxMEd_sPFefik7XUAvLMlh3Pem6YiSZXwQWzgvBHXZyWr8As9goCJL2C5lgkVOfwIkMDazboV0PRGRcSTQOpGG6Z0gB0um1U7LVUzdRR9sQjrRAAY0owmg2UEGCUd56ThRYuWVCncwp2_bY3h3E83GwjWIGhLKDUQ/w264-h400/9780312868857.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>7 Hell House <i>by Richard Matheson (1971) </i></b><br /><br />A parapsychology team is recruited by a dying millionaire to find proof that the afterlife exists, and so are despatched to the Belasco House on the coast of Maine, now closed up and shunned because it is reputedly the most haunted in the world … so haunted in fact that several previous attempts to investigate it have led to a number of unexplained fatalities. The four individuals assigned to the case all have different skills and strengths, but it is through their weaknesses that the undead intellect in the mansion begins to subtly influence them for the worse, slowly turning them against each other. It may sound like a recognisable concept now, the haunted house where the greatest threat lies within ourselves – but old hand Matheson does it excellently.<br /><b><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsKjUpe3Mch9jrZDQdvqV6NFwJHfrux1wdzWcBQRLzO7_OwapV2u2ol27-dzqfAp8T2O4bt4ZyXkjdprT2YczORrykCtwVE6-WB0R6MJ_UJgWPPP3Kq2oSS8RNM4nEHkVm92zgVosUO65ls0ozyVZTswAtGd7tVHGFFI7q-44fEqjT5qAt4IgdtmWH9o/s500/51yFa4N6K1L.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlsKjUpe3Mch9jrZDQdvqV6NFwJHfrux1wdzWcBQRLzO7_OwapV2u2ol27-dzqfAp8T2O4bt4ZyXkjdprT2YczORrykCtwVE6-WB0R6MJ_UJgWPPP3Kq2oSS8RNM4nEHkVm92zgVosUO65ls0ozyVZTswAtGd7tVHGFFI7q-44fEqjT5qAt4IgdtmWH9o/w263-h400/51yFa4N6K1L.jpg" width="263" /></a></div></i></b><b>8 The Sentinel <i>by Jeffrey Konvitz (1974)</i></b><br /><br />Often regarded as a key component of the 1970s Satanic horror cycle, <i><b>The Sentinel</b></i>, which was published only one year after <i><b>The Exorcist</b></i>, is undeniably a part of that sub-group, but it belongs in the world of the haunted house thriller too, with its story of a neurotic fashion model, who finds her new life in a venerable old New York apartment house increasingly disrupted by the eerie presence of a blind old priest on the top floor, hallucinations seemingly connected to nightmarish events in her childhood, and the unwelcome presence of nosy neighbours who she later learns don’t even exist. This is another one that is wonderfully frightening and, as you may have guessed, we’re not talking here about a simple case of ancestors who’ve returned. Far from it. <br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbP5H391M5bnjYxz_wqDNEuDBbB3iBz1ZZJDo96DDOAUQM8x6gB3i3g1jk45MB1_PG4yFxIlXXtwxbCJ7veZnIKzfITzZwRxu0mKxr8Q0Oi-4imkrSoGt3iiAQbjB2ZCjenP_am9ghJ27OU5jWvYrVk7GN8HRRv9NuhsPFgjtjzCtLa7jNLRx13nxjEg/s500/The_Little_Stranger_Sarah_Waters.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="311" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbP5H391M5bnjYxz_wqDNEuDBbB3iBz1ZZJDo96DDOAUQM8x6gB3i3g1jk45MB1_PG4yFxIlXXtwxbCJ7veZnIKzfITzZwRxu0mKxr8Q0Oi-4imkrSoGt3iiAQbjB2ZCjenP_am9ghJ27OU5jWvYrVk7GN8HRRv9NuhsPFgjtjzCtLa7jNLRx13nxjEg/w249-h400/The_Little_Stranger_Sarah_Waters.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>9 The Little Stranger <i>by Sarah Waters (2010)</i></b><br /><br />One of the best ghost stories I’ve ever read, though it’s actually a lot more than that. No-one could expect a stylish literary writer like Sarah Waters to pen a supernatural novel with no more intent than to frighten her readers. This detailed study of Britain’s landed gentry decaying away in postwar England, as viewed through the lens one particular family, and in the ambition of a local country doctor to marry into them, is deceptive in that the horror elements at first seem inconsequential – who cares if the family are cursed or if their dead daughter keeps returning, when their vast rural estate needs to be saved! – but they rapidly move to take centre-stage, terrifyingly so, and yet the main thrust of the novel, which is dark enough in itself, remains starkly present right to the end.<br /><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-39xYFRPeXcrwD-hgO5nTrzNiyehf8fQLgKjPmg7kGeXSRmNDxSYYSDiI1PHRGjsg0uPwmqZt9kJy9yofYs6kAo1BGj8yv09S0NWc7ne1ygbNqaEj9_VaJmDaSzo27emJUbRFuYwzjNC0XiYjbFUqzqHD7-oCkb3xXqPqKnvKFeHN46duCtn29nvjQms/s500/9781784878368-jacket-large.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-39xYFRPeXcrwD-hgO5nTrzNiyehf8fQLgKjPmg7kGeXSRmNDxSYYSDiI1PHRGjsg0uPwmqZt9kJy9yofYs6kAo1BGj8yv09S0NWc7ne1ygbNqaEj9_VaJmDaSzo27emJUbRFuYwzjNC0XiYjbFUqzqHD7-oCkb3xXqPqKnvKFeHN46duCtn29nvjQms/w263-h400/9781784878368-jacket-large.jpg" width="263" /></a></div></b><b>10 The Woman in Black <i>by Susan Hill (1983)</i></b><br /><br />One of the true masterclasses in haunted house fiction. This story of a trainee lawyer, during whose weekend sojourn to the lonely coastal edifice that is Eel Marsh House, where he needs to sort out some papers, he faces constant and malicious harassment by the spirit of an embittered former resident, has to be read to be believed. Once again, subtlety is the key. There are few flashes and bangs in in this Gothic bone-chiller, but the sheer hostility of the main antagonist emanates from every page, while the sense of loneliness and isolation is unbelievably oppressive. Again, if you’ve already seen the stage or screen versions, I still urge you to read this book, which as well as being an extraordinarily frightening ghost story, is an intriguing mystery too. <br /><br /><br /><b>BOOKS I’VE YET TO READ …</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>(As blurbed by their publishers)</b></div><div><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv9hNePhnjo_LUdrNZczZT_iMVzNzM_ZW6zmAkO78iePjW2QaSNTUTB1XhfuogTmMeSDCBtH36eTWmoicpr3_QA9yEczMouhStX2IgwhwBl8nCBShyphenhyphenhxbdvGpotJCAl5Ej6ADCqGaBBC1YyP_XZu9ET-rqHt9lO0IoRndqAI-dkQTOO2KsRyj_spf5AoI/s375/wylding-hall.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="260" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv9hNePhnjo_LUdrNZczZT_iMVzNzM_ZW6zmAkO78iePjW2QaSNTUTB1XhfuogTmMeSDCBtH36eTWmoicpr3_QA9yEczMouhStX2IgwhwBl8nCBShyphenhyphenhxbdvGpotJCAl5Ej6ADCqGaBBC1YyP_XZu9ET-rqHt9lO0IoRndqAI-dkQTOO2KsRyj_spf5AoI/w278-h400/wylding-hall.webp" width="278" /></a></div>1 Wylding Hall <i>by Elizabeth Hand (2015) </i></b><br /><br />After the tragic and mysterious death of one of their founding members, the young musicians in a British acid-folk band hole up at Wylding Hall, an ancient country house with its own dark secrets. There they record the classic album that will make their reputation but at a terrifying cost, when Julian Blake, their lead singer, disappears within the mansion and is never seen again. Now, years later, each of the surviving musicians, their friends and lovers (including a psychic, a photographer, and the band’s manager) meet with a young documentary filmmaker to tell his or her own version of what happened during that summer, but whose story is the true one? And what really happened to Julian Blake? </div><div><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IRBI7Hai4dyZYK_Ll-TOkxNLjwCe-zbG5B61LWa9tbdgccMwFxoXIPFpj2zci44MYZmYydDRpkie8zFRQ20_WdozI-YAsAIjihXo58v_P7ibm7h9hQu1vSOt83ou-e7dpLp8A1-L4HellfyetFuo1hdyTLahlhVWgAsmd_wek5iAF2XoFEBAqWSNdJI/s500/9781803360539.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="325" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IRBI7Hai4dyZYK_Ll-TOkxNLjwCe-zbG5B61LWa9tbdgccMwFxoXIPFpj2zci44MYZmYydDRpkie8zFRQ20_WdozI-YAsAIjihXo58v_P7ibm7h9hQu1vSOt83ou-e7dpLp8A1-L4HellfyetFuo1hdyTLahlhVWgAsmd_wek5iAF2XoFEBAqWSNdJI/w260-h400/9781803360539.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>2 How to Sell a Haunted House <i>by Grady Hendrix (2023) </i></b><br /><br />Every childhood home is haunted, and each of us are possessed by our parents. <br /><br />When their parents are both killed in a car accident, Louise and Mark Joyner are devastated but nothing can prepare them for how bad things are about to get. The two siblings are almost totally estranged, and couldn’t be more different. Now, however, both with equally empty bank accounts, they don’t have a choice but to get along. Their one asset? Their childhood home. They need to get it on the market as soon as possible because they need the money. Yet the house has morphed into a hoarder’s paradise, and before they died their parents nailed shut the attic door ...<br /><br />Sometimes we feel like puppets, controlled by our upbringing and our genes. Sometimes we feel like our parents treat us like toys, or playthings, or even dolls. The past can ground us, teach us, and keep us safe. It can also trap us, and bind us, and suffocate the life out of us. As disturbing events stack up in the house, Louise and Mark have to learn that sometimes the only way to break away from the past, sometimes the only way to sell a haunted house, is to burn it all down<br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCdwJMVWHa3TlQwnhOCTUIEQknU9pliqJgYWU_tjE8zrCVSQ0Ap_GbByt0Q2Bthc-kPsSO357Qow7GYOL3LZTcQGTTF4-ZcaVWUzcfgepXFJUb83fOPN5EDx4YCrMnan1EJYDeMKT0JXgHF8ZkQQNdpyftx3vVvwoOWS3_lG3fOW9pw_BGEOpKtrb-o8/s277/download.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="182" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCdwJMVWHa3TlQwnhOCTUIEQknU9pliqJgYWU_tjE8zrCVSQ0Ap_GbByt0Q2Bthc-kPsSO357Qow7GYOL3LZTcQGTTF4-ZcaVWUzcfgepXFJUb83fOPN5EDx4YCrMnan1EJYDeMKT0JXgHF8ZkQQNdpyftx3vVvwoOWS3_lG3fOW9pw_BGEOpKtrb-o8/w263-h400/download.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>3 A House with Good Bones <i>by T Kingfisher (2023) </i></b><i><br /></i><br />In this ordinary North Carolina suburb, family secrets are always in bloom. <br /><br />Samantha Montgomery pulls into the driveway of her family home to find a massive black vulture perched on the mailbox, staring at the house. <br /><br />Inside, everything has changed. Gone is the eclectic warmth Sam expects; instead the walls are a sterile white. Now, it’s very important to say grace before dinner, and her mother won’t hear a word against Sam’s long-dead and little-missed grandmother, who was the first to put down roots in this small southern town. <br /><br />The longer Sam stays, the stranger things get. And every day, more vultures circle overhead …<br /><b><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig4SSU8nwlBUXtoJNBgk-3ifw-woX01JLHJUwQrEvABQGppJv2Fb5W-XRkQJwY-aiItjSfzlME_WqhyphenhyphenAtJNPLrTWTVIwtwuHWoMftmVD2Q68TpjDamF5jYmOD-GO93AUqVkjpUjG8X9igunzabA1bR4r4LQU-mvzqazkpi2HTITGCDxfiOZjbyL0fhVTU/s445/51PPrdWFwYL._SY445_SX342_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig4SSU8nwlBUXtoJNBgk-3ifw-woX01JLHJUwQrEvABQGppJv2Fb5W-XRkQJwY-aiItjSfzlME_WqhyphenhyphenAtJNPLrTWTVIwtwuHWoMftmVD2Q68TpjDamF5jYmOD-GO93AUqVkjpUjG8X9igunzabA1bR4r4LQU-mvzqazkpi2HTITGCDxfiOZjbyL0fhVTU/w270-h400/51PPrdWFwYL._SY445_SX342_.jpg" width="270" /></a></div></i></b><b>4 The Night House <i>by Jo Nesbo (2023)</i></b><br /><br />In the wake of his parents’ tragic deaths fourteen-year-old Richard Elauved has been sent to live with his aunt and uncle in the remote town of Ballantyne.</div><div><br />Richard quickly earns a reputation as an outcast, and when a classmate named Tom goes missing, no one believes him when he says the telephone booth out by the edge of the woods sucked Tom into the receiver like something out of a horror movie. <br /><br />No one, that is, except the enigmatic Karen, who encourages Richard to pursue clues the police refuse to investigate. He traces the number to an abandoned house in the woods. There he catches a glimpse of a terrifying face in the window. And then the voices start. <br /><br />When another classmate disappears, Richard grapples with the dark magic that’s possessing Ballantyne to try and find them before its too late ...</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSjsc5bY179QqHCJwGQX7DcYOVtv-9P_QVonqeiYEE3cfsMEcNfBO_4lSVCeIwZpHOPP-VXRphpoIO-XF0qrzJ6O8D6xGSntDeK_JtIuSkbi8rmo398IQ7Xf0rmbxD1j9lTEFCkdD_Ok7xVgXrsCxueOmpjoLOqd4ro0dLKdiq1IT_HRKZj9lF_3TvRv0/s445/51FGzhsFfIL._SY445_SX342_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="290" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSjsc5bY179QqHCJwGQX7DcYOVtv-9P_QVonqeiYEE3cfsMEcNfBO_4lSVCeIwZpHOPP-VXRphpoIO-XF0qrzJ6O8D6xGSntDeK_JtIuSkbi8rmo398IQ7Xf0rmbxD1j9lTEFCkdD_Ok7xVgXrsCxueOmpjoLOqd4ro0dLKdiq1IT_HRKZj9lF_3TvRv0/w261-h400/51FGzhsFfIL._SY445_SX342_.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>5 The House of a Hundred Whispers <i>by Graham Masterton (2021) </i></b><br /><br />All Hallows Hall is a rambling Tudor mansion on the edge of the bleak and misty Dartmoor. It is not a place many would choose to live. Yet the former Governer of Dartmoor Prison did just that. Now he’s dead, and his children - long estranged - are set to inherit his estate.</div><div> <br /> But when the dead man’s family come to stay, the atmosphere of the moors seems to drift into every room. Floorboards creak, secret passageways echo, and wind whistles in the house’s famous priest hole. And then, on the same morning the family decide to leave All Hallows Hall and never come back, their young son Timmy disappears - from inside the house.</div><div> <br /> Does evil linger in the walls? Or is evil only ever found inside the minds of men?<br /><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbR7VACG_WiNiV9cQsCaYbBfNMg_U7euBm6JTOn3qG0ypLfq0SGVu8YAomy4Bsj43okYH2RhzORmORTdEJ-LIlnmaWCPoOCjqC33wyNYbh42TZPR7yO1gmYYy482K9Ha1mcOPAqIIJZ-qYKCTOBQ2YBubzmDsy3U5b3Y4e_HUuAEYok9kKQZt7nDyuMWE/s500/51jDv50+kWL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="331" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbR7VACG_WiNiV9cQsCaYbBfNMg_U7euBm6JTOn3qG0ypLfq0SGVu8YAomy4Bsj43okYH2RhzORmORTdEJ-LIlnmaWCPoOCjqC33wyNYbh42TZPR7yO1gmYYy482K9Ha1mcOPAqIIJZ-qYKCTOBQ2YBubzmDsy3U5b3Y4e_HUuAEYok9kKQZt7nDyuMWE/w265-h400/51jDv50+kWL.jpg" width="265" /></a></div></b><b>6 The Spite House <i>by Johnny Compton (2023)</i></b><b><i><br /></i></b><br />Eric Ross is on the run from a mysterious past with his two daughters in tow. Having left his wife, his house, his whole life behind in Maryland, he’s desperate for money - it’s not easy to find steady, safe work when you can’t provide references, you can’t stay in one place for long, and you’re paranoid that your past is creeping back up on you. When he comes across the strange ad for the Masson House in Degener, Texas, Eric thinks they may have finally caught a lucky break. The Masson property, notorious for being one of the most haunted places in Texas, needs a caretaker of sorts. The owner is looking for proof of paranormal activity. All they need to do is stay in the house and keep a detailed record of everything that happens there. Provided the house’s horrors don’t drive them all mad, like the caretakers before them. The job calls to Eric, not just because there’s a huge payout if they can make it through, but because he wants to explore the secrets of the spite house. If it is indeed haunted, maybe it’ll help him understand the uncanny power that clings to his family, driving them from town to town, making them afraid to stop running.</div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYh1EvwzpOC3a40FwxjxSDTBRcV7hZz4vLiWO0_8qEs7Rf90QO8wnynNm7of5c045mU2zYCINOKel-dQ4FLrAdMiwAOWabaHWM8jEq0RtG3JpwpDSP1M1I5OcxnHMsCR2Mtm0GG8khJKedT-HCKctI7f2mo2WSbvFaHxb51eXTrAMakf_cpCJbmb_J_2Q/s500/s-l500%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="320" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYh1EvwzpOC3a40FwxjxSDTBRcV7hZz4vLiWO0_8qEs7Rf90QO8wnynNm7of5c045mU2zYCINOKel-dQ4FLrAdMiwAOWabaHWM8jEq0RtG3JpwpDSP1M1I5OcxnHMsCR2Mtm0GG8khJKedT-HCKctI7f2mo2WSbvFaHxb51eXTrAMakf_cpCJbmb_J_2Q/w256-h400/s-l500%20(1).jpg" width="256" /></a></div>7 Slade House <i>by David Mitchell (2016)</i></b><br /><br />Turn down Slade Alley - narrow, dank and easy to miss, even when you’re looking for it. Find the small black iron door set into the right-hand wall. No handle, no keyhole, but at your touch it swings open. Enter the sunlit garden of an old house that doesn’t quite make sense; too grand for the shabby neighbourhood, too large for the space it occupies.</div><div> <br /> A stranger greets you and invites you inside. At first, you won’t want to leave. Later, you'll find that you can’t.</div><div> <br /> This unnerving, taut and intricately woven tale by one of our most original and bewitching writers begins in 1979 and comes to its turbulent conclusion around Halloween, 2015. Because every nine years, on the last Saturday of October, a ‘guest’ is summoned to Slade House. But why has that person been chosen, by whom and for what purpose? The answers lie waiting in the long attic, at the top of the stairs ...</div><div><b><i> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXwZDUWPuODTc4Ba0ve0XOA2l71EokLmR-z_E_2kwVInkHreOBW788wCVvXKy19qymZqsLyTkoPblVH9TBqNXBSZoOpnU8e_nGB0FZvcQSBvDk_cade_GC-Bm37xujRyyORXpt7aW0jgSfjQheSHfftVemkPmM39VmaPghBEFqWAc5aWeQiv9kKKLiKk/s500/9781529061673.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXwZDUWPuODTc4Ba0ve0XOA2l71EokLmR-z_E_2kwVInkHreOBW788wCVvXKy19qymZqsLyTkoPblVH9TBqNXBSZoOpnU8e_nGB0FZvcQSBvDk_cade_GC-Bm37xujRyyORXpt7aW0jgSfjQheSHfftVemkPmM39VmaPghBEFqWAc5aWeQiv9kKKLiKk/w264-h400/9781529061673.jpg" width="264" /></a></div></i></b><b>8 Hare House <i>by Sally Hinchcliffe (2022)</i></b><b><i><br /></i></b><br />Hare House is not its real name, of course. I have, if you will forgive me, kept names to a minimum here, for reasons that will become understandable ...<br /> <br /> In the first brisk days of autumn, a woman arrives in Scotland having left her job at an all-girls school in London in mysterious circumstances. Moving into a cottage on the remote estate of Hare House, she begins to explore her new home. But among the tiny roads, wild moorland, and scattered houses, something more sinister lurks: local tales of witchcraft, clay figures and young men sent mad.<br /> <br /> Striking up a friendship with her landlord and his younger sister, she begins to suspect that all might not be quite as it seems at Hare House. And as autumn turns to winter, and a heavy snowfall traps the inhabitants of the estate within its walls, tensions rise to fever pitch. <br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRF3XkGfiewxN9DSHwCN2Rpfj5PjYjANQlO1m0NL-diitbqEKQq8NRIoji-6aTCOAxQWGqKvXDqRCB2fYXfJV3KK5TTWpPfwDO4fkbRL2yh6hrlRuoM7teN0KGy13YY_dY5YwI8rJjl2M_teohMkRumoNU-oj3-2q28KKfHsbbYXYCtHmORxSqTDS3g48/s1000/81FjdjeZo3L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="652" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRF3XkGfiewxN9DSHwCN2Rpfj5PjYjANQlO1m0NL-diitbqEKQq8NRIoji-6aTCOAxQWGqKvXDqRCB2fYXfJV3KK5TTWpPfwDO4fkbRL2yh6hrlRuoM7teN0KGy13YY_dY5YwI8rJjl2M_teohMkRumoNU-oj3-2q28KKfHsbbYXYCtHmORxSqTDS3g48/w261-h400/81FjdjeZo3L._AC_UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>9 Home Before Dark <i>by Riley Sager (2021) </i></b><br /><br />What was it like? Living in that house.<br /> <br /> Maggie Holt is used to such questions. Twenty-five years ago, she and her parents, Ewan and Jess, moved into a rambling Victorian estate called Baneberry Hall. They spent three weeks there before fleeing in the dead of night, an ordeal Ewan later recounted in a memoir called House of Horrors. His tale of ghostly happenings and encounters with malevolent spirits became a worldwide phenomenon.<br /> <br /> Now, Maggie has inherited Baneberry Hall after her father’s death. She was too young to remember any of the events mentioned in her father’s book. But she doesn’t believe a word of it. Ghosts, after all, don’t exist.</div><div> <br /> But when she returns to Baneberry Hall to prepare it for sale, her homecoming is anything but warm. People from the pages of her father’s book lurk in the shadows, and locals aren’t thrilled that their small town has been made infamous. Even more unnerving is Baneberry Hall itself - a place that hints of dark deeds and unexplained happenings.</div><div> <br /> As the days pass, Maggie begins to believe that what her father wrote was more fact than fiction. That, either way, someone - or something - doesn't want her here. And that she might be in danger all over again ...<br /><br /><b><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjfAM40XREqy8xnKykd_zUkEcYpRIdqk6Fe8-iLXlt7gtkKk2lzSxWDOoA0yo2hB-23MxhOMoXsLA1KEOuiLifSViwiD34vGuBa_FicJKTyOkmjfXsibpqifyb43QzhgoOzrcHOC14OMYQdKRo2h8lTSXfjNiLY5L_XDoN6OMmGCg9SVW7Uy5nx_Pq0A/s475/s-l500%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjfAM40XREqy8xnKykd_zUkEcYpRIdqk6Fe8-iLXlt7gtkKk2lzSxWDOoA0yo2hB-23MxhOMoXsLA1KEOuiLifSViwiD34vGuBa_FicJKTyOkmjfXsibpqifyb43QzhgoOzrcHOC14OMYQdKRo2h8lTSXfjNiLY5L_XDoN6OMmGCg9SVW7Uy5nx_Pq0A/w248-h400/s-l500%20(2).jpg" width="248" /></a></div></i></b><b>10 The House Next Door <i>by Anne Rivers Siddons (2007)</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b>Thirtysomething Colquitt and Walter Kennedy live in a charming, peaceful suburb of newly bustling Atlanta, Georgia. Life is made up of enjoyable work, long, lazy weekends, and the company of good neighbors. Then, to their shock, construction starts on the vacant lot next door, a wooded hillside they’d believed would always remain undeveloped. Disappointed by their diminished privacy, Colquitt and Walter soon realize something more is wrong with the house next door. Surely the house can’t be haunted, yet it seems to destroy the goodness of every person who comes to live in it, until the entire heart of this friendly neighborhood threatens to be torn apart.</div><div><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Tides-Chris-Ewan/dp/0571307450/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696275565&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Tides-Chris-Ewan/dp/0571307450/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696275565&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizoeft8F7T6P3UlKp4BuoVw0sXYEOtsC13nA2_Lc8JHawwTgfyiUkDPi4T8RHnrrLx1y5Vif0d3SuAv7K23bTBvi_KNETd2lg0sTPGWlE6OXN081Fbf3M9GJyhdIf4Fco16aNowPaI_JX_-qFEZc6GS2WNxzNCmOqExQIOQIH7xmVDIRPSwk3Ta0FJrLA/s475/22593390.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="307" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizoeft8F7T6P3UlKp4BuoVw0sXYEOtsC13nA2_Lc8JHawwTgfyiUkDPi4T8RHnrrLx1y5Vif0d3SuAv7K23bTBvi_KNETd2lg0sTPGWlE6OXN081Fbf3M9GJyhdIf4Fco16aNowPaI_JX_-qFEZc6GS2WNxzNCmOqExQIOQIH7xmVDIRPSwk3Ta0FJrLA/w259-h400/22593390.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Tides-Chris-Ewan/dp/0571307450/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1696324062&sr=1-1">DARK TIDES</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Chris Ewan (2015) </i></b><br /><br /> <b>Outline</b><br />In most of western culture, Halloween Night is the scariest night of the year. The time when the worlds of the living and the dead are closest, when the dividing lines between the universe of light and the universe of darkness are thinnest. On the Isle of Man, however, it’s all that and a little more. <br /><br /><i>Hop-tu Naa</i> is the Manx Halloween, a time when, if the rumours are true, there are much eerier things going on here than anywhere else in the UK. It’s a time for divination and fortune-telling for example, even for the passing of hexes. <br /><br />For young Claire Cooper, a Manx native, this is all par for the course. She loves the dressing up and the turnip jack-o-lanterns. Until the <i>Hop-tu Naa</i> of 1995, when she is only eight years old, and her mother inexplicably disappears. <br /><br /><b><i>Dark Tides</i></b> is basically the story of what happens next, told over several decades. <br /><br />It’s not a linear tale. We bounce back and forth from when Claire is a child, to her teenage days, and eventually to her adulthood as an Isle of Man police officer. But always it’s <i>Hop-tu Naa</i>, and always we are embroiled in this same complex and deeply worrying mystery. <br /><br /></div><div>As the years roll by, Claire is increasingly convinced that her mother’s disappearance was the work of Edward Caine, her wealthy and singularly unpleasant employer. Claire didn’t like Caine from the off, finding him a cold, sneery presence, though she never felt the same way about his sickly son, Morgan, who seems to be all the things his father is not. <br /><br />Forced to grow up without a mother, in the care of a father who has never been the same since his wife vanished, Claire eventually falls in with a rough but exciting crowd. Callum, David, Mark and Scott are more than just the local bad boys. At least a couple of them, Mark and David, are fanciable, and they get up to all kinds of enjoyable antics. Claire is initially brought into their company as a timid little mouse, but her sponsor in this is Rachel, the coolest girl at school, and pretty soon the two lasses are at the very heart of a lively gang who, as much as it’s possible on the Isle of Man, live life on the edge. <br /><br />One game they play happens each <i>Hop-tu naa</i>, and involves a different member naming a new and elaborate dare, which they all must participate in. Of course, each year the dares get riskier and scarier. <br /><br />One year, when they’re all older teenagers, Mark, who is now sweet on Claire (even though she mainly has eyes for David), dares them to take action against Edward Caine. Claire herself isn’t happy with this. She still hates and suspects Caine but compared to the others she is increasingly a straight-player and is very aware that Caine’s responsibility for her mother’s disappearance has never been substantiated. Mark advises her that, though the dare will involve them breaking into Caine’s property, there’ll be no violence, but that Caine will be absolutely scared to death and that it might even flush him out as the abductor (and maybe the murderer) of Claire’s mother. <br /><br />Claire finally goes along with it but inevitably it doesn’t go according to plan. The supposed non-violent scheme turns very violent indeed. Terrifyingly violent even. <br /><br />Years later, as a serving cop on the island, Claire is still haunted by the memories of that night. No one died, but ghastly injuries were inflicted, she and most of her friends only getting away with it because they were masked at the time, and because Mark – who was caught – kept his mouth shut. <br /><br />Now a detective, and working routine CID cases, she doesn’t expect that she’ll hear anything about the incident again (or at least this is what she hopes, even though Mark is still in jail). Until, to her horror, another <i>Hop-tu naa</i> comes along and one of the original group is killed in what looks like a nasty accident. <br /><br />Though it only looks like that to Claire’s fellow police officers. <br /><br />To her, it looks like something else. <br /><br />Some carefully concealed evidence actually suggests that her friend was murdered, though only Claire sees this because it relates directly back to that awful Halloween night when they were teenagers. Obviously, she can’t bring this to her fellow investigators’ notice for fear that it will rebound on her. And she is faced by exactly the same problem when the next <i>Hop-tu Naa</i> comes along and another friend dies, and so on for year after year. <br /><br />They are now being butchered one by one. And still she can’t say anything about it. Though her own time is coming, she feels. She too will become a victim of this unknown killer. Either that, or she comes clean to her bosses, and faces long years in prison. The one option left is to catch the killer herself … <br /><br /> <b>Review</b><br />The only real brickbat I have with <i><b>Dark Tides</b></i> concerns the many reviews of the book rather than the book itself. In the days leading up to reading it, I heard constantly how it draws on the unique customs and folklore of the Isle of Man. The fact that we were going to be talking about <i>Hop-tu Naa</i> rather than the standard Halloween seems to have impressed legions of reviewers, though to me, from my own reading at least, there doesn’t seem to be much difference between the two. <br /><br />In addition, though the wild and woolly outcrops of the island are very nicely portrayed in this book, I never really felt as if Chris Ewan uses that remote hump of land in the middle of the Irish Sea to its best effect. The Isle of Man (or Mann, as is the correct name) is steeped in its own mythology. It’s a land of ghosts, faeries and bogey beasts, and though I wouldn’t expect any of that here – this is a crime novel after all, not a horror – there isn’t a strong hint of that esoteric flavour. <br /><br />Though, as I say, this is more a criticism of the book’s many misleading reviews rather than of the book itself, because as murder mysteries go, this is a fine piece of work. <br /><br />It veers a little towards the slasher end of the genre, which doesn’t bother me at all, in that the many killings are often depicted from the viewpoint of the killer – in movie terms it would be a POV camera with ‘heavy breathing’ soundtrack accompaniment – and nearly all are complex, gory and well-constructed set-pieces. It’s a bit ‘by the numbers’ in that we have a finite cast list who we realise from an early stage are going to get chopped one by one, and whatever protocols they take to protect themselves, we know the killer will continually be one step ahead and always able to find yet another ingenious and fiendish way to get to them. But that didn’t worry me either. It’s not exclusively a slasher trope anyway. Agatha Christie did the same thing with <i><b>And Then There Were None</b></i> back in 1939, and as in that original classic, <b><i>Dark Tides</i></b> provides convincing rhyme and reason for the mayhem, which we know will all be made clear in due course. It’s a traditional but timeless set-up for an absorbing thriller. <br /><br />The characterisation is also interesting. <br /><br />Chris Ewan set himself a difficult task here by jumping about between the decades and yet always dealing with the same bunch of people. That might be easily manageable if it was one or two, but here it’s six or seven, and yet he does it very effectively, keeping a tight rein on everyone. At no stage did I feel that any of the characters had veered off in an unbelievable direction, even though, as the years roll by, more and more slow-emerging facts add essential detail to their personalities and backgrounds. <br /><br />Claire’s ongoing relationship with David in particular needed to be very deftly handled, not just because there’s a romance angle here, but because there’s a considerable degree of mystery too, and yet it completely satisfies. <br /><br />Claire herself is a likeable heroine. In many ways a bit of an everywoman. A goodie two-shoes when she was a youngster and a police officer when older – so maybe that marks her out a little – but as a copper, not especially great at the job and not someone you feel is destined to go a long way in law enforcement. Which makes a nice change from the haggard, time-served detective who’s still able to run with the best. <br /><br />This unremarkable nature is all the more compelling, of course, when you consider that, like her friends, Claire is harbouring a terrible guilt over a vicious act that she sleepwalked into and which was completely out of character for her, but which nevertheless had a serious outcome and at any time, even years and years later, could ruin her life. That would take some effort to deal with even for a more conventionally heroic lead, so the author has a lot of fun depicting Claire Cooper’s tortured struggles. <br /><br />We don’t go immensely deeply into Claire’s other friends, but there is enough there, in all cases, to see them, to hear them, to believe in them. <br /><br />That said, the book’s secondary characters provide a couple of bumps in the road. Claire’s police boss is a throwback to the ‘good old days’, a gruff wideboy who never plays by the rules and is, dare I say it, a little bit of a cliché. While Edward Caine, one of the main villains of the piece, is a cruel, creepy control-freak of a millionaire, who has no obvious redeeming features; another type that we’ve seen several times before (Mr Burns, anyone?). Again, though, they all fit neatly into the plot, and neither really grated on me. <br /><br />Did it scare me, though? <br /><br /><i><b>Dark Tides</b></i> was billed as ‘Truly chilling,’ by <i><b>The Observer</b></i>, as ‘A chilling read,’ by <i><b>The Guardian</b></i>, and as ‘a bone-chilling mystery’ by <i><b>My Weekly</b></i>. <br /><br />Well … I’m afraid I can’t agree with those assessments, though there is one scene, which I won’t spoil for you, which I’d describe as a claustrophobe’s nightmare and personally found toe-curlingly horrific. But otherwise I suspect I’m immune to being scared by novels now, having read so much dark fiction. <br /><br />Don’t be put off, however. <i><b>Dark Tides</b></i> packs enough pace and tension, and continues to ask such intriguing questions that it keeps you reading right through to its enjoyable climax, which you might just conceivably have seen coming, but which in my case at least was still a great way to wrap up a dark romp of a crime story. <br /><br />Moreover, this one was a welcome change of scene for me. It was a relief to get way from the crime-ridden inner city or the bleak moorlands of Northern Britain. It was also refreshing that we weren’t seeing this series of murders through the eyes of an investigating copper, but from the perspective of a potential victim and someone so torn by their own nightmarish secrets that they are almost completely isolated. The sense of jeopardy was much higher as a result, and the overall experience infinitely more thrilling. An excellent autumn thriller all round. <br /><br /><i>You’ll be aware by now that I always like to end these book reviews with my own ‘just-for-fun’ casting session for those actors I envisage taking the lead roles, but today I’m making an exception. Most of the characters travel back and forth in time, from being young children to young adults, and visiting several stages in between. Even the most skilled and experienced casting director would find that a challenge, so imagine my pathetic chances.</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>(If anyone owns the scary house image at the top of this column, which I found floating around online, just give me a shout and I will happily post a credit, or will remove if that is required).</b></i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-14810661607288174622023-09-20T01:10:00.001-07:002023-09-20T01:10:36.147-07:00During dark days in the autumn of the year<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGS_UHGcO62Zx9l7y4oGnJn5xN70Y6AsbRA8tugDyjjoeZWzN0i-B8q6sNPnI_m__S7uAejZo_1CY3UDDJRchvU7XaSIVrAaTkULH_HL8ObbFBZqV5eHBmpyAqSutGID6Hsj79U65UFuyqZvKBxfzbLVT_erDJl1iUgrdGMk422kSw6uMaP0FibYcztY/s640/eerie%20autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGS_UHGcO62Zx9l7y4oGnJn5xN70Y6AsbRA8tugDyjjoeZWzN0i-B8q6sNPnI_m__S7uAejZo_1CY3UDDJRchvU7XaSIVrAaTkULH_HL8ObbFBZqV5eHBmpyAqSutGID6Hsj79U65UFuyqZvKBxfzbLVT_erDJl1iUgrdGMk422kSw6uMaP0FibYcztY/w400-h268/eerie%20autumn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Today, I’m delighted to be able to show off the stonking cover for my next historical novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146348&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a>, which is out in January, and which as those interested may have guessed, is a direct sequel to <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146495&sr=1-1">USURPER</a>, published last April. You</b><b>’ll find that a few paragraphs down, where</b><b> I’ll also give a brief intro to <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146348&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a>.</b></div></div><b><br />In addition this week, because I’m reminded with each passing day by the slowly turning weather and leaves, that we’re now into the last quadrant of the year, I’ll be giving another plug to my autumn novella, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146584&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a> (hopefully in an imaginative way, which will be more than just a straightforward advert), and in addition to all that, in the Thrillers, Chillers section, which you’ll find at the lower end of today’s post, will be reviewing and discussing Max Brooks’s terrifying tale of the Pacific Northwest, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devolution-bestselling-author-World-War/dp/1529101425/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146708&sr=1-1">DEVOLUTION</a>. <br /></b><br />So, lots to get through today. But before anything else, as promised, here’s the jacket art for my next historical novel, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146348&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b>, the sequel to <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146495&sr=1-1">USURPER</a></b>, which will be published on January 8. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s pretty damn eye-catching. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlJjNmsfJYz9QVzutpWOkvDg8JsCmTgpNmEsBmjdkapZALPgwXN5j9vO84a1ti5iuUi37N6rdSjWWBG_NJVeKuaeTZ47lfDKohGTH1lB9fneSEbyx5QqLjLRRmojmFkETLs73ykYGldnr4-cYxWc3ebk0-YPzD3ZlQ4VRDSqzvrh5LjEHDI1e7M0GJrg/s1655/battle%20lord%202.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1655" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDlJjNmsfJYz9QVzutpWOkvDg8JsCmTgpNmEsBmjdkapZALPgwXN5j9vO84a1ti5iuUi37N6rdSjWWBG_NJVeKuaeTZ47lfDKohGTH1lB9fneSEbyx5QqLjLRRmojmFkETLs73ykYGldnr4-cYxWc3ebk0-YPzD3ZlQ4VRDSqzvrh5LjEHDI1e7M0GJrg/w261-h400/battle%20lord%202.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>I’ll be talking a lot more about <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146348&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b> in the coming weeks and months, but very quickly for those who are intrigued already, it picks up only a couple of days after the point where <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146495&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> ends, with 17-year-old Cerdic Aelfriccson, the sole surviving son of Earl Rothgar of Ripon, and one of the few English survivors of the battle of Hastings, now wounded, disoriented and riddled with despair. He is a prisoner of the Normans and already being mistreated to the very edge of death. However, Cerdic is determined to survive. Not only that; he is determined to win back everything he has lost. <br /><br />His family’s home in Swaledale, in Northumbria, and their central fortification, Wulfbury, were captured by a splinter-group from the Viking army of Harald ‘the Hardraada’ Sigurdsson, a Norse leader of great renown. However, though the Hardraada was slain shortly afterwards at the battle of Stamford Bridge, those who captured Wulfbury still hang onto it, bent on making it the centre of their own Northern English powerbase. <br /><br />Cerdic is already formulating a plan for their destruction, but first he must somehow get past this latest horde of invaders, the near-invincible army of William the Conqueror. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn73q3eZhfbVk5_vbT8zkozy_UdKgPpFDUeOdYUYrN5df0dAFnuaKKzUA0r02fAFjhCYKtH9yO-IopFACSgQISxXb_UOww9Z8dgVhpA-a-R_Gk_N0wGsUajGtUlEWeRfjBmAdJM13WSWtOepcQCrUKz8wcXp2KjhJ6GKEBEmL3PMjNrjlefXNgqgKLUpM/s499/usurper%20higher%20res.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn73q3eZhfbVk5_vbT8zkozy_UdKgPpFDUeOdYUYrN5df0dAFnuaKKzUA0r02fAFjhCYKtH9yO-IopFACSgQISxXb_UOww9Z8dgVhpA-a-R_Gk_N0wGsUajGtUlEWeRfjBmAdJM13WSWtOepcQCrUKz8wcXp2KjhJ6GKEBEmL3PMjNrjlefXNgqgKLUpM/w210-h320/usurper%20higher%20res.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>As I say, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Battle-Lord-Wulfbury-Chronicles-2/dp/1804362182/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146348&sr=1-1">BATTLE LORD</a></b>, though it’s available for pre-order right now, is only published next January, when it will be available in ebook, paperback and on Audible. If you like your medieval adventures red as raw meat, filled with blood and thunder, this one should be for you, though of course, if you haven’t tried <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146495&sr=1-1">USURPER</a></b> yet, which is the first in the series, I strongly recommend that you make a beeline for that one straight away. <br /><br />And now, on a somewhat different note, let’s dive into some … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Autumn chills</b></div><br />People who read a lot of my work may be aware that one of the pieces I’m most proud of is the novella, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146584&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a></b>, which was first published in the collection, <b>WALKERS IN THE DARK</b>, in 2010, (now long out of print) but was re-released as a stand-alone publication by Brentwood Press in 2019. <br /><br />A horror/thriller set in 1974, it is partly autobiographical, and it follows the fortunes of a small group of school-age children in an industrial Lancashire town, who are increasingly convinced that the serial killer currently targeting the town’s young is an evil spirit resurrected from a nearby derelict coal mine, known simply as Red Clogs. (It is NOT, by the way, a story for child or YA readers).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopXUD32a4-WtCn_7V5MgTCshPlIGQDByJpoLW6aSCAIpIJeTYbtle9DeBGANlY4k4ioGJr6ECauBOdxhaeVf10lubbknKL8CU9d-2vdTCn4FQ3UbseQKhvuAYOjD5xONw17COKOlTCqPoRs31R_4n19AzKkLxaMKvm2hDT2GA_pPXUoQJH8btFEGLeqk/s500/season%20of%20mist.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopXUD32a4-WtCn_7V5MgTCshPlIGQDByJpoLW6aSCAIpIJeTYbtle9DeBGANlY4k4ioGJr6ECauBOdxhaeVf10lubbknKL8CU9d-2vdTCn4FQ3UbseQKhvuAYOjD5xONw17COKOlTCqPoRs31R_4n19AzKkLxaMKvm2hDT2GA_pPXUoQJH8btFEGLeqk/s320/season%20of%20mist.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Rather than rabbit on about the story itself (there are plenty of reviews online to take care of that), I thought that today it might just be fun to have a look at the season of mist itself, the autumn (or fall, to our buddies across the Atlantic), and try to work out what it is that induces this need in us (well … certainly in me) both to read and write scary stories. <br /><br />However, what I’m not going to do is repeat myself by waxing lyrical about winter being ‘the dead time’, when even the land itself appears to be in the grip of malignancy (so obviously there must be ghosts and goblins about!), or ‘the dark time’, a tradition going back millennia, when, with the harvest collected and no real work to do until early spring, all there was left was to sit around the long-hall fire, drinking mead and regaling each other with tall tales. <br /><br />Primarily, this is because I’m not talking about the winter, I’m talking about the autumn. <br /><br />Now, okay, let’s not split hairs. Autumn is the gateway to winter. We all know that. But it’s in the autumn when the nights start lengthening, the vegetation withers, the mist rises and all of a sudden even a walk in the woods seems a lot creepier than it did a couple of weeks earlier. <br /><br />Autumn has a flavour all of its own. <br /><br />So, bearing <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146584&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a></b> in mind, I thought I’d take a look at this time of year – to be specific, the months of September, October and November – from my own perspective, and try to work out what it is about that period that so inspires authors of dark and fantastical fiction. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXLo0lN60niKn7sg70qNVnXj0dATKO7uGpPYIWgmX2D_4Cyw4ob3mmjxMza0YRJarciGF2YdsN4_LJNKSM6qW80syKqKp0B-78Z_r3rHVHoiQJhk6mlCedUvkM7ieFq60zrQUubC_DG5gpUde8HXNZnBR6mN0puGB2IKY4reOgcy__wNGZU4_o6cgE60/s600/fall%20-%20ghost%20face.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="600" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXLo0lN60niKn7sg70qNVnXj0dATKO7uGpPYIWgmX2D_4Cyw4ob3mmjxMza0YRJarciGF2YdsN4_LJNKSM6qW80syKqKp0B-78Z_r3rHVHoiQJhk6mlCedUvkM7ieFq60zrQUubC_DG5gpUde8HXNZnBR6mN0puGB2IKY4reOgcy__wNGZU4_o6cgE60/w200-h181/fall%20-%20ghost%20face.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>To do this, of course, I’ve got to go back to the age before the internet. The reason is simple: in the world of mass media, the autumnal horror tradition has become the whole story. You can’t go online from mid-September onward now without seeing links and adverts plastered with jack-o-lanterns, ghost faces, skulls and witches. The retailers have got involved. Even here in the UK, we’ve now adopted the full-on, Americanised version of Halloween … and in some ways, more power to its elbow (I’m not going to try to pretend I don’t love it). <div><br /></div><div>But I’m not here today to talk about that. As I say, I’m looking at a time when we were NOT force-fed ghostly stuff at this time of year, to try and establish exactly what it was about the <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146584&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a></b> (see what I did there: plug, plug … sorry, I’m as bad as the rest of them) that made it the natural home of the spook story. So, backwards we go now, to those long ago ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Happy days</b></div><br />Well … I may refer to my childhood experience of the autumn in such terms, but the truth is that it wasn’t always happy. Not in early September. <br /><br />Just think about it. <br /><br />All those sun-soaked summer days of limitless pleasure, dressed only in shorts and t-shirts, riding your bikes along leafy woodland paths, going with your mates on the train to Blackpool or Southport, playing cricket or footy all day in the park, two piles of your packed lunches providing the goal posts. Only coming home after ten o’clock, because it was that late when the sun finally went down, but getting up again at the crack of dawn, because it was already broad daylight, and doing the whole thing again … and all without a worry in the world. But then, almost overnight, (and it was overnight, because one day it was August, and then suddenly it was September), you were going back to the world of school and homework, the weather worsening around your ears, the long dark nights drawing in, the green and pleasant land of your long, rambling summer holiday slowly and systematically obliterated. <br /><br />That said, kids being kids, we didn’t let it get us down for long. Once the autumn got going, you automatically became aware that it had its own delicacies. <br /><br />Looking back on it, there were some curious traditions. I remember that, during the early 1970s, it was always in or around September when we started to play marbles and trump cards. The obvious explanation is with the weather deteriorating, we kids were forced to find indoor distractions. Meanwhile, the other big autumn sport when I was young was conkers, which apart from the bit where you got rollocked by adults for battering the neighbourhood’s horse-chestnut trees with sticks and stones, was the best fun ever. <br /><br />(I understand that kids are not allowed to play conkers anymore; I’m sure there’s a valid reason for this in the eyes of some, but frankly, the mind boggles. How can you have the autumn and not have conkers?) <br /><br />Ultimately of course, conkers and marbles had nothing whatsoever to do with the spooky side of the autumn (I merely mention them to provide some period colour). Much more relevant to this post were the special events of the season, but not perhaps in the order some might expect. <br /><br />For instance, during my childhood, the main festival at this time of year was not Halloween, but November 5, Bonfire Night. <br /><br />Don’t get me wrong. We were aware of Halloween, and we did celebrate it, but Halloween parties in our day tended to be organised by kids themselves, with minimal adult involvement and almost no money spent, costumes usually homemade or improvised, and tin cans with faces cut into them standing in for pumpkins and turnips. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJ4yQzKStQJbnGa0aJh93vCfBH0HRriDnxGU-CLpXiWtmh4659VEjyQC55vU6_7S1whMkWrYj3SYSmlBCyJQv597b4BHG_tMMRhe4DSrIv9gEke0DrpN5VrOoc30Y8M8WT3SQ_ShnLNh4iFvzXAvu3P9fTJ1C8I9uXBMsUUr_TqWaepQMa5tloR6zaC8/s325/fall%20-%20bonfire.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="325" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJ4yQzKStQJbnGa0aJh93vCfBH0HRriDnxGU-CLpXiWtmh4659VEjyQC55vU6_7S1whMkWrYj3SYSmlBCyJQv597b4BHG_tMMRhe4DSrIv9gEke0DrpN5VrOoc30Y8M8WT3SQ_ShnLNh4iFvzXAvu3P9fTJ1C8I9uXBMsUUr_TqWaepQMa5tloR6zaC8/s320/fall%20-%20bonfire.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But for Bonfire Night, things were different. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was the occasion when all the stops got pulled out, when you’d intone rhyming couplets about it at school – <i>Remember, remember</i>, etc – when your mum would get the black peas and the treacle toffee ready, when the gruesome safety adverts would fill you with genuine horror, and on the big night itself, when the sky would glitter with pyrotechnics, and everyone’s back yard was alight with blazing piles of timber, the air thick with gunpowder smoke and echoing to whistles and shrieks … <br /><br />There were so many signs in autumn that all this excitement was approaching, even as early as September. <br /><br />Fireworks started appearing in every corner-shop window. You could buy them individually in those days, not just in Government-approved boxes, and chucking bangers at each other was a very popular pastime, though much frowned-upon by parents and the authorities. Pyramid-shaped bonfires, or ‘bommies’, would sprout on every scrap of wasteland, each usually with its own quota of rubber tyres on top, and would be zealously defended by those who’d built them. </div><div><br /></div><div>But most relevant of all to today’s post, the penny-for-the-guy gangs materialised. Bunches of eager youngsters who’d shove their Guy Fawkes effigies from door to door in wheelbarrows, asking for money, or would wait in prominent places in town centres or on the corners of housing estates. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPj-O4L1lqsFPsIoLerwY9zqlzo58Un1Wsn2zzI6V_iBbrNw0Tg2oKkbsRAg_sJ4fapYvXAN3gKqUvnkixJbQggyjU2Kgckr97AgYPkjvQ3EX1RqObuIGG15xq_NujHIIRqNfqHngI1DbIREs0kiAmDVKPT6f_slfoayiDjr2KM5XI90ZmhOzOsPh2yk/s450/fall%20-%20burn.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="287" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUPj-O4L1lqsFPsIoLerwY9zqlzo58Un1Wsn2zzI6V_iBbrNw0Tg2oKkbsRAg_sJ4fapYvXAN3gKqUvnkixJbQggyjU2Kgckr97AgYPkjvQ3EX1RqObuIGG15xq_NujHIIRqNfqHngI1DbIREs0kiAmDVKPT6f_slfoayiDjr2KM5XI90ZmhOzOsPh2yk/w255-h400/fall%20-%20burn.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>The Guys were very strange objects: straw or newspaper-stuffed mannequins, often wearing garish masks to cover the blankness of their real faces. There was invariably an air of the grotesque about these limp and ragged replicas of humanity, not least because you knew they represented an arch-traitor who had died a barbarous death, and because they themselves would shortly be consumed by flames, to the encouraging roars of a joyful crowd. <br /><br />Did this feed into the eerie side of the season? <br /><br />I personally think it did. I’ve already mentioned that we marked Halloween as well. The two celebrations were only a week apart, so often your Halloween stuff was stored in the same shed as your bonfire stuff. Lifeless dummies, ugly masks and dark, dingy clothing briefly became part and parcel of the season. <br /><br />But don’t assume the rough-and-ready nature of these preparations spoiled anything. For example, the cheapness of the British Halloween in that era was often compensated for by the lack of adult supervision, which meant you could get away with an awful lot. Trick or treating could sometimes get out of hand, though the main advantage of having no mums or dads around was that you could up the stakes when it came to scaring the bejeezus out of each other. <br /><br />The first time I ever heard the synopsis of <b><i>The Exorcist</i></b> was during one of our Halloween Night ghost story sessions – bear in mind that I was about 10 at the time – and as we were all sitting around in the darkness of some dilapidated garage on the edge of derelict industrial land, it scared me half to death. Equally, we improvised a range of terrifying games: <i><b>Scream Inn</b></i>, <b><i>Slaughter in the Dark</i></b>, <b><i>Werewolf By Night</i></b>, which were all designed to take advantage of the opaque blackness and drifting mist on evenings in the lonesome October. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>That brings me to the other key factor: the way the environment subtly changed during the autumn.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4pjpnvMkc5yhBV5NrU7vNus5koH_Slh8qhpAu7x4CJVJQqhvK1eolMCSI7e-UeKPwA57yzW2RpDMC3VG45qT32ZSxElS3rUP2fHNfqLwmjw4zKYwzoYUZd3oVKQ4ZNpF0zHrTZMiCeOPEj5XK8Ll1HVTZ4MytCaPlLBLB4y9CoSrt9AEUCIJcZnLQug/s1728/autumn.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1728" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4pjpnvMkc5yhBV5NrU7vNus5koH_Slh8qhpAu7x4CJVJQqhvK1eolMCSI7e-UeKPwA57yzW2RpDMC3VG45qT32ZSxElS3rUP2fHNfqLwmjw4zKYwzoYUZd3oVKQ4ZNpF0zHrTZMiCeOPEj5XK8Ll1HVTZ4MytCaPlLBLB4y9CoSrt9AEUCIJcZnLQug/s320/autumn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The verdant landscapes of summer (even in Wigan we had some of those) slowly morphing into something distinctly more sinister, the sun-dappled greenery becoming hanging mats of decay, tides of fallen leaves obscuring the paths and footways, scabrous, fungus-riddled tree-trunks emerging from the lank, brown foliage. Even the air smelled different. It was colder, damper. Get out into the woods and wasteland, and there was a constant reek of mildew. <br /><br />It was the perfect setting for horror stories and horror games. My particular group of friends, who, frankly, were significantly braver (or more reckless) than many others of our age, would venture far from the streetlights, probing into the shadow-filled ruins of collieries and factories, or along redundant railway lines where you literally couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, all the while telling each other more terrifying tales – about escaped lunatics and mass murderers, about the ghosts of long-dead, horribly mutilated pitmen still wandering the coal tips (yes, Red Clogs was a genuine legend of that time and place, a vengeful spectre who allegedly haunted every Lancashire colliery from Giant’s Hall, near where I lived, to Sutton Manor in St Helens), or about Nanny Green Teeth, who swam the flashes and canals looking to drown unwary youngsters, and even the Pendle Witches, whose evil souls still rode the high winds, screeching with angry glee. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHI_-E79in-u67Y2h1YTpr_TrDYodstPtgJjNdidJtIH57s319-G7YoCabVnswx1AiG7WhVej2pBxKsFc0ytnjPNnjG-2osn5c_dugWCoByQA-LooffWTW9m5W10Zo_37hsEGB34MghGwPkUIJjq0v8sBbofGsLA1nydBeaIKtoP9hJovnl3TELMIoOEo/s680/autumn%20(shot%20by%20Jonny%20G).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="545" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHI_-E79in-u67Y2h1YTpr_TrDYodstPtgJjNdidJtIH57s319-G7YoCabVnswx1AiG7WhVej2pBxKsFc0ytnjPNnjG-2osn5c_dugWCoByQA-LooffWTW9m5W10Zo_37hsEGB34MghGwPkUIJjq0v8sBbofGsLA1nydBeaIKtoP9hJovnl3TELMIoOEo/s320/autumn%20(shot%20by%20Jonny%20G).jpg" width="256" /></a></div>But even if we hadn’t been of that inclination, the uncanny transformation of the land would have worked its spell on us, would have made us think dark thoughts whether we liked it or not. <br /><br />Here’s a brief but hopefully appropriate snippet from <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146584&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a></b>: <br /><br /> <i> In 1974, it was Dom’s suggestion that we hold the Halloween party in the garage at his house. That seemed like a good idea to me. It was separate from the main house, at the end of a secondary drive, and surrounded by thick evergreen shrubbery. It didn’t have any power connected to it, and even its wooden door, which was covered in flaking blue paint, had to be lifted manually to enable you to get inside. It also meant that we’d have to spend at least a few days around Dom’s house, sorting things out, and that might bring me back into the orbit of his sister, who I hadn’t seen for the best part of a month. <br /> I know it sounds ridiculous: on one hand excitedly planning a childish party, and on the other lusting for the attention of a shapely, dark-haired nineteen-year-old. But these juxtaposed emotions were real. I was on the cusp of manhood and didn’t realise it. We’d no idea that within a year we’d no longer be having Halloween parties in darkened garages, would have minimal interest in fireworks, and would view Christmas mainly as an opportunity to steal kisses from girls in class and sneak bottles of cider from our parents’ festive stock. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why 1974 was one of the greatest and yet at the same time most terrible years of my life. I lived every moment of it with huge intensity, as though unconsciously aware that it was my childhood’s last fling. Even now, so many years later, I remember every sight and sound of that last autumn of innocence, every star-spangled night, every mist-wreathed woodland, every twisted shape watching coldly from the shadows …</i><div><i><br /></i>That was the autumn of my childhood, which extended from the late-1960s to the late-1970s, and it may go some way to explaining why even now, at the age of 59, I still consider these later months of the year to be so satisfyingly scary. Even without the preponderance of Halloweenorama that now gets rammed down our throats on TV and online, they would have that same effect.<br /><br />And I suspect I’m not the only one. Here, for your delectation, is a quick, off-the-top-of-my-head list of some of the best ghost and horror stories in which the autumn is a key player (all predating the huge Halloween retail operation that we see today). Check out: <br /><br /><b><i>The Fall of the House of Usher</i></b> – Edgar Allan Poe <br /><b><i>The Beckoning Fair One</i></b> – Oliver Onions <br /><i><b>Something Wicked This Way Comes</b></i> – Ray Bradbury <br /><i><b>The Guy</b></i> – Ramsey Campbell <br /><i><b>Eyes</b></i> – Charles L Grant <br /><i><b>The Black Pumpkin</b></i> – Dean Koontz <br /><i><b>Dark Harvest</b></i> – Norman Partridge <br /><br />And so on and so forth. Even after a quick experimental mind-scan, there are far too many to name, which is vindication of a sort, I suppose.</div><div><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devolution-bestselling-author-World-War/dp/1529101425/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146708&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devolution-bestselling-author-World-War/dp/1529101425/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695146708&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9dEoJ2YAYiXr0U5Oby2zGb18eDyMjI3eKQJJW8kNlihFAEu8jPHcNK6MXLY3TsjDGAlj5idD5VRM3t7F1T7YFxGZu_MX5YPyx5nbIoFl2Hbbkn2rEfIxNwViPCzm086J9IRtuJbNpa1sp1lxnOQychHKCJpYDzZtz73fugzCgKM1HuwNr25UrVTVXZaU/s541/devolution.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="541" data-original-width="353" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9dEoJ2YAYiXr0U5Oby2zGb18eDyMjI3eKQJJW8kNlihFAEu8jPHcNK6MXLY3TsjDGAlj5idD5VRM3t7F1T7YFxGZu_MX5YPyx5nbIoFl2Hbbkn2rEfIxNwViPCzm086J9IRtuJbNpa1sp1lxnOQychHKCJpYDzZtz73fugzCgKM1HuwNr25UrVTVXZaU/w261-h400/devolution.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devolution-bestselling-author-World-War/dp/1529101425/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1695197388&sr=1-1">DEVOLUTION</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Max Brooks (2020) </i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Thirteen months have passed since Mount Rainier, an active volcano in the Cascade Mountains, in America’s Pacific Northwest, erupted with devastating consequences. Among the many casualties recorded at the time was the majority of the population of Greenloop, a small town in a remote corner of Mount Rainier National Park, which was completely destroyed during the disaster. All of its occupants’ bodies were recovered later, with the exception of one, a certain Kate Holland, who has never been seen since. <br /><br />When a local reporter is contacted by Kate’s brother, one Frank McCray, who tells him that the population of Greenloop didn’t die in a mudslide or from poisonous volcanic fumes, or anything of that sort, but in fact were murdered by a Bigfoot clan, having itself been displaced by the eruption, the newshound undertakes to investigate, first of all by studying Kate’s journal, but also by holding in-depth interviews with McCray himself and National Park ranger, Josephine Schell. <br /><br />The narrative that follows has been cobbled together from these various sources, in addition to items drawn from earlier works of Bigfoot research, and it tells a terrifying tale … <br /><br />When Kate Holland and her husband, Dan, first arrive in Greenloop, they find it a place of many inconsistencies. The creation of wealthy techno-czar, Tony Durrant, it is on one hand a site of communal living, a purpose-built, eco-conscious hamlet far out in the wilderness, allowing its residents to give up safely on urban living and get back in synch with the natural world (for example, its dwellings are environmentally-friendly cabins, its backup power resources courtesy of solar panelling and biogas generators), but at the same time it is entirely dependent on modern tech, everything here automated and controlled by apps on its occupants’ laptops, phones or iPads, while essential supplies are air-lifted in by drones and wi-fi delivered by fibre-optic cable. If that isn’t enough, Seattle, which is only 90 miles away, is easily reachable by the nearest highway. <br /><br />On top of all that, Greenloop is an expensive place to live, only really available to moneyed academics who can afford to give up on the rest of the world. It doesn’t go uncommented on that folk like these, who’ve rarely, if ever, got their hands dirty doing real outdoors work, are likely to be among the least able to survive off the grid in the event of some kind of disaster. They don’t possess anything as useful as an actual tool, never mind a weapon, and they certainly lack the muscle-memory to use one. <br /><br />In truth, it’s a pretence at ‘going green’ rather than the real thing, an elaborate form of virtue signalling, minus any actual hardship, but it would be untrue to say that life in Greenloop is not, in its unique way, quite attractive. <br /><br />Kate Holland herself is very much a creature of the modern world, a hyper-stressed executive type, who is here to try and decompress, and with the aid of a journal, which her therapist insists she keeps in detail and regularly updates, is seeking to reorganise her entire approach to life. <br /><br />She’d particularly like to fix her relationship with husband, Dan, though this feels as if it will be quite a challenge. <br /><br />It’s through Kate’s journal that we follow her initial interactions with other Greenloop residents, all of whom are, in their different ways, well-heeled oddballs, none seeming to possess even the most basic life skills, with the exception of the acerbic artist Mostar, who, it gradually becomes obvious, has led a far more lived-in life than any of the others, including Kate and Dan. <br /><br />Few of the residents really get on, but for the sake of peace, efforts to be civil to each other are mostly successful. However, when Mount Rainier erupts, it is a real and serious problem. The community, though undamaged by the fall-out from the volcano, find themselves completely cut off from the rest of the country. What’s worse, the Washington State infrastructure has been hugely disrupted, while wholesale civil disorder has broken out in Seattle, the sum total of which is that rescuers won’t be coming along any time soon. <br /><br />Tony, the de facto leader of the community, even though he’s somewhat uninspiring in that role, suggests that they only need to sit tight and help will arrive at some point. Mostar, who we later learn was in the Balkans during the war of the 1990s, makes practical suggestions, not just about rationing food, but in terms of educating themselves in matters of basic maintenance. At first, the townsfolk respond constructively to the crisis, but gradually, as their isolation continues, the supplies diminish and conditions get harder, and people who, despite initial brief comradeship, really don’t like each other, soon start to display it. <br /><br />To make matters worse, Kate increasingly suspects that some kind of hostile animal lurking in the woods nearby is taking ever greater interest in them. More and more evidence of this emerges, and when she is one day chased back into the compound by a huge apelike creature, she is drawn to the conclusion not just that Bigfoot is real, but that he’s here, finally driven out of hiding by the eruption. <br /><br />Of course, no one believes her at first. Most likely she encountered a bear. Typical townie. How would she know the difference? But the beasts now encircling Greenloop are getting steadily bolder, and when the townsfolk start hearing blood-chilling, ape-like shrieks in the woods, and find their bins and compost containers ripped open, they realise that it isn’t just one enormous hominid they are facing here, but several. Eco-conscious retiree, Vincent Boothe, attempts to make contact, but is rewarded by a shower of heavy stones, which do massive damage and clearly illustrate that their as yet (mostly) unseen opponents are very antagonistic. <br /><br />Still feeling that this is all some massive misunderstanding between species, Vincent volunteers to go out of town on foot and literally hike his way to civilisation. Mostar advises against this, but he won’t listen … and that night they are all wakened by his screams of agony. Despite Mostar’s warning that it’s a trap, Kate and Dan also risk venturing out. <br /><br />All they find left of him is scattered meat and bone. Whatever the giant apes dined on previously has evidently now been denied to them by Mount Rainier. So, they’ve found something else to eat. The community thus defers to Mostar, who prepares it for war … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />Anyone who knows their great apes knows they are not to be trifled with. Once you are out there in the wild, our closest relatives on the evolutionary scale can be our most dangerous enemies. Intelligent, ferocious, incredibly strong and aggressively tribal, the ape and monkey species of the world can pose a very serious threat to any human who, intentionally or otherwise, wanders into their domain. This is a fact of life as we know it. But now imagine that they each stand to about eight or nine feet tall and weigh in at about 490lbs, and that you are deep in their territory but can’t get away because Nature has conspired against it. <br /><br />This is the premise of <i><b>Devolution</b></i>, Max Brooks’ latest epistolatory horror-adventure. And it’s a genuinely terrifying one, even more so as the human enclave soon being encroached on by the sasquatch clan is weaker than you might normally find. This is the land of gun ownership, but they don’t have any guns. This is the land of the outdoorsman, but there are no outdoorsmen here. Greenloop is all about sustainable living, but it can’t sustain itself even for a week when its power has been cut. <br /><br />As I worked my way through the first half of the book – which is a real ‘slow burn’, I have to say – all these facts were gnawing on me. It struck me from the outset that this deluded techno-hipster community was vastly more vulnerable than even its most enlightened member realised. That it was, in fact, ripe for the plucking. Of course, it only makes things worse that, even though the residents of Greenloop don’t know about it, we readers are well aware – because we’ve been told in advance – of the savage forces gathering in the encircling forest. <br /><br />I found that idea alone intensely frightening. And it doesn’t get any easier the more the Greenloop residents realise what they are up against, because there is nothing they can do about it anyway. Nothing obvious, at least. When the battle commences, it’s every bit as violently one-sided as you would expect, though the humans increasingly show ingenuity and aggression of their own, slowly but surely evening the score. <br /><br />And it’s this that makes <b><i>Devolution</i></b> more than just another scary creature-feature. <br /><br />As with Brooks’ thumping first success, <i><b>World War Z</b></i>, the author, while he’s undoubtedly keen to tell a rattling good terror tale, is also interested here in how humanity would respond to such an assault (in effect, how quickly and effectively they could and would go to war). In the first book it was the world-scale response. In this one, it’s the world in miniature. <br /><br />The Greenloop community comprises a diverse assortment of interesting characters, all with their own strengths and flaws. Some reviewers have accused Brooks of wasting time with this. <br /><br />‘We know they’re all going to die anyway, so why bother building them up?’ <br /><br />But for me that’s missing the point. First of all, Brooks, as all good fiction writers should, is ensuring that these characters in peril are characters we care about. If they’re just blank sheets it won’t matter if they get torn apart. Secondly, and this I think is his real aim, he’s putting us – mankind – in the frame. It takes all sorts to make a human community, with the usual exception of deadly fighters and square-jawed heroes. Because let’s be honest, in how many communities in the world do those people actually exist? One response to <i><b>Devolution</b></i> has been to sneer at how ineffectual this bunch of latter-day middle-class hippies actually are, to laugh at how easily they are picked off by monstrous brutes with far lower intellects, to say smugly that this is the outcome of easy living and over-reliance on technology. But how many of the rest of us don’t fall into that same category? How many of the rest of us wouldn’t make it out of the wild woods alive if we were abandoned there, with or without the presence of giant, man-eating apes? <br /><br />However, this isn’t a situation that will remain unchanged. <br /><br />It’s a near certainty that humans, when they are under attack, will eventually counterattack. We are a notoriously belligerent race in our own right. We mastered the beasts when we had very little to fight them with save sticks and stones. So, in <i><b>Devolution</b></i>, the hominids don’t have it all their own way. <br /><br />By this, I don’t mean to say that Max Brooks goes all <i><b>The Hills Have Eyes</b></i> on us. It’s not the case here that those who are seemingly innocent at the start of it eventually are so abused that they become abusers themselves. That said, they demonstrate a significant degree of devolution. Particularly Kate Holland, whose disappearance at the end of the narrative may not be down to the predators having dragged her off into the trees. <br /><br />The big question is does it all work? <br /><br />Well, for me the answer is a resounding yes, for various reasons. <br /><br />Not all reviewers have appreciated the epistolary style, which, as I’ve already mentioned, was also used in <i><b>World War Z</b></i>, but for me it adds a classic horror vibe. The presence of Bigfoot in the North American backwoods is still a matter of debate. Is he there, or isn’t he? It’s an age-old mystery with its roots in Native American lore, a definitive answer still elusive thanks to the sparsity of hard evidence. And this novel simply adds to that. <br /><br />Is Kate Holland’s journal for real? Did these things genuinely happen, or was she driven crazy by horror and despair at the deaths of her friends during a volcanic catastrophe? No certain answer is possible, so ultimately, along with all those bits of grainy film and curious late-night audio recordings we can these days check out on <i><b>YouTube</b></i>, it can never be anything more than yet another fragment of a clue, the authenticity of which can only be guessed at. <br /><br />This also puts it in the category of ‘found footage’ horror, or perhaps ‘found text’, though that in itself is nothing new; it harks back to the classic days of Bram Stoker, HP Lovecraft and <i><b>Weird Tales</b></i>. However, it also serves a functional purpose. Though I strongly doubt that anyone could recollect conversations of days earlier so perfectly word-for-word that you could reproduce them in a diary and they’d read as smoothly as they do here, which is perhaps one overarching weakness of <i><b>Devolution</b></i>, I’m prepared to give leeway because I can’t help thinking that telling this story as a straight narrative, particularly as so much of the first half of it concerns Greenloop world-building, I can’t help thinking it would drag too much in the build-up. <br /><br />All round, <i><b>Devolution</b></i> is a superior horror novel, a good old-fashioned monster story, with a strong Man v Nature subtext, which is particularly pertinent in this age, when we all unquestioningly support green issues, and yet should perhaps be cautious that we don’t get exactly what we wish for. It’s a wild world out there; we’ve conquered a lot of it, but it wouldn’t take much for it to conquer us back. <br /><br /><i>For once, I’m not going to bother with my homegrown casting choices for a movie version of <b>Devolution</b>, as Legendary Entertainment optioned it on publication, and, according to the </i><b><i>Hollywood Reporter</i></b><i> last year, had appointed James Ashcroft to direct (mockumentary style, by all accounts), and that trailers may hit the internet before the end of this year.</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>(As always, most of the artwork on this post has been snaffled while it was floating around on the Internet uncredited. However, the upright image of the autumn woodland was created by Johnny G. If any of the others would like to step forward, I will be delighted to credit them as well, or, if required, take the pictures down).</b></i></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-48305781931060695682023-09-05T00:08:00.003-07:002023-09-05T02:31:06.256-07:00When cruel maniacs lurked in the suburbs<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyLiJMruCAI2Nupq704kqNelHHGuwyHhT78sLpuh2EX-qE-Dsio-Etw4vW-OIk_PlU6fKn9FMuubbPyI4NDuHBTWuHfZb-mGGtLCocQ571FFhh30AD3j-9zKjEc7oZUDlNI_3ZpzjRcdoq_U0u3L3vu69evHPRjT6bU6OSFAgLtbJgLRi2kt5R7_L9ok/s1200/suburb%20-%20horror%20street.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidyLiJMruCAI2Nupq704kqNelHHGuwyHhT78sLpuh2EX-qE-Dsio-Etw4vW-OIk_PlU6fKn9FMuubbPyI4NDuHBTWuHfZb-mGGtLCocQ571FFhh30AD3j-9zKjEc7oZUDlNI_3ZpzjRcdoq_U0u3L3vu69evHPRjT6bU6OSFAgLtbJgLRi2kt5R7_L9ok/w400-h225/suburb%20-%20horror%20street.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><b>There’s been a bit of a gap since my last blogpost. I’ve been away on holiday since we last spoke, plus I’ve had to say goodbye to a beloved friend. But things are kind of back on the straight and narrow now, as we head into the season of mist … which probably means that today is quite an opportune time to talk about one of my personal favourite pieces of work, the original </b><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1693858257&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a></b><b>, which I’m always going to promote around this time of year, because, in the words of one reviewer, it’s “richly flavoursome of the autumn months”. <br /><br />Seeing that it’s set in Northern England of the 1970s, today will also be a good time to get introspective about yet another thing that spurred me into my writing career. So, this week we focus on that particular decade, but most specifically on a series of horror books that I will forever associate with it, and which completely captivated me as I ventured into the world of adult fiction. <br /><br />On a not dissimilar subject, for this week’s review, I’ll be taking a detailed look at an issue of Tom English’s excellent horror magazine, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Nightmare-Abbey-2-Steve-Duffy/dp/B0BN5Z9QGY">NIGHTMARE ABBEY: WINTER SOLSTICE 2022</a>.</b> <div><br /></div><div>If you’re only here for the <b><i>Nightmare Abbey</i></b> review, you’ll find it, as always, at the lower end of today’s post, in the <b><i>Thrillers, Chillers</i></b> section. First of all, though, it’s … <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhfSh9jZXLuYEmvSf_0BlTqlkrZRZh7KH_wNp0HNFaqpHGi9FaMpnsWoC17urpoKuJeU0lYODmjjB44K01F4wB3E2G0bwNlRfCQyr5ntpsbBkOtu7JaB_ayfUs3KHsik9oOB_WRTxVaYwezqdOhRlM2Pt5T6ZDdPYkviEiw1Xtq8PEN5rrABjgiWlYsM/s500/season%20of%20mist%202.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhfSh9jZXLuYEmvSf_0BlTqlkrZRZh7KH_wNp0HNFaqpHGi9FaMpnsWoC17urpoKuJeU0lYODmjjB44K01F4wB3E2G0bwNlRfCQyr5ntpsbBkOtu7JaB_ayfUs3KHsik9oOB_WRTxVaYwezqdOhRlM2Pt5T6ZDdPYkviEiw1Xtq8PEN5rrABjgiWlYsM/w250-h400/season%20of%20mist%202.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>That time of year again</b></div></b></div><br />I won’t say too much about <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Season-Mist-novella-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205704/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1693858257&sr=1-1">SEASON OF MIST</a></b>, as I find myself promoting it on here every September, October and November. Instead, I’ll just post the back cover blurb, remind everyone that it can be had in <b>paperback</b>, <b>ebook</b> or on <b>Audible</b> (in two formats, freestanding or as part of a ‘waning of the year’ <b>Audible</b> collection, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Time-Collection-Books-Year/dp/B0BDBGS4PK/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3TKHQ0G35ATEK&keywords=the+dead+time+-+paul+finch&qid=1693858351&s=books&sprefix=the+dead+time+-+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C71&sr=1-1">THE DEAD TIME</a></b>), and I’ll then close with select quotes from some of the excellent reviews that it’s received over the years.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>SEASON OF MIST</b></div><b><br />Our last autumn of innocence. Star-spangled nights. Mist-wreathed woodland. A twisted shape watching coldly from the shadows ...</b><br /><br /><b>Industrial Lancashire 1974 </b><br /><br />The kids in the coal-mining town of Ashburn love the waning of the year. Fancy dress and scary stories for Halloween. Fireworks and treacle toffee on Guy Fawkes Night. And a month after that, snow and the approach of Christmas. <br /><br />But this particular autumn will be memorable for entirely different reasons. <br /><br />Because this year someone is killing the children of Ashburn. <br /><br />Or should that be SOMETHING? <br /><br />While police and parents search for a maniac, Stephen Carter and his schoolmates know better. They may be on the cusp of adulthood, but there’s still enough of the youngster left in each of them to recognise the work of an evil supernatural being unique to these deserts of slagheap and coal-tip.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><i>“A masterfully told story of autumn and boyhood and fear and courage. It’s a crime story, a ghost story, a whodunnit. I usually avoid coming-of-age stories but this one is special …” <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzOYX830CEINxz0-IqsKq1D8gtvYotLDEtTHAhTsuuJc67rmWeHh-JvYdKT-HoUy5U-TOqtPXw6Rp_tj2tXovoJXV0LTo82PsK6DZBAUAhsasT23jciBVuHvv_Amjts3wdRRUTmoKE4igr9XvVq94WX2hKbqurQLpjGL_VNLI6-2aud9NWtWSbC9oZXU/s400/dead%20time%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzOYX830CEINxz0-IqsKq1D8gtvYotLDEtTHAhTsuuJc67rmWeHh-JvYdKT-HoUy5U-TOqtPXw6Rp_tj2tXovoJXV0LTo82PsK6DZBAUAhsasT23jciBVuHvv_Amjts3wdRRUTmoKE4igr9XvVq94WX2hKbqurQLpjGL_VNLI6-2aud9NWtWSbC9oZXU/s320/dead%20time%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>“A perfect mix of nostalgia for childhood days of freedom and friendship, and fear as the young people of a small Lancashire town are stalked by a brutal killer who becomes linked to a terrifying local legend …”</i></div><br />“… the suspense and tension build to a memorable climax that works brilliantly, even though it wasn’t at all what I was expecting.” <br /><br />“A great narrative and characters add to this absolutely nail-biting read …” <br /><br />“I read this over two evenings and it took me back to my childhood in Lancashire around that time. I love a creepy story and it would make a great TV drama …” </i><br /><br />And now ...</div><div><br /><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>MOMENTS THAT MATTERED</b></h2><br />What on earth is it that could make you want to be a writer? <br /><br /><div>Every one of us is different, I suppose. We all found our own unique ways into this profession, but I’d hazard a guess that majority of us have experienced ‘Damascene moments’ … in other words were at some point struck by an astonishing revelation or motivation that we never saw coming, and which, while it might not have jolted us into the world of authorship at that very moment, became a persuasive factor in later years ... was in fact the spur that ultimately drove us on towards a very different future.<br /> <br />In a previous post, I highlighted the role that the great neon sign for <b><a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/2023/06/key-moments-that-steered-me-into-writing.html">GRANADA TELEVISION</a></b>, glimmering across the rain-swept Manchester rooftops one dark and terrible night, played in pushing me towards the writing game. Today, I’m zeroing in on another aspect of my early life, which proved equally instrumental, though it may be the last thing you expect.<br /><br /><br /><b>SPUR #2 – THE PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES </b><br /><br />The 1970s in Britain, or so we’re often told, was a sordid time to be alive, and while I’d argue that we’re mainly told this by people who weren’t there, there were undeniable drawbacks to living in that decade. </div><div><br /></div><div>We ate the wrong things, drank too much, smoked too much, we were racist and chauvinistic, and society as a whole was far too sexualised: there were no modesty boards on girlie mags back then, while our TV sitcoms were laced with blue humour. And of course, there was violence: the 1970s was an era of industrial decline and unemployment, but as some traditional structures remained in place – the Church, the family unit etc – this didn’t divert directionless young men into theft and drug dealing, the way it seems to today, as much as into heavy drinking and regular brawling in pubs and clubs. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsKMD1FOgjFaNgBxsk2aQ4un8pT5mCYkWRo3SmoJol5IWsSZ8FRArxTYOmtHSMmRSsXSe2eneQdFu1vFGtMN1L1QSqQ4P1Vi2HSfDuDQdo0wEd6VMvdckcL8gs_oVxQW49t5ccq827CsL180wpyPgOxcPQdqNjoEGj3tQASkGQsz0AnCQI0RaG6t6d00/s640/anarchy%20pic.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="640" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUsKMD1FOgjFaNgBxsk2aQ4un8pT5mCYkWRo3SmoJol5IWsSZ8FRArxTYOmtHSMmRSsXSe2eneQdFu1vFGtMN1L1QSqQ4P1Vi2HSfDuDQdo0wEd6VMvdckcL8gs_oVxQW49t5ccq827CsL180wpyPgOxcPQdqNjoEGj3tQASkGQsz0AnCQI0RaG6t6d00/w320-h189/anarchy%20pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Saturday night was definitely alright for fighting in those days. There was little in the way of organised security in town centre bars, so when it kicked off in the ’70s, those establishments would literally get wrecked. We all know that this was also the age of football hooliganism, not to mention skinheads, boot boys and Hell’s Angels. <br /><br />So … <i>Wow!</i>, you must be thinking, <i>this it the decade this guy is trying to sell to us? </i><br /><br />Well, no, I’m not. But the 1970s, the decade in which I came of age, was an essential factor in my development as a writer. And a key aspect of that was the <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pan_Book_of_Horror_Stories">PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES</a></b>. <br /><br />Now, hold your horses. This isn’t as much of a right-hand turn on what I was just talking about as you may think. Because, horror, in terms of movies, TV and written fiction, was also a massive thing in the 1970s. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuM9jjhNgqzDw20O1BxH9cEB_R1CYDPT9vOdjdV9R_ryE4brcACY_l06a_EFTpuTlC5Ne6b1ymJotgus-RvCUUl1-hDDAL75PxVF71Re3r9n59sz25mCNW9qODGZyPY-yqpyTwcgCqtXZz6d4bEIWBgN4SDC8mvdKJsvcJZt2Yl-BQnRQn3qoTctbcaQ/s783/1971%20-%20twins%20of%20evil.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="783" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPuM9jjhNgqzDw20O1BxH9cEB_R1CYDPT9vOdjdV9R_ryE4brcACY_l06a_EFTpuTlC5Ne6b1ymJotgus-RvCUUl1-hDDAL75PxVF71Re3r9n59sz25mCNW9qODGZyPY-yqpyTwcgCqtXZz6d4bEIWBgN4SDC8mvdKJsvcJZt2Yl-BQnRQn3qoTctbcaQ/s320/1971%20-%20twins%20of%20evil.webp" width="320" /></a></div>Hammer were still packing cinemas with blood-drenched but titillating affairs like <i><b>Hands of the Ripper</b>,</i> <i><b>Countess Dracula</b></i> and <i><b>Twins of Evil</b></i>, but you also had infinitely higher budget and way more frightening movies like <i><b>The Exorcist</b></i> and <i><b>The Omen</b></i>, alongside family blockbusters like <b><i>Jaws</i></b>, while our TV schedules also did their bit. Programmes like <i><b>Supernatural</b></i>, <b><i>Beasts </i></b>and <b><i>Ghost Story for Christmas</i></b> sent chills through the living rooms of Britain like nothing that had gone before them. <br /><br />In terms of reading material, the bookshops of the UK were also awash with horror, both novels and anthologies. All these things considered, it was a perfect era for the <i><b>Pan Horrors</b></i> to thrive in. Now, don’t get me wrong, that series was not confined solely to the 1970s. The creation of legendary publisher and anthologist, Herbert van Thal, there were 30 volumes in total, and they ran from 1959 until 1989, but most enthusiasts would probably agree that in the late 1960s moving through into the 1970s they were really ratcheting up the sleaze factor. <br /><br />And even by the standards of the <i>conte cruel</i> horror story, when I say ‘sleaze’, I’m talking about its most extreme incarnation: sexual violence, perversion, sadism and so forth. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgbyRva31W-0FjFG8BPF4k4nNsIAF-I9ZXeolkirOdG2Cioxzl1JtfcjnTHdJ2uaD7iUEjB2coUpVtCySYcnAnzVqmbEUQ0aOv3F3owKZk6oG3lOS-MmuITeb_ODjB5vXA__nAJ_jFXTKx-EBnosz5JzGKUiJgXhGzI1iNzRPL4-M2Mb0PDXkXcd2YOA/s1209/scan20%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1209" data-original-width="740" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgbyRva31W-0FjFG8BPF4k4nNsIAF-I9ZXeolkirOdG2Cioxzl1JtfcjnTHdJ2uaD7iUEjB2coUpVtCySYcnAnzVqmbEUQ0aOv3F3owKZk6oG3lOS-MmuITeb_ODjB5vXA__nAJ_jFXTKx-EBnosz5JzGKUiJgXhGzI1iNzRPL4-M2Mb0PDXkXcd2YOA/w245-h400/scan20%20(2).jpg" width="245" /></a></div>Take John Arthur’s <b><i>Don’t Go Down in the Woods</i></b> in Vol 20 (1979), in which we meet a insatiable schoolgirl serial killer out on the prowl for hunky young men to slaughter, and Alex White’s <i><b>The Clinic</b></i> in Vol 14 (1973), wherein a young woman is sent for a new job at a mysterious clinic, only to find that she’s actually an inmate, who’s been sent there for a very severe form of re-education ... which sees her raped, tortured and mutilated. <br /><br />No wonder there was a ‘lure of the forbidden’ thing going on for youngsters like me where the <b><i>Pan Book of Horror Stories</i></b> was concerned. It’s certainly the case that it wasn’t easy getting hold of these books if you were a young teen. Mums and dads were a lot stricter back then than today. Hell, my dad once made me take a copy of <i><b>Monster Mag </b></i>back to the shop because it featured a pull-out poster of Peter Cushing gloating over a severed head. So, they’d almost never consent to letting you buy one of the <i><b>Pan Horrors</b></i> yourself, and that was assuming you could find a shop lady who’d sell it to you. The only option therefore was usually to borrow one from some friend’s older brother, or maybe dip into that ‘behind the bike sheds’ black-market at school, wherein copies would inevitably come ragged and dog-eared, and much pawed over on the pages where rude things happened. <br /><br />Looking back on it now, it’s actually amazing that some of the stories in the <b><i>Pan Horror </i></b>anthologies were ever allowed to make it into the public realm. But people of today need to understand that British society really was very different back then. In ’70s comedy, what might today be deemed blatant misogyny was then dismissed as saucy banter. Likewise, what in horror might now be decried as obscenity was then belittled as trashy yuk for immature minds but tolerated regardless. <br /><br /></div><div>No doubt, reams of sociological discourse have been produced on this matter. But for me, it’s a simple case that this was Britain at the end of the industrial age, and it was a messy time. Unemployment was booming, there was financial and political chaos, we had strikes, three-day weeks, power cuts, while the very fabric of the country seemed to be decaying around us, particularly in places like my hometown, Wigan, where so many factories, mills and mines were just standing derelict, canals were bogging up and railways lying overgrown and disused. <br /><br />But it wasn’t just the working class who were affected, it was the country at large. <br /><br />Pride in our Word War Two effort was fading, especially as so many things in the present seemed to be going wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rpCe3mnureF3-vE174mZ9Vu9kbxs5a3DIOnwtFqkv3y-T9b10AOGUDs-NwSy-obeq-zB06FXlx3ap-VQY5UPsEG4OviyZt9P2z2O5GDi10FkdHmtx57z9mx4L5PXX69O6K1wAA7_PYG5634PzhdTjkbfX6EB0ZUEaEbXSfmSvPJZkOqzZ4ZarKtKI2w/s320/ripper%20news%20pic.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="320" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8rpCe3mnureF3-vE174mZ9Vu9kbxs5a3DIOnwtFqkv3y-T9b10AOGUDs-NwSy-obeq-zB06FXlx3ap-VQY5UPsEG4OviyZt9P2z2O5GDi10FkdHmtx57z9mx4L5PXX69O6K1wAA7_PYG5634PzhdTjkbfX6EB0ZUEaEbXSfmSvPJZkOqzZ4ZarKtKI2w/s1600/ripper%20news%20pic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>We had much higher crime rates than we had been used to: serial killers suddenly seemed to be everywhere, while sex offences in general had increased drastically, and by then you could add terrorism to the mix (which was a threat to literally everyone; for a short time in the early/mid ’70s, you gave wide berth to waste-bins and even pillar boxes in case the IRA had planted bombs in them). <br /><br />It’s a simple case that Postwar Britain was a tired. grimy place, and yet it clung to the façade of respectability. Hipness was still regarded with suspicion. Most middle-aged people dressed as their parents and grandparents had done. Effing and blinding in public was taboo. An open homosexual lifestyle was illegal, and while we had rigid laws against hardcore porn (for which reason the backstreet sex shop trade flourished), those who worked with children or other vulnerable groups were appointed without even being vetted because the default assumption was that, to do that work, they simply MUST be nice and trustworthy. <br /><br />And this, I think, is where the <b><i>Pan Book of Horror Stories</i></b> earned its place in history, because it really did – either by accident or design – capture the essence of a superficially polite society in which some truly vile things were going on behind neatly drawn chintz curtains. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJLah1J4LFyumxwGEUpWX8N3_ExbUYp6DB-nMkz1qhXhTvHOGoaUhPgpyV6r3Gcfv6WnRofHQ_Ox6fS9puA-9iFOcwGeQkJrFeowUaZlHpAMN_rZ0l3vojU4aRpxa138hceC61kyjnsVNpyZPKus-fPS6e0SrBkvbWqI8BKoC0cDRhipGS8Rik6FwJdY/s1000/pan%209.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="612" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJLah1J4LFyumxwGEUpWX8N3_ExbUYp6DB-nMkz1qhXhTvHOGoaUhPgpyV6r3Gcfv6WnRofHQ_Ox6fS9puA-9iFOcwGeQkJrFeowUaZlHpAMN_rZ0l3vojU4aRpxa138hceC61kyjnsVNpyZPKus-fPS6e0SrBkvbWqI8BKoC0cDRhipGS8Rik6FwJdY/w245-h400/pan%209.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>For example, in Vol 9 (1968), in Raymond Smith’s <i><b>Smile Please</b></i>, a high-class stripper is contracted to perform a private show for a bunch of rich guys. Superficially, they want her to play Eve in the Garden of Eden; it’s all a bit silly but basically pretty innocent, until she ends up dying in the coils of a deadly snake while dressed only in fig leaves, her clients gleefully filming it. In Vol 12 (1971), Robert Ashley’s <i><b>Pieces of Mary</b></i> sees a nervous mother despatch her daughter to play with the quiet and studious boys next door, unaware of their fascination with human anatomy, and in Vol 14 (1973), R. Chetwynd-Hayes gets in on the act with <i><b>It Came to Dinner</b></i>, in which a homeless man is taken in by a well-off family, unaware that he’s to be the main course in a cannibal feast. <br /><br />The seeds of my own crime thrillers were definitely sown around that time, though I suspect I didn’t realise it then. This applies particularly to my <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07992RCXC?binding=paperback&qid=1693861250&sr=1-1&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_tpbk"><b>HECK</b></a> books, which follow cases of the Serial Crimes Unit, a bunch of specialised detectives attached to the National Crime Group, charged with investigating spree murders, torture murders, rape murders, killings perpetrated by cults or the creators of snuff movies or red rooms, and all those other sorts of other heinous individuals we like to imagine are purely fictional but actually aren’t, and yet so many of whom are concealed among the rank and file of ordinary respectable society. <br /><br />That latter was a particular theme in my crime novels: namely, that there are all kinds of deviants and psychopaths out there, despite appearances. Warped individuals who manage to keep a lid on their true selves during daytime hours, but once darkness falls give full vent to their very worst desires. <br /><br />I saw much of this during my police career. Trust me, the most dangerous lunatics don’t look the part; mass murderers don’t wander the streets advertising their services. <br /><br />However, I don’t want the tone of this post to get too grim. The <b><i>Pan Book of Horror Stories </i></b>was not exclusively an exercise in imaginative grue. Even the great anthologist, Mike Ashley, who was highly critical of the gore count in the series, admitted that most volumes contained some high-quality horror as well. So many writers I know who’ve made their career in dark fiction, or have even just dabbled in it, were avid readers of these books in their early days, which surely indicates there were many good and influential stories in there. <br /><br />For example, <i><b>Unburied Bane</b></i> by N Dennett (or it could have been the prolific Eleanor Scott, working under a pseudonym) which appeared in Vol 3, was a traditional and terrifying story, in which a holidaying couple guest in a decrepit rural cottage, where one of those infamous ‘screaming skulls’ resides in the care of the semi-deranged and possible practising witch, Ann Skegg. In the same volume, we had Neville Kilvington’s <i><b>Meshes of Doom</b></i>, which sees a member of the Royal Botanical Society bury his murdered wife in the conservatory, only for a recently acquired exotic plant already resident there to start demonstrating amazing growth spurts and unnatural appetites. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXgpjiLhOcxsGpE9ADnj9MS2UH4yNuSfwOlg7GXAzBoq_PC0S2U_QSF0gh3p1NdyDOTb8pI_nSiJDcGjiQJ7HhEAeTjOgwQUh9lqFmg9z3kcLbUX1Im6nXs0UYHU2mdvqJ6z6u2k_HmUYh3hXT7ViUZPxSatMKlFRoKyG4lWCdQXdlxtSXupVkeQxqOw/s428/creeps%20horror%201.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimXgpjiLhOcxsGpE9ADnj9MS2UH4yNuSfwOlg7GXAzBoq_PC0S2U_QSF0gh3p1NdyDOTb8pI_nSiJDcGjiQJ7HhEAeTjOgwQUh9lqFmg9z3kcLbUX1Im6nXs0UYHU2mdvqJ6z6u2k_HmUYh3hXT7ViUZPxSatMKlFRoKyG4lWCdQXdlxtSXupVkeQxqOw/w280-h400/creeps%20horror%201.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>Anyone who knows their stuff will be well aware of these two tales. They weren’t original to the <i><b>Pan Book of Horror Stories</b></i>, both having originated in the <i><b>Creeps</b></i> anthology series of the 1930s. But seeing that they’re among the best supernatural horror stories ever written, they were worthy inclusions, Herbert van Thal having resurrected them from a distant past and brought them to a completely new audience. That was an inspiration in itself if you were a youngster around then who was toying with the idea of writing a few spooky stories of your own. <br /><br />There were original classics in there too. Eddy C Bertin’s <b><i>The Whispering Horror</i></b>, which first appeared in Vol 9, presented us with a conventional but wonderfully horrific vampire story, while David Case’s <i><b>The Hunter</b></i>, in Vol 12, unleashed big game hunters onto Dartmoor in pursuit of a murderous assailant who might well be a werewolf. <br /><br />No, the <i><b>Pan Book of Horror Stories</b></i> was not just about the <i>conte cruel</i>. Though, as I’ve already said, those ultra grim tales of dastardly doings behind closed doors were an inspiration in their own right – an odd one, I’ll admit – but so was the high-quality writing of those many other less offensive but probably more frightening horrors the series also offered. <br /><br />Therefore, all hail the <i><b>Pan Book of Horror</b></i>. Always controversial, often disturbing, but never less than entertaining, and an incalculable inspiration to generations of horror and thriller writers growing up in that era, myself included. <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4giI1TvLvv7ig6ZX0HalidLwUllEjyirULmqiOFJ6s2PgKbujjRG36C_6cLf5vipMaqp2yibzmoGkyVh-geEp-JNF-dgJdZbEiVcmdEjFdWkP36vYIDOhjWSB1nlCuZE2uML1o5hUKOAXJ7W5_O7rSeE4rHcDXyUgeU4kOf6kBD9Oou5oo3Xd6FgN0_w/s572/nightmare%20abbey.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4giI1TvLvv7ig6ZX0HalidLwUllEjyirULmqiOFJ6s2PgKbujjRG36C_6cLf5vipMaqp2yibzmoGkyVh-geEp-JNF-dgJdZbEiVcmdEjFdWkP36vYIDOhjWSB1nlCuZE2uML1o5hUKOAXJ7W5_O7rSeE4rHcDXyUgeU4kOf6kBD9Oou5oo3Xd6FgN0_w/w280-h400/nightmare%20abbey.jpg" width="280" /></a></div></b><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Nightmare-Abbey-2-Steve-Duffy/dp/B0BN5Z9QGY">NIGHTMARE ABBEY: WINTER SOLSTICE 2022</a></b> </div><div><b><i>edited by Tom English<br /></i></b><br />In a recent interview, <b><i>Nightmare Abbey</i></b> editor, Tom English (of <i><b>Black Infinity</b></i> fame), explained how the inspiration behind his new horror magazine lay in the kinds of ‘dime store’ horror mags he loved to read in his youth, or at least would have loved to read had he found sufficient of them on the newsagent racks of the 1970s. By this, I gauge that Tom meant he was looking for some kind of reading material that covered the whole scope of horror, not just fiction but non-fiction too. He was seeking a periodical, if you like, an intelligent epistle carrying a range of well-informed articles as well as a bunch of spooky stories – and in that, he appears to have succeeded, because at just one glance, there is definitely something of the golden age about this relatively new kid on the block. <br /><br />As you may have realised, <i><b>Nightmare Abbey</b></i>, from Dead Letter Press, is still in its infancy – only three volumes have come out to date, with Volume 4 due to drop around Halloween – though I only really became aware of it when Volume 2, or the Winter Solstice edition for 2022, hit the shelves. But it took me by surprise straight away. It calls itself a magazine, but it’s a hefty, chunky brute, running to 146 pages, and as it promises on the cover, it is packed with fascinating features relating to the genre we all love so much. <br /><br />It also contains a wealth of fiction, both original stories and a few reprinted classics (in all cases, with detailed information attached concerning the author and so on). But, personally speaking, I found the non-fictional items most eye-catching given how rarely you get this sort of thing. <br /><br />For example, and most interestingly of all for me, was film historian Gary Gerani’s scholarly essay on <i><b>Thriller</b></i>, the early 1960s horror anthology series from NBC, as presented by Boris Karloff, which gave early breaks to such wannabe actors at the time as William Shatner, Elizabeth Montgomery, Mary Tyler Moore, John Carradine and Bruce Dern. <br /><br />In fictional terms, as always with anthology material, it’s something of a mixed bag, but that’s inevitable given how subjective literature can be. What I will say is that, from the outset, all of these tales are tightly and effectively penned, Tom English clearly exerting strong quality control from his editor’s chair, and nearly all of them exquisitely illustrated by fantasy artist extraordinaire, Allen Koszowski. For the most part, the tales are supernatural thrillers rather than <i>conte cruels</i>, though there’s a certain level of nastiness baked in to every one. We’re talking a ‘horror’ mag here, not a collection of ghost stories. <br /><br />The contributions that most caught my eye were as follows: <br /><br />First up, <i><b>It</b></i> by Theodore Sturgeon, in which the bones of a dead man are reclaimed by the earth and transformed into a shambling ‘mud doll’ horror, which goes on to terrorise a small rural community. It’s a much-anthologised classic, dating back to 1940, which served as a chilling prototype for later comic-book characters like the Heap, Solomon Grundy and Swamp Thing. <br /><br />Then, in David Surface’s <i><b>These Things That Walk Behind Me</b></i>, we meet a mental patient, who, thanks to having suffered a severe nervous breakdown, is now incarcerated in a psyche ward, where he slowly starts to glimpse the terrible but invisible things that are driving humanity mad. A definite thought-provoker, this one, and far from comfortable reading. <br /><br />Meanwhile, in two exceptionally well-written but tonally very different stories, James Dorr’s <i><b>The Calm</b></i> takes us back to 1755, where a combined colonial force of Brits and Americans makes a military expedition to an isolated settlement, wherein a native legend tells of the ‘wind that presages death’, while Gary Fry’s much more mundane in setting, but no less eerie <i><b>Voices of the Dark</b></i> introduces us to a formerly successful comedian, now battling the booze, who attempts his comeback on stage in a drab seaside town, only to find the old flat where he’s staying deep in grim secrets. <br /><br />Another blast from the glorious past comes in the shape of Edward Lucas White’s <i><b>House of the Nightmare</b></i>, which, though it dates back to 1906, must surely remain in the running for ‘scariest haunted house story ever written’. It concerns a motorist who, when he finds himself stranded at a lonely and abandoned mansion, has no choice but to stay overnight and is soon beset by a series of increasingly more terrifying nightmares. <br /><br />In <i><b>That Which Overcomes</b></i>, the always reliable John Llewellyn Probert sticks his own welcome oar into the mix, sending a pair of middle-aged doctors down into a mysterious underground labyrinth, which one of them is convinced claimed the life of his father. Apparently, the maze of unlit tunnels comes and goes, but whatever lurks down there is constant. JLP has ventured more and more into the supernatural as he himself has grown older, but you can always guarantee that he’ll have truly something horrible in store. <br /><br />In three other strong and particularly mysterious entries, we have <i><b>Dead Hands Clapping</b></i> by Matt Cowan, in which the son of a former film star who died in a theatre explosion acquires an old sound tape supposedly containing a recording of the fatal incident, only to discover that it’s a past that shouldn’t be delved into, <i><b>The Wynd</b></i> by Helen Grant, in which a thief takes a narrow passage to an ornate church, intending to burgle it, but finds the entire district weirdly deserted, while the church itself seems … odd (to say the least), and Geoffrey L Norris’s <i><b>Tableau for Two</b></i>, in which a duo of brothers are called to clear out their deceased mother’s apartment, but uncover artefacts that remind them of the worst Halloween night of their lives. <br /><br />Perhaps the strongest contribution in the whole volume comes, unsurprisingly to me, from Steve Duffy, whose <i><b>La Nina Atardecer </b></i>sees an American drug dealer crossing the Mexican desert to a vital meeting, and en route picking up a beautiful hitchhiker, whom he soon learns – the hard way – is much more than she appears. I don’t want to say too much more about this one, but put it this way, it’s nail-chewingly frightening and could easily be the premise behind a full-length horror movie. <br /><br />So, there we go. That was my first dip into <b><i>Nightmare Abbey</i></b>, and it was a couple of hours very well spent. I hope it runs for years because it gets my highest recommendation. It seems to be setting itself up as a one-stop-shop for all things horror – both fictional and factual – which in itself is one of the most worthwhile endeavours I’ve seen for quite some time. <br /><br />Grab a copy whenever you can. You won’t regret it.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>(Efforts have been made to identify and credit all the creators of the imagery used in today's post, without success. If anyone recognises a piece of their own work, just drop me a line, and I will either provide the necessary info, or if it is required, delete the image entirely).</i></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-85582731829035210782023-08-03T04:05:00.001-07:002023-08-03T04:45:37.501-07:00Order 'Terror Tales of the Mediterranean'<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gHlSK77E3gM1beg-mQnbzuuBbYYgxFKKcMODxhd-Sgy24ZwHobdkKQdUOHoNaG9HGg87e0UxKaE2Wfl88SUSL9ZdCsBcMIL3A_64wrIQNCBmil44UJtXviam6N2tZE00R_7m5Uu0POKuyYGiY5Tpqg3_cOF2PW0O1-jF0sNPJM2YLfr4JqYIG4m-kBc/s798/TTs%20of%20the%20Med%20final%20cover%20cut.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="516" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gHlSK77E3gM1beg-mQnbzuuBbYYgxFKKcMODxhd-Sgy24ZwHobdkKQdUOHoNaG9HGg87e0UxKaE2Wfl88SUSL9ZdCsBcMIL3A_64wrIQNCBmil44UJtXviam6N2tZE00R_7m5Uu0POKuyYGiY5Tpqg3_cOF2PW0O1-jF0sNPJM2YLfr4JqYIG4m-kBc/w259-h400/TTs%20of%20the%20Med%20final%20cover%20cut.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>Today, I’m delighted to present you with details of this year’s volume in my folk horror-themed anthology series, <a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html">TERROR TALES</a>. In 2023, as you can see, it will be <a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</a>, which, as of today, is available for pre-order right <a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">HERE</a>. <br /><br />This is always one of my favourite parts of the anthology-creation process, hitting you with Neil Williams’ amazing artwork and listing the stories, both fiction and non-fiction, that you’ll find inside, and of course, teasing you with a few brief snippets from some of the incredible tales that will be gracing the new book’s pages. <br /><br />I’ve made no secret that this year, for the first time ever, we’d be venturing into countries outside the United Kingdom, a potential sign of things to come. But more about that later, along with lots more concerning the contents of this year’s volume. <br /><br />When it comes to this week</b><b>’s book review, a</b><b>las, I’m unable to maintain synchronicity, as I haven’t got a Mediterranean-themed novel to hit you with. But, seeing that the <a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html">TERROR TALES</a> books primarily contain new horror stories of British origin, it’s probably (vaguely) thematic to pull in a British author who was very famous in his day for writing short, sharp shockers: Bernard Taylor. As such, I’ll also be offering a detailed review of Taylor</b><b>’s</b><b> recently republished 1980 horror novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Reaping-Paperbacks-Hell-Bernard-Taylor/dp/1948405342/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1690990919&sr=1-1">THE REAPING</a>. <br /><br />As usual, if you’re only here for the Taylor review, feel free to scurry on down to the bottom of his column, where you’ll find it in the Thrillers, Chillers section.</b><div><b><br /></b></div><div>And now, today’s main event …<b><br /></b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqrR4r6-2BhzO1W6V_o9ESy6hGzL7dBGmYwf_9vTQJRmubnBfTNTSulEIfC25Y8lDiFK3oyUumKtXJZNAIaT500vz4o6iDYu-GUQLG1UXMLCD5vxVTF4KCCuHuwr8j4_g8SMankwuSUgZf0zdlk2-B4v_6JmpCdnRNTmvDSR9sWSHFtajZXrw9qIho8oQ/s1115/TTs%20of%20the%20Med%20final%20cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1115" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqrR4r6-2BhzO1W6V_o9ESy6hGzL7dBGmYwf_9vTQJRmubnBfTNTSulEIfC25Y8lDiFK3oyUumKtXJZNAIaT500vz4o6iDYu-GUQLG1UXMLCD5vxVTF4KCCuHuwr8j4_g8SMankwuSUgZf0zdlk2-B4v_6JmpCdnRNTmvDSR9sWSHFtajZXrw9qIho8oQ/w400-h286/TTs%20of%20the%20Med%20final%20cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I reiterate that <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</a></b> can now be preordered <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">HERE</a></b>. It will only be published in the autumn, but if you want to reserve your copy for the very first day of its actual existence, why waste time? <br /><br />If that doesn’t persuade you, here, for your delectation, is the back-cover blurb, followed by the full Table of Contents:<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</a> </b></div><b><br />The Mediterranean. Sun-bleached ruins, azure seas, foaming wine. But history’s cruellest tyrants reigned here, delighting in blood and torture. Myths tell of snake-haired harridans and one-eyed giants, of humans cooked on spits, of curses, scourges, and devious deities who played with men’s souls like pawns in chess … </b><br /><br />The poison apples of <b>Aegle </b><br />The human sacrifice on <b>Crete </b><br />The beautiful predator of <b>Palermo </b><br />The damned souls on <b>Poveglia </b><br />The evil artefact at <b>Koyuluk </b><br />The blood-drinking baron of <b>Emporda </b><br />The demon attack in <b>Vatican City </b><br /><br />Includes terrifying tales by <b>Jasper Bark</b>, <b>Simon Clark</b>, <b>Steve Duffy</b>,<b> Paul Finch</b>, <b>Sean Hogan</b>, <b>Carly Holmes</b>, <b>David J Howe</b>, <b>Maxim Jakubowski</b>, <b>Gary McMahon</b>, <b>Mark Morris</b>, <b>Reggie Oliver</b>, <b>Peter Shilston</b>, <b>Don Tumasonis</b> and <b>Aliya Whiteley</b>. <br /><br /><br /><b>TABLE OF CONTENTS <br /></b><br /><b>The Catacomb by Peter Shilston </b><br />Duo of Darkness <br /><b>On Our Way to the Shore by Maxim Jakubowski </b><br />Belmez <br /><b>Meet in the Middle by Aliya Whiteley </b><br />Island of the Damned <br /><b>The Lovers by Steve Duffy </b><br />When Madmen Ruled the Earth <br /><b>The Wretched Thicket of Thorn by Don Tumasonis </b><br />The Blue Room <br /><b>This Haunted Heaven by Reggie Oliver </b><br />Born of Blood and Mystery <br /><b>The Quiet Woman by Sean Hogan </b><br />Holy Terrors <br /><b>The Teeth of the Hesperides by Jasper Bark </b><br />Cyclops <br /><b>Reign of Hell by Paul Finch </b><br />In Human Guise <br /><b>Mistral by Mark Morris </b><br />Ghosts of Malta <br /><b>Mammone by Carly Holmes </b><br />Extinctor Draconis <br /><b>Vromolimni by David J Howe </b><br />The Other Devils <br /><b>Gerassimos Flamotas: A Day in the Life by Simon Clark </b><br />Lord of the Undead <br /><b>Should Not Be by Gary McMahon </b><br /><br />And while we’re at it, why don’t I try and tempt you with some juicy snippets: <br /><br /><i>There was a girl-child whose clothing looked at least two hundred years old, but who from her skin and hair might just have fallen asleep; but beyond her a man in priestly robes had lost his nose and his cheeks, and his eyes had decayed to blank milky globules; and further on the soldier in the chased steel breastplate, who was perhaps a mercenary from the Renaissance period, had lost his flesh entirely, and now grinned mindlessly with a naked skull … <br /></i><div style="text-align: right;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>Peter Shilston – The Catacomb</b></i></div><i><br />The shirt ripped and the boy’s knees gave out, he crumpled, and the man still did not stop. He hunched over, arranged the boy, stretching out his arms and legs, then reached into the boy’s stomach. His hand was in the boy’s stomach, material was pulled out, something wet, it separated into strands. The man put the strands into his mouth and chewed, he put more into his mouth, he kept chewing … <br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: right;"><i>A<b>liya Whiteley – Meet in the Middle</b></i></div><i><br />The water bulged. Something vast was coming up from deep below, and the sound was that of a wellington boot being slowly lifted from a pool of thick, gelatinous mud. The lake sloshed around the edges as the thing heaved itself out, and when it fell back, the water level dropped by at least a foot. Sally took a step back, her eyes not quite comprehending what was in front of her. It was dark and seemed to suck the light into it. The redness from the lowering sun cast shadows over the creature, and it glistened as the water fell from it in sheets … <br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>David J Howe – Vromolimni</b></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Why the Mediterranean?</b></div><br />I’ve already been asked that a couple of times, even though I haven’t talked a great deal about this anthology yet. It’s a very good question. After all, there are several locations in the British Isles that we haven’t yet visited, the South Coast being one, the Midlands, the Northeast, etc. Why are we suddenly venturing so much farther afield? <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwUSDeGkuFAOg0z2XK46osZdyT4CsMoxoesah_8tNP0Q8r--FkIdqRCPyW7Y_rLbplodAGRL8iY1Qo2_LGZr-oVMC0nyMOjuw5c_0QzF9sPiAvBkC9t2pCSoV7f2JtvwBCwQFpqk4AFre2xPXn5Fng0FbAyw8vwqKij5VEoeIlYNSHOzxfdLVofRSwHo/s600/euro%20terror.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="353" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEwUSDeGkuFAOg0z2XK46osZdyT4CsMoxoesah_8tNP0Q8r--FkIdqRCPyW7Y_rLbplodAGRL8iY1Qo2_LGZr-oVMC0nyMOjuw5c_0QzF9sPiAvBkC9t2pCSoV7f2JtvwBCwQFpqk4AFre2xPXn5Fng0FbAyw8vwqKij5VEoeIlYNSHOzxfdLVofRSwHo/w235-h400/euro%20terror.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>Well, I’ve never made any pretence that <b><a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html">TERROR TALES</a></b> was first inspired by the Mary Danby-helmed <b><i>Tales of Terror </i></b>series, most frequently edited by R. Chetwynd-Hayes, which came out from Fontana Books in the 1970s. They followed a similar format to ours, but tended to cover broader regions than we do. However, they didn’t stop at the shores of Great Britain. <b><i>Tales of Terror from Outer Space</i></b> was a very popular title of theirs, along with <b><i>European Tales of Terror</i></b> and <b><i>Oriental Tales of Terror</i></b>. <br /><br />Now, I’m not following that series religiously. I’m not here to ape everything that Mary and Ron did, great ambassadors for British horror though they were, but if the <b><a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html">TERROR TALES</a></b> series is to have real longevity, it can’t just pour out spooky tales gleaned from a single country. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlRL-Z4oqoFDNfHCcNLaJjzZqdAKUkDuAiESI9ZhHISSefw7soHmKOF2QWZYwq68SbrqvXSyp2lwHPo57CSULvyp0Sk_YBrLyjzFmthnFKcGfdAQB0GMGWXKdAauLWWbnNwONsH1Qxr0o92FC3acgv8wCcUbO_JYkeo7S4Q5quENV_ZDYxq0ERbXDzy8/s868/TTs%20of%20the%20Ocean.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="868" data-original-width="571" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNlRL-Z4oqoFDNfHCcNLaJjzZqdAKUkDuAiESI9ZhHISSefw7soHmKOF2QWZYwq68SbrqvXSyp2lwHPo57CSULvyp0Sk_YBrLyjzFmthnFKcGfdAQB0GMGWXKdAauLWWbnNwONsH1Qxr0o92FC3acgv8wCcUbO_JYkeo7S4Q5quENV_ZDYxq0ERbXDzy8/w264-h400/TTs%20of%20the%20Ocean.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>We’ve already branched out a little. <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-Seaside-Stephen-Volk/dp/1906331375/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3OYMGLWVXPGU1&keywords=TERROR+TALES+OF+THE+SEASIDE&qid=1690991312&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+seaside%2Cstripbooks%2C65&sr=1-1"><b>TERROR TALES OF THE SEASIDE</b></a> (2013), for example. Okay, it solely featured folklore and fiction from the British coastline, but it was all corners of the country, from Scotland to Kent, while <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/TERROR-TALES-OCEAN-Paul-Finch/dp/1906331987/ref=pd_bxgy_img_sccl_1/258-9171887-1046411?pd_rd_w=1Upmp&content-id=amzn1.sym.40f919ed-e530-4b1a-8d7e-39de6587208d&pf_rd_p=40f919ed-e530-4b1a-8d7e-39de6587208d&pf_rd_r=WJDQS0ZV2EQ4W9Y7RET6&pd_rd_wg=f3NB1&pd_rd_r=1f9eb4a2-e54c-4f5b-8601-abb255775c34&pd_rd_i=1906331987&psc=1"><b>TERROR TALES OF THE OCEAN</b></a> (2015), which won considerable praise, ranged widely across the Seven Seas. <br /><br />But the truth is that, though I’m very keen to complete our own <b><a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html">TERROR TALES</a></b> tour of the United Kingdom, and will be doing exactly that, I’m now looking more and more overseas, taking regular deep dives into the mythic and folkloric culture of lands far away. <br /><br />Of course, we can’t do every country on Earth. There are various reasons for this, not least that I only have time to edit one of these books per year, and so that would be an impossible target. But we can do regions, and <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</a></b> will be the first. <br /><br />What may follow from that in the future is anyone’s guess, though I’m pretty sure I’ve stated in an earlier blogpost that some corners of the world, while they are rich in tales of mystery and magic, and are planted thick with homegrown authors, would be difficult territory for me to venture into. <b>TERROR TALES OF THE CARIBBEAN</b>, for example, would be a perfect fit for this series. What greater source for this kind of material could there be than the land of hoodoo. But the Caribbean has a wealthy literary tradition of its own and boasts numberless talented writers, many of whom are unknown to me. The same would apply, sadly to <b>Central</b> and <b>South America</b>, to those various regions of the <b>United States</b>, to the <b>Far East</b>, even to <b>Ireland</b>. All those titles would be well worth including in this series, but our readers would be much better served by editors homegrown in those lands, who wouldn’t miss a trick in pulling the absolute best scare fare they could from their native soil. <br /><br />This applies less to regions like the <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">MEDITERRANEAN</a></b>, which so many of us are already very familiar with. So, while <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</a></b> is an exciting new venture, and there are others in a similar vein that we can do in the future, it’s not possible yet to put together a full list of prospects. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyzlZZ_ulM11LjsVjDlUEHCj-yjKXGtqrR3f3g7dcA4Ss5SJ8Fz_wD9r4_OHhCmjDWQvmPSooYh_a8bpdniluxC20D29JBf8JLqGlktF3c3Sll9bEVn1lXjjotwnOcIyTRoJAadh3Dhk7OST8FmntIs4eMm45NhWD4kZg19wzhzxpn1VG35a8aH4w-7Q/s1080/hydra%202.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="869" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiyzlZZ_ulM11LjsVjDlUEHCj-yjKXGtqrR3f3g7dcA4Ss5SJ8Fz_wD9r4_OHhCmjDWQvmPSooYh_a8bpdniluxC20D29JBf8JLqGlktF3c3Sll9bEVn1lXjjotwnOcIyTRoJAadh3Dhk7OST8FmntIs4eMm45NhWD4kZg19wzhzxpn1VG35a8aH4w-7Q/w257-h320/hydra%202.png" width="257" /></a></div>But never fear; there are lots – and I mean <i>lots</i> – of other subjects we can tackle: <b>TEROR TALES OF MONSTERS</b> … of the <b>SUPERNATURAL</b> … the <b>OCCULT</b> … the mind truly boggles. <br /><br />Just keep watching this space. Who knows what we’ll hit you with next. </div><div><br /></div><div>But for the meantime, one final reminder that <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</a></b>, which on its own will throw you in the path of numerous horrific entities, both real and imaginary, is out in the autumn, and ready to pre-order. Get it <b><a href="https://telos.co.uk/?post_type=product&p=14351&preview=true">HERE</a></b>. <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /></b><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Reaping-Paperbacks-Hell-Bernard-Taylor/dp/1948405342/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1690990919&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Reaping-Paperbacks-Hell-Bernard-Taylor/dp/1948405342/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1690990919&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicK9X_WbFgGqyH6wGfc_s7UCZpNX5A7UuN_HsGiXIyqRCBoJaHASwlGUNK4yUXNse7F9jGhALRLp3fg2_fXZkOwTzqdWRSjsfNMwKYIT_aopIBPHQSQxxLWe5fP-Rq4ej7Qe7V92XWspp9GakJyCSFr_1AZVUfPuhYeAuAGE7tkXQkraNwWlyqRJEVnk/s475/reaping.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="307" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicK9X_WbFgGqyH6wGfc_s7UCZpNX5A7UuN_HsGiXIyqRCBoJaHASwlGUNK4yUXNse7F9jGhALRLp3fg2_fXZkOwTzqdWRSjsfNMwKYIT_aopIBPHQSQxxLWe5fP-Rq4ej7Qe7V92XWspp9GakJyCSFr_1AZVUfPuhYeAuAGE7tkXQkraNwWlyqRJEVnk/w259-h400/reaping.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Reaping-Paperbacks-Hell-Bernard-Taylor/dp/1948405342/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1691052172&sr=1-5">THE REAPING</a></b><b> </b><div><b><i>by Bernard Taylor (1980) </i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Family man, shopkeeper and wannabe artist, Tom Rigby, is your archetypal suburbanite. He’s suffered grievous losses in the past, his wife and several children having died in a terrible accident, but he is positive about life, he works hard and does what he can, mainly with the assistance of his caring older sister, Em, to look after his remaining brood, in particular his youngest son, Simion, with whom he is very close. <br /><br />While, by his own admission, he is not exactly handsome, Rigby has a certain ‘everyman’ charm, which has attracted a new girlfriend, Ilona. She is younger than he is by several years and has a well-paid job as a makeup artist in the film industry. The downside of this is that Ilona is frequently away on location, meaning that she and her beau spend long periods apart, able only to communicate by letter. To cope with this, Rigby throws himself into his painting, which is not of such quality that it’s likely to make him a fortune, though at least it keeps him happy. <br /><br />Then something happens that has the potential to change everything. After a local art exhibition in which his recent canvasses play a prominent role, Rigby is approached by a Mrs Weldon, a pleasant, efficient woman, who explains that she is housekeeper for a Miss Stewart, an elderly spinster who occupies a large country house down in Somerset, and who would like to hire an artist to paint a portrait of her niece, Catherine. Significant money is offered, but at first Rigby resists because he is planning to go on holiday with Ilona. Then, at the last minute, when Ilona has to cancel, work again getting in the way of their relationship, Rigby accepts the commission. <br /><br />When he arrives at Woolvercombe House, where he expects to be spending the next few weeks, it isn’t an especially shabby place, but it isn’t modern, and there is an air of remoteness. Only a handful of staff keep things running: Miss Weldon herself, who retains an aura of firm control, a burly Cockney handyman, Hathaway, and a German-accented manservant and chauffeur called Karl, whose manner Rigby finds deferential but also strangely mocking. There is also Dr Macintosh, a Scottish-born medical practitioner, whose regular presence at the house is never really explained. <br /><br />When he is introduced to Miss Stewart herself, who otherwise he is told he will rarely meet, she is extremely aged, a hunched, veiled and odorous figure, who occupies a shadow-filled garret in the upper echelons of the house. While Rigby doesn’t take an instant dislike to her, he doesn’t find her a warm presence. She is particularly dismissive of the job she has hired him to do, and speaks disparagingly of her niece, leaving him mystified about why he is being paid so much money. <br /><br />More mysteries follow. When Rigby spies women in monastic robes and cowls walking in the manor house gardens, he is advised that they are novice nuns, who, by some agreement made in the distant past, are lodged at Woolvercombe in the days prior to their travelling out to the missions, though he likely won’t meet them. They never, for example, come into the main part of the building, not even to eat, as they have their own quarters and refectory, and are here basically to spend their time in contemplation. So, if the guest would oblige everyone by treating the nuns’ small corner of the property as private, all will be well. <br /><br />Rigby has no intention of getting to know the nuns. As far as he’s concerned, he is here to do a job, one that he hopes will only last a couple of weeks, and when it’s done, he’ll take the money and cheerfully head back to Ilona. But Mrs Weldon, for one, appears surprised that he expects his time here to be short, and encourages him to take as long as he needs. Rigby still intends to get this over and done with, but then he meets Catherine, the niece, an ethereal beauty in her late twenties, who is quietly spoken and makes for enchanting company. <br /><br />She sits for Rigby often, though not as often as he’d like. Several times, things happen – either she is unwell or has had a minor accident – to prevent her attending his studio, which threatens to extend his stay. At the same time, the manor’s other curiosities pile up. <br /><br />One night Rigby hears female screaming somewhere on the property, which Mrs Weldon dismisses as unimportant. On another occasion, while walking in the grounds, he accidentally comes close to several of the young nuns and is astonished to hear most irreverent language. He also detects, in a very overgrown section of the estate, a mysterious stone tower, which stands to considerable height. Whether it’s a folly, or something of functional significance he can’t say, though it’s an extravagant item. On yet another occasion, probably more disturbingly than anything he has dealt with up to now, he must rebuff an unexpected homosexual advance from Karl. <br /><br />However, things take a turn for the <i>really</i> strange, when, later that same night, he hears Catherine out on the darkened landing being menaced by Hathaway. On offering her sanctuary in his room, he is shocked to learn that the apelike handyman has been a continual threat to her all the time she’s been here. When he advises her to complain either to her aunt or Mrs Weldon, she explains that Hathaway has been employed at Woolvercombe a long time and so nothing will happen. In fact, she regards Rigby’s room as the only possible place of refuge, and as such, the inevitable happens. She falls into his arms and they become lovers. <br /><br />Despite this pleasant interlude, Rigby still wants to leave Woolvercombe as soon as possible to resume his own life (suffering no inconvenient guilt about having several times bedded the innocent Catherine!), but his departure is repeatedly hampered. <br /><br />First of all, there are the endless delays with the painting. Then, when it is almost complete, his car breaks down for no obvious reason, Hathaway explaining that he’ll need to send away for a new part. After that, as if the breakdown isn’t enough, Karl loses the car keys. <br /><br />Rigby is furious, especially as there is so little he can do. Increasingly, it feels as though he isn’t going to be allowed to leave Woolvercombe House … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />Back in the 1970s and 1980s, Bernard Taylor earned himself a reputation as one of the quiet men of pulp fiction, a professional author of high talent who could turn his hand to almost anything – and indeed he did, his output ranging from horror to murder mystery to romance. <br /><br />These days, it is probably his horror range that is best remembered. Even there though, Taylor was something of an enigma, specialising in creating contemporary tales that proceeded at their own pace, were subtle rather than gory, but were so intriguing that they’d draw you in anyway, often only hitting you with the horror element late in the day (and usually, they were all the more effective for that). <br /><br />A master of the slow-burn then, Taylor became a household name among the horror aficionados of his era, though it’s probably true to say that, in terms of sales, he never really rose to the topmost rank. And if he ever did, he didn’t stay there for long, inevitably succumbing, as did so many others, to the downturn of interest in horror from mass-market publishers in the 1990s. <br /><br />If for no other reason than this, it’s great to see this fine author being given a new lease of life by Valancourt Books who, yet again, are here unearthing for us another half-forgotten gem. <br /><br />For all this, <i><b>The Reaping</b></i> is very much a book of its time. We are firmly in occult-related territory, the eerie presence of nuns, an unexplained building deep in overgrown woodland, the matriarchal nature of the Woolvercombe estate, and explicit sex, of which there is quite a bit, all hinting at devilry of the old school. <br /><br />Does it all work? <br /><br />Well, it’s an involving mystery, for sure. As per the author’s normal style, it doesn’t shower us with blood at every turn, or hit us with jump-scares and other fleeting terrors, but the more that is revealed about the increasingly macabre Woolvercombe House, the more we invest in it. <br /><br />As we approach the grand finale, we find ourselves deeply engrossed in the story and very eager to know what kind of ritual nastiness lies at the heart of it. And you can’t ask for much more than that with a thriller. <br /><br />If there’s any weakness with <i><b>The Reaping</b></i>, I think it lies with the main character, Tom Rigby. Yes, he’s an ordinary bloke, who has almost wandered into this tale of terror off the street, but there’s a degree of self-absorbtion that makes him a little unattractive, not to mention a tad unbelievable. A case in point is the moment when he queries the sounds of female distress that he’s heard late at night: evidently something unpleasant is happening, and yet he is very easily fobbed off. In addition, he becomes trapped at Woolvercombe House because he is told that his car has broken down … and because he doesn’t investigate it himself or attempt any repairs off his own bat. <br /><br />These are minor quibbles, of course, but later on it gets a little more serious. When Rigby leaves the property having completed the painting, he is not impeded by anything as bothersome as feelings for Catherine, the vulnerable young woman he has been sleeping with, which feels like a glaring flaw in his character in 21st century eyes. More serious yet, potentially very serious actually, is his failure to contact the police when, quite late in the tale, it is reported that a girl he recognises as having been one of the nuns on the estate – a person he found very distressed at one point – has been discovered dead. <br /><br />In fact, Rigby’s unwillingness to contact the police at any stage in this story did become quite irksome for me, because he isn’t at Woolvercombe long before he uncovers evidence of quite significant law-breaking. Again though, I suspect this owes more to the period in which the book was written rather than any kind of flaw in the narrative. The 1970s was not a decade in which personal responsibility was encouraged. <br /><br />All that aside though, this is a neatly packaged little horror novel, with a very different (albeit in some ways, quite Gothic and traditional) concept at its heart, which, perhaps if the mechanics of it aren’t as fully explained as I would like, still leads us to a grotesque, visceral and very unexpected denouement. It also contains one slam-bang twist in the tail, which I for one never saw coming and which is almost worth the admission price on its own. <br /><br />Check out <i><b>The Reaping</b></i> if you can. It’s a great example of the criminally underrated Bernard Taylor working at the peak of his powers, uninterested in the ‘one death every three or four pages’ thing that seems to be a requirement of much modern horror, hitting us instead with an effective slow-burn mystery-thriller that rises to a spectacularly chilling climax. <br /><br /><i>And now, as always, I shall endeavour to cast this tale in eager (maybe rather hopeful) anticipation of its adaptation for the screen. They wouldn’t come and ask me, obviously, but we can still have a bit of fun with it, can’t we: <br /><br />Tom Rigby – Matthew Macfadyen <br />Catherine – Thomasin McKenzie <br />Ilona – Gemma Arterton <br />Mrs Weldon – Sophie Okonedo <br />Hathaway – Paul Anderson <br />Karl – Reece Shearsmith </i></div><div><i>Dr Macintosh – Ken Stott</i></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-13948420570428076152023-07-17T01:13:00.000-07:002023-07-17T01:13:22.450-07:00Sun, sea, sex ... and horrors that defy myth<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmB0VzVQe_s8toz2m1Q-pA76qu4qFAho-tCXt-1YGTlkEwquXYMmqogIP-MAyXVDMs8_UY_yxgaiTOXBpN9e3gmA_Jlj0ZJ7GkSo-65ft_Nmh_knCNIrN9UjjtdS8-THQMZBgxOZcTWTe0-2GdKjEvdOtCgqz4y50NI9Y9b19simdqOA5KOVrW66eOSUg/s600/greek%20-%20harpy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="600" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmB0VzVQe_s8toz2m1Q-pA76qu4qFAho-tCXt-1YGTlkEwquXYMmqogIP-MAyXVDMs8_UY_yxgaiTOXBpN9e3gmA_Jlj0ZJ7GkSo-65ft_Nmh_knCNIrN9UjjtdS8-THQMZBgxOZcTWTe0-2GdKjEvdOtCgqz4y50NI9Y9b19simdqOA5KOVrW66eOSUg/w400-h224/greek%20-%20harpy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>A bit of a taster blogpost today. A few thoughts in advance of any real announcements concerning TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN, which hopefully will be published by <a href="https://telos.co.uk/">TELOS</a> in the autumn. From my point of view, the book is almost now complete, so in this installment I thought I’d throw out some crumbs to whet your appetites. <br /><br />The TERROR TALES books are for the most part folk horror anthologies, so I thought it would also be appropriate today if I offered a detailed review of a short novel that is often considered to be one of the quintessential forays into folk horror from that first wave of interest in the subgenre at the end of the 1960s: John Gordon’s <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Brink-John-Gordon/dp/1954321813/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1689552761&sr=1-1">THE HOUSE ON THE BRINK</a>. <br /></b><br />If you’re only here for the John Gordon review, that’s absolutely fine. Scroll down to the lower end of today’s blogpost and you’ll find it, as usual, in the Thrillers, Chillers section. Do it straight away. I won’t mind. On the other hand, you might first be interested in, especially as so many of you will likely be going here in the next few weeks … <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0vd4PtMBa11TElrmhbWLzqa9Kbxp9EdWtQtCI8L0Gd2oTO412cDhncQeIbKfI4td3-4EvIsK7t5Cjd_OZB7U7_0MbJyBTq4Leqvtp4_KfF8X2cKT7WhtFeJSuooJeEPzSpIM4OGIZMjTQif_riy4ApZi7tPcJd8pSSHs6FtEt7EQ4aCpoUP3fcHI6ESA/s1200/Llers_-_Castell_de_Llers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="657" data-original-width="1200" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0vd4PtMBa11TElrmhbWLzqa9Kbxp9EdWtQtCI8L0Gd2oTO412cDhncQeIbKfI4td3-4EvIsK7t5Cjd_OZB7U7_0MbJyBTq4Leqvtp4_KfF8X2cKT7WhtFeJSuooJeEPzSpIM4OGIZMjTQif_riy4ApZi7tPcJd8pSSHs6FtEt7EQ4aCpoUP3fcHI6ESA/w320-h175/Llers_-_Castell_de_Llers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Terrors of </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>the Med</b></div></b></div><br />To quickly recap on the <b>TERROR TALES</b> anthology series, it’s mainly focussed to date on the British Isles. So, for example, we’ve had <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-Cotswolds-Steve-Lockley/dp/190633126X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3UK17DFVN0IZ5&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+cotswolds&qid=1689552912&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+cotswolds%2Cstripbooks%2C62&sr=1-1"><b>TERROR TALES OF THE COTSWOLDS</b></a>, the <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-West-Country-Finch-ebook/dp/B0BK24HBNJ/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2XKR0ZLHCJKQ1&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+west+country&qid=1689552964&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+west+country%2Cstripbooks%2C68&sr=1-1"><b>WEST COUNTRY</b></a>, the <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-Scottish-Lowlands-Finch/dp/1845831942/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2GMK9NBP2ZVBI&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+scottish+lowlands&qid=1689552874&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+scottish+lo%2Cstripbooks%2C65&sr=1-1"><b>SCOTTISH LOWLANDS</b></a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-Cornwall-Paul-Finch/dp/1845831217/ref=sr_1_1?crid=A0EF2GAEQ6GW&keywords=terror+tales+of+cornwall&qid=1689552835&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+cornwall%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1"><b>CORNWALL</b></a>, and so forth. There are 14 volumes in total to date, each one containing original horror fiction relevant to the geographic region, interspersed with snippets of real-life terror, folklore, mythology, unexplained mysteries and the like. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5wsMFVuNyNp0VypVNIxvkho-e-LsnnJuO1XIi3cop8vvj1WdV6KpKqX54sTsjmppFvQX6foLI7X0V2ulS8nrRqvIiGdtIOYvFo4B7INSizB0hRes7pbXXiWc9yD6rWQxQYevLd8AJWJNeFv5eIj3y1mQzSm4WfnLT7c3kEklDNBl3JThOCaHFjFdCb4/s801/Med%20-%20Barbara%20shelley.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="485" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5wsMFVuNyNp0VypVNIxvkho-e-LsnnJuO1XIi3cop8vvj1WdV6KpKqX54sTsjmppFvQX6foLI7X0V2ulS8nrRqvIiGdtIOYvFo4B7INSizB0hRes7pbXXiWc9yD6rWQxQYevLd8AJWJNeFv5eIj3y1mQzSm4WfnLT7c3kEklDNBl3JThOCaHFjFdCb4/w242-h400/Med%20-%20Barbara%20shelley.png" width="242" /></a></div>With <b>TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</b> (check out the various pics scattered throughout this post to give clues about what’s coming - see how many you can identify), I’m obviously no longer just focussing on my British homeland, but starting to look a little farther afield. Hopefully readers will enjoy this one just as much as those that have gone before. <br /><br />I should hasten to point out that, even though for this 15th volume in the series I’ll be throwing my net over most of the Mediterranean Sea and its adjoining lands, I’ll purposely be ignoring the culturally very different region we call the ‘Middle East’ – Syria, Lebanon, Israel, Palestine, Libya, Egypt and so forth – but that’s only because they will hopefully be the subject of a book planned for later in the series called ‘Terror Tales of the Middle East’. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCsYe8qwUHUkDHpmH4iuiSMMT0JTnqkt3k5MAYKJxFrCPrVqgQcDQ2giN50fMbFzUK6Bj3N5yuZ-DoxJh-6g1wwYUhyFswnT7hxVljsh4m7UPyRuAuehdg6T8T4B5lV_3qCn3rbRhybSY6Rq1OJO82V6YeseY5Ik92zQc0nsliK83GXDvfochH1DwR0g/s500/avatars-000383997419-6yn8fr-t500x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCsYe8qwUHUkDHpmH4iuiSMMT0JTnqkt3k5MAYKJxFrCPrVqgQcDQ2giN50fMbFzUK6Bj3N5yuZ-DoxJh-6g1wwYUhyFswnT7hxVljsh4m7UPyRuAuehdg6T8T4B5lV_3qCn3rbRhybSY6Rq1OJO82V6YeseY5Ik92zQc0nsliK83GXDvfochH1DwR0g/w200-h200/avatars-000383997419-6yn8fr-t500x500.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Even then, the Mediterranean will easily be the largest specific geographic region that we have covered in this series to date, comprising much of the south shore of Europe and the north shore of Africa. But it’s a region that is familiar to the majority of us, boasting a benign climate characterised by low rainfall, hot, dry summers and mild winters. As such, its lovely landscapes and flora are instantly recognisable: rocky hills covered in scrub and cacti, arid plains, rich pine and cedar forests, cypress trees, olive groves. ‘The Med’, as we call it, has become the go-to place for the traditional summer holiday, but you won’t need me to tell you there is so much more to this fabled realm than sun, sea and sex. <br /><br />Its esoteric history is beyond compare with almost anywhere else. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJm2Gu15tBRl-BIQFps6Tq_LWnMAQUELgq8S_Xm3FYZvUpLHLue_uMEIj866Kvn8QmuibuYo-6PWIvLmyXK0gF5-NoNEb3P2UHJguWkZbbxb5LgjuN6g0b6j6-i2ZPTD2_4ivI8HIOoMkG0qWpUcNiUQ8HjC9zhlEWtkXVv8WjEIVlM3OZJEJ3e-64liE/s750/med%20-%20poveglia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJm2Gu15tBRl-BIQFps6Tq_LWnMAQUELgq8S_Xm3FYZvUpLHLue_uMEIj866Kvn8QmuibuYo-6PWIvLmyXK0gF5-NoNEb3P2UHJguWkZbbxb5LgjuN6g0b6j6-i2ZPTD2_4ivI8HIOoMkG0qWpUcNiUQ8HjC9zhlEWtkXVv8WjEIVlM3OZJEJ3e-64liE/s320/med%20-%20poveglia.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>It is commonly regarded as the Cradle of Western Civilisation. David Attenborough called it the ‘First Eden.’ Colossal empires have risen and fallen in this place. Epic wars have been waged. The most ancient cultures flourished here, leading to astonishing advances in human thought, language and artistry. Inevitably though, there is a darker side too.</div><br />In the ancient Mediterranean past, fact is much interwoven with fiction, truth with mythology, a confusion of beliefs and certainties that has spawned some of mankind’s most terrifying tales, bequeathing us generations of monsters so unimaginably foul that it took the mightiest heroes to conquer them: everything from Talos to the Minotaur, from the sea-dragon, Cetus, to multi-limbed Geryon, one-eyed Polyphemus and Typhon, surely the most ferocious creature that ever stalked the Earth. The gods themselves were rarely better, unleashing curses and scourges on peoples they deemed to have failed them, sending earthquakes and typhoons to destroy entire cities. <br /><br />Even lesser deities like nymphs and satyrs were maleficent, playing callous games with humanity, delighting in trickery and deceit, putting their own pleasure (and their lust) first. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArN-TGAatFcg9NlNT4jw7DnspMgH0gaJa3xNK0w7edL74rWwzZIz7nn11gzIgE1fIhDNin7B8w6GpwVJW2UznJ6QjSp3928xSXiM1UQM310vz8Xixgo6kRz5nFQHZyqiyLVGt4eKLT6ugC86jFOb6Z0u5M2FhES5X9ZM2ltcD9lybwwNoCHmf3YQ2PhM/s320/med%20-%20devils.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="320" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArN-TGAatFcg9NlNT4jw7DnspMgH0gaJa3xNK0w7edL74rWwzZIz7nn11gzIgE1fIhDNin7B8w6GpwVJW2UznJ6QjSp3928xSXiM1UQM310vz8Xixgo6kRz5nFQHZyqiyLVGt4eKLT6ugC86jFOb6Z0u5M2FhES5X9ZM2ltcD9lybwwNoCHmf3YQ2PhM/s1600/med%20-%20devils.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>There’ve been dark times in real history too: nations enslaved, vast libraries torched, innocents thrown to lions, free-thinkers burned at the stake. Both politics and religion have led to astonishing acts of cruelty in the supposed name of progress. It is little wonder that so many of the Mediterranean’s grand but crumbling ruins echo to the savagery of the past and are now the haunt of tragic ghosts and spirits relentlessly re-enduring their torments. <br /><br />Any potential readers new to the Terror Tales series should know that, as editor, I tend to favour supernatural horror, and by that I’m talking monsters, ghosts, faeries, demons, witches and all kinds of eerie and unexplained mysteries. Note, I’m NOT stating that this book will only contain fiction underpinned by folklore, mythology or the supernatural – there is as much terror to be found in tales of killers, maniacs and other manmade mayhem – just so long as you know beforehand that anything you encounter in <b>TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</b> will be as scary and disturbing as possible. <br /><br />And if you’re looking for specifics – table of contents, artwork, back cover blurb, pre-order details and the like – keep watching this space.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlGPe7QgjZMtkaAvE_rkHh9PwInLbsH-Ke3ot4M_rBGBQLnS1NeAEUU4WpzuoW2V3OsH7LxMV80oMRQL5PfzBAmkXvOlBaEunSbe_OASrrocyhBqI8sA33Yyy_0UQlYOJnDWwj7kYyiNuzmfDubX7BAl2A1g5Bn6tmI5fu5_86GOZ6X6WIrr1Jj-bVuJk/s7200/med%20-%20poly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3151" data-original-width="7200" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlGPe7QgjZMtkaAvE_rkHh9PwInLbsH-Ke3ot4M_rBGBQLnS1NeAEUU4WpzuoW2V3OsH7LxMV80oMRQL5PfzBAmkXvOlBaEunSbe_OASrrocyhBqI8sA33Yyy_0UQlYOJnDWwj7kYyiNuzmfDubX7BAl2A1g5Bn6tmI5fu5_86GOZ6X6WIrr1Jj-bVuJk/w400-h175/med%20-%20poly.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. </b><br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Brink-John-Gordon/dp/1954321813/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1689552761&sr=1-1"><b></b></a><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Brink-John-Gordon/dp/1954321813/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1689552761&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAITFXe0jGQaMmzgwoV5x8lt9yZmRNxLwCaXA0AqGwpkkrw94Jo59tSr1_6jZSwTgmIaDjF0qFXkoR-0tfe14jddd5t6lCoJjnKmVQXvksvztUfz8YPAnymaRTgQ433N1RcOhvD3g6Pt5I3Qt5FCGzfQEt99yyXZ9FUr7-qF3Nfvr-zmy72TBp4ZDP1KE/s293/med%20-%20gordon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAITFXe0jGQaMmzgwoV5x8lt9yZmRNxLwCaXA0AqGwpkkrw94Jo59tSr1_6jZSwTgmIaDjF0qFXkoR-0tfe14jddd5t6lCoJjnKmVQXvksvztUfz8YPAnymaRTgQ433N1RcOhvD3g6Pt5I3Qt5FCGzfQEt99yyXZ9FUr7-qF3Nfvr-zmy72TBp4ZDP1KE/w251-h400/med%20-%20gordon.jpg" width="251" /></a></div></b></div><div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/House-Brink-John-Gordon/dp/1954321813/ref=asc_df_1954321813/?tag=googshopuk-21&linkCode=df0&hvadid=607003132552&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=6635340983026771746&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9046531&hvtargid=pla-1875503328450&psc=1&th=1&psc=1"><b>THE HOUSE ON THE BRINK</b></a></div><div><b><i>by John Gordon (1970) </i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />One early summer’s day on the edge of the Wash estuary, the tidal inlet where Norfolk meets Lincolnshire on England’s east coast, a man and a woman are traipsing through the fens when they spy something half-buried in the mud, which looks as though it might be a body. The man investigates and announces that it’s only a rotted old log. The woman is not placated; she feels certain there’s something evil about it. <br /><br />A few days later, a reserved but smarter-than-average schoolkid, 16-year-old Dick Dodds, attends his Literature Class’s end-of-term party at the lonely riverside house of his wealthy widow teacher, the neurotic Mrs Knowles, who comments that she recently spotted a horrible human-shaped lump of wood on the edge of the fens and concludes that her house has two sides to it, a good side, from which she can often see the distant ‘silver fields,’ and a bad side, the side that faces onto the river, and the mud, where everything is ‘contaminated’. <br /><br />These are strange comments, which no one present at the party knows how to take, though Mrs Knowles, who is now romantically involved with a local solicitor, Tom Miller, though only a few others are aware of this yet (and even fewer would approve, given that Knowles and Miller are polar opposites) has a reputation for being eccentric, and many put this down either to her unfortunate bereavement so early in life, or her isolated existence in the marsh-side house, or both. <br /><br />Dick walks home after the party, somewhat cowed by the vast emptiness of the summer holidays stretching ahead of him. Wondering how he’s going to pass his time, he suddenly, in a characteristic impulse, helps himself to a moored rowing boat, and sets off for an impromptu trip down the darkened river. The folly of this quickly becomes apparent. Dick isn’t much of an oarsman, and in any case, he soon loses the oar, and finds himself drifting deep into the fens, beyond which lies only the open sea. <br /><br />However, the following day, we learn that Dick survived his escapade. The tide pushed him ashore and he had to plough his way back through deep mud. He now returns with close friends, Jim and Pat, insisting that he needs to recover the abandoned boat, but at the same time, he recalls seeing something strange on his way back inland: an unnatural hollow on the water’s edge, almost as if something large had recently dug its way out, and then unidentifiable tracks trailing away through the mire. He says that when he tried to follow the trail, he felt inexplicably frightened. When he locates the trail again, neither Jim nor Pat see anything curious about it, but Dick still feels frightened and disoriented, putting on such a show that his friends decide he’s making it up and trying to scare them. <br /><br />Dick goes back to the trail on his own later, following it across the marshy land until it passes close by a farmhouse, which he’s never visited before. While he’s there, a girl of his own age comes out, and tells him that her name is Helen. <br /><br />They aren’t natural allies, Dick, who lives in the town and is firmly middle-class, Helen, who lives out here on the open country and whose father is a farm-labourer, but for some reason Dick confides in her, Helen, in return, admitting that, on the night of his river-adventure, she too saw something strange, the indistinct shape of a hideous limbless figure gliding along the trail. <br /><br />Dick is inevitably drawn to Helen, and she to him, not just because they find each other attractive, but because both of them can sense the mysteriousness of the trail when apparently no one else can. The other kids still don’t know whether to take them seriously, but Pat suggests they go and speak to a certain Mrs Shepherd, a local water diviner, to see if she can cast light on the matter. <br /><br />Mrs Shepherd, who is quite elderly and grandmotherly, confirms that both Dick and Helen are also water diviners, in other words they are sensitive to the presence of water sources below ground – which might, Dick supposes, explain their odd feelings when they are following the trail. However, for no obvious reason, the woman takes a seeming dislike to Dick, warning him not to take the path of other folk in the vicinity, who have used divination for the wrong purposes. <br /><br />Feeling better now that they have a possible benign explanation for the trail, Dick and Helen relax a little, only to then speak with Mrs Knowles, who, as jumpy as ever, confesses that she fears a local legend about a walking corpse in the fens, the rotted remnant of a medieval warrior who was left behind to guard the site where King John famously lost his jewels in 1216, and was charged with killing anyone who attempts to rediscover them. <br /><br />Though Dick and Helen now share a budding romance of their own, Dick, who is fond of Mrs Knowles (she was his favourite teacher, after all), is angry and suspects that her mental deterioration is being exacerbated by the presence in her life of Tom Miller, a shrewd but rather cold man whom the boy is convinced is wrong for her. As for her story about the body in the bog, well, Mrs Knowles is clearly going mad. <br /><br />The boy doesn’t want any more to do with this, except that he feels drawn to investigate further, finally persuading Mrs Shepherd to talk some more. She admits to him that, whatever force lurks in the marshes, guarding the last resting place of the royal gold, there has never been any danger from it previously because the amateur treasure-seekers who hunt through the fens every weekend never get anywhere near. However, she – a genuine dowser – was recently paid by an influential local man to find it, and she got very close before deciding to back off, and it’s this, she fears, that has awakened the guardian of the trove. Mrs Shepherd won’t admit that the guardian is a millennium-old corpse preserved and in fact mummified in the fens, but she tells Dick firmly to stop looking into the case. She also names Tom Miller as her recent employer. <br /><br />Despite this, Dick and Helen find themselves following the trail again, attempting to dowse with their own homemade rods. Nothing happens and they are ready to chuck it in, when they are led to a gate in a hedgerow out in the middle of nowhere. They’re about to go through but suddenly sense an unhealthy presence. <br /><br />Any suspicion that this whole thing is down to their overactive imaginations leaves them at this point, when they spy something waiting in the gatepost greenery: ‘a black bald head, faceless’. And ‘a claw, lifted from the gate’. <br /><br />It’s real after all, the thing from the mud … <br /><br /><b>Review <br /><i>The House on the Brink</i></b> started life as a YA novel, though interest in the book and the author has expanded far beyond those boundaries in the 50+ years since it was published. <br /><br />At first glance, it certainly looks as though it belongs in that milieu. In fact, it almost seems to predate the YA era: a bunch of intrepid youngsters – the Famous Five or the Secret Seven – skirting around the edges of the ever-mystifying adult world while spending their school holidays investigating a seemingly supernatural mystery. But in truth there are all kinds of things going on in this novel that are nothing whatsoever to do with that, and which have guaranteed its lasting popularity among much older readers. <br /><br />To start with, there is undeniably a vibe of MR James. <br /><br />Montague Rhodes James wrote most of his now near-mythical short stories in the first three decades of the 20th century and focussed primarily on antiquarian scholars searching out age-old artefacts, subsequently triggering curses or awakening terrifying revenants. He is still regarded as one of the world’s foremost ghost story writers, and massively well-read even today, thanks partly to his witty, lyrical and succinct style, but also for his ability to evoke a genuine atmosphere of dread. <br /><br /><b><i>The House on the Brink</i></b> is cut from similar cloth, not just in terms of its subject-matter, but in its style, which is very quick and to-the-point, with scarcely a word wasted, and its setting: the bleak eastern edge of England, an empty, sea-begirt landscape, where the wind sighs constantly through the reeds, and forgotten ruins stand lonesome on the distant mudflats. It’s a richly atmospheric location, and dare I say it, John Gordon works it as effectively as Dr James used to, taking his characters, some of whom live in the town, far out of the normal world into a silent wilderness of wildwood, grassland and black, rippling waterways. <br /><br />The scene at the gate – ‘a gateway to nowhere,’ as the author himself says (gates, edges and brinks being at least as important in this book as they are in MR James) is particularly frightening, coming upon us unexpectedly and yet written in such concise, matter-of-fact fashion, again as Dr James so often did, that mundane normality and supernatural horror are blended together with shocking effectiveness. <br /><br />Another reason why <b><i>The House on the Brink</i></b> is a must-read today, despite being half a century old (and this may be one of the reasons why Valancourt have brought it back, though whatever the actual reason, I’m glad they have), is our recently rekindled interest in folk horror. <br /><br />Superficially, there is lots of evidence that <b><i>The House on the Brink</i></b> was written at the end of the 1960s. The kids are as inquisitive as their predecessors, yet a tad more streetwise. At the same time, though, they are still polite to adults (imagine that!). They do lots of old-fashioned things, like have picnics and ramble around the countryside on pushbikes. They feel bad when they do the wrong thing, rather than object to being reprimanded for it. One of the girls in the group, Pat, still wears a skirt. Jim, the team joker, given to ribbing Dick at every opportunity, does so in a fashion that is almost genteel. But 1970, when this book first hit the shelves, was also the height of the Age of Aquarius. The counterculture of the ’60s was fading fast, but a desire for unorthodox spirituality remained, and with this came a wave of interest in folk horror. You’ll remember the movies of that era, <b><i>Blood on Satan’s Claw</i></b> (1971) and <i><b>The Wicker Man</b></i> (1973). TV shows like <i><b>Robin Redbreast</b></i> (1970), <i><b>Penda’s Fen</b></i> (1974) and <i><b>Children of the Stones</b></i> (1976). Even <i><b>Dr Who</b></i> got in on the act with <i><b>The Daemons</b></i> (1971). Then there were public safety films like <i><b>Lonely Water</b></i> (1973), some of which took place in those spooky locations where town met country, where children were suddenly beyond adult supervision, where threats to life and limb often took the form of grim entities. <br /><br />But this genre was also a celebration of Britain’s landscape and its forgotten cultures and beliefs, the relics of which were scattered across the deceptively tranquil georama of British folklore, and that’s particularly the case in this novel. <br /><br />I’ve already mentioned the gate to nowhere, the mysterious trail or ‘track,’ as John Gordon calls it, which ostensibly is the route taken by the mummified single remnant of King John’s army, though it’s not actually visible, and may indeed be an ancient route traversed by many strange energies, a ley line or whatever. Then there are the ‘silver fields’ as referred to by the disturbed Mrs Knowles; when Dick finally travels out to them, they are little more than a floodplain lying ankle-deep in seawater and thus reflecting the sky, but in Mrs Knowles’s mind, what we’re really talking about here is a near-but-distant magical realm, occasionally visible but always unreachable (Faerie Land, if you like). Mrs Knowles’s weather-beaten house serves a similar purpose. To the calculating Tom Miller, it’s nothing more than a refuge for his troubled sweetheart and also, probably, a key part of the lucrative future he plans for himself, but to Mrs Knowles it’s a border stronghold, the first (and last) human habitation before the vast sweep of the unknown. <br /><br />But perhaps the most obviously grown-up part of <b><i>The House on the Brink</i></b> is the coming-of-age story. <br /><br />So many horror and fantasy writers over the decades have trodden this path, reliving their own experience of the transition from childhood through the prism of the scary story, their adolescent unease about the years ahead dressed up as monsters or demons. This is very much the case in <i><b>The House on the Brink</b></i>. <br /><br />Dick Dodds is 16, and in 1970 that meant that his next step was adulthood. Few people then had time for kids who didn’t really know what they wanted, or who were looking for ‘a year out’ or who just wanted to keep on being students. But because attitudes were different, that didn’t mean it was easier for the youngsters. There are times when Dick feels lost in the mysterious emptiness of the landscape, even though he has grown up here. Is this a metaphor for the uncertainties ahead? It’s the same with his and Helen’s relationship. They are still too young to be proper boyfriend and girlfriend … so much so that they’re embarrassed to admit this is what they are, and don’t like it when adults make that assumption. They kiss but there’s not much amorousness there. They’re stuck at that midway stage, on the edge-land. It’s no wonder everything is confusing, particularly the behaviour of the adults in the book, who they no longer view as distant, omnipotent controllers of all their lives, but as near-equals, flawed and troubled themselves, yet whose moods and motivations they still can’t read properly. <br /><br />All that said, I don’t want to make <i><b>The House on the Brink</b></i> sound as if it’s heavyweight stuff. It actually isn’t. At heart, it’s a gentle if very eerie, but also rather straightforward ghost story. It also only runs to 161 pages, so it’s an easy and accessible read. And yet it’s successful at every level. It has well earned its reputation as a classic slice of supernatural nostalgia, which will frighten and delight in equal measure. <br /><br /><i>And now, for once, I’m not going to bother trying to cast this beast in the event it ever gets adapted for film or TV. This one is all about the young leads, which means it would need genuine teenage actors, and I don’t know enough about the younger end of the current acting market to offer any kind of valid opinion.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-68340424567116433712023-06-23T03:03:00.003-07:002023-06-23T04:13:01.386-07:00Key moments that steered me into writing<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwJ3E3FSKN5rIgbCTHbDHkVobJTSvsmG9ekjUg1hWGxqACrrr8pTf6-oCKKIzAciO3T7xilAzDuXxfXOIXBb8W_1yeAusTUhYcq1F1iOk4OvTmN9xgTUF1BgfHpRDJPyZzqgd28tygSgnOYqucbHt-DMSMgQGCIg-WkRwiawzHzUuoKKNis8ejdQf4VQ/s540/granada%20-%20guy%20on%20roof.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwJ3E3FSKN5rIgbCTHbDHkVobJTSvsmG9ekjUg1hWGxqACrrr8pTf6-oCKKIzAciO3T7xilAzDuXxfXOIXBb8W_1yeAusTUhYcq1F1iOk4OvTmN9xgTUF1BgfHpRDJPyZzqgd28tygSgnOYqucbHt-DMSMgQGCIg-WkRwiawzHzUuoKKNis8ejdQf4VQ/w400-h266/granada%20-%20guy%20on%20roof.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>I hope you can forgive me a few personal moments this week. For some time now, I’ve been pondering an occasional series of articles about those events in my life, those key moments, that steered me towards the writing profession. I held back for a little while. Would it be too personal, too introspective? Or would it be interesting? Well, you guys can judge, because I’m taking a chance and getting that ball rolling today.</b></div></div><b><br />In addition, I’m taking this opportunity to remind everyone that about my upcoming two-hander event with my fellow thriller-writer MW Craven in the very near future (it’s only 11 days away, in fact), in Cumbria. So, I’ll be chatting at little about that too. <br /><br />On which subject, and on a not unrelated note, today would also seem an opportune time to offer a detailed review of Mr Craven’s latest masterwork, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1687447892&sr=1-1">FEARLESS</a>, an all-out action thriller set out in the sun-blistered wastes of the Chihuahuan Desert (so, a particularly good one to read this flaming June). </b><br /><br />If you’re only here for the Craven review, I’ve no problem with that. You’ll find it as usual in the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section at the lower end of today’s column. Before then, here’s the other stuff ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Meeting our public</b></div><br />A quick reminder that on Tuesday July 4, MW Craven and I will be chatting to our public in the Kendal branch of Waterstones, and event running 6.30 to 9pm. Mike will be talking about <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1687447892&sr=1-1"><b>FEARLESS</b></a>, his explosive new action thriller, and very likely the commencement of a brand-new series, while I, briefly, am veering away from the world of guns, armed robbers and terrorists, to discuss <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1687449333&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, my most recent novel, which is also an action adventure, but this one set 1,000 years ago at the height of the Norman Conquest of England. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The overlap is the full-blooded action, folks. Don’t be fooled into thinking that these two books are a mismatch. All that really matters, though, is that we’ll both be there to chat and answer questions about our methods and motivations, any plans we may have for the future and so on, and to sign every book that are put in front of us, not just the new ones. (I also hear that anyone there who buys both books will receive a £5 discount on the total cost!)<br /><br /> Here’s a shot from last year’s event, when Mike was presenting <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Botanist-gripping-thriller-bestselling-Washington/dp/034913555X/ref=sr_1_4?qid=1687449262&refinements=p_27%3AM.+W.+Craven&s=books&sr=1-4&text=M.+W.+Craven"><b>THE BOTANIST</b></a> and I was presenting <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Audible-Never-Seen-Again/dp/B09KM5RKLN/ref=sr_1_1?crid=382TMOVUWAE9B&keywords=paul+finch+-+never+seen+again&qid=1687449390&s=books&sprefix=paul+finch+-+never+seen+again%2Cstripbooks%2C70&sr=1-1"><b>NEVER SEEN AGAIN</b></a>. You’ll notice that my dogs, Buck and Buddy, also got in on the act.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaL0VB6fjBcLKd7huXfrQCz0PHqWvUmm2sj_kqxSzAwrI11tRptVtne1kMayq64qhJlAycNIFkaTT_MUMHW1eEOCscdbLFKWFf5_rIxtzb3KWWDUMe2-IaieznLnk4hHZpvifF6QUDvHE1AQoBmO7q-Tnfc5TOZeqht8mCuKQUkE-FqaBf_Um8DsIneHk/s2016/kendal%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="2016" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaL0VB6fjBcLKd7huXfrQCz0PHqWvUmm2sj_kqxSzAwrI11tRptVtne1kMayq64qhJlAycNIFkaTT_MUMHW1eEOCscdbLFKWFf5_rIxtzb3KWWDUMe2-IaieznLnk4hHZpvifF6QUDvHE1AQoBmO7q-Tnfc5TOZeqht8mCuKQUkE-FqaBf_Um8DsIneHk/w400-h223/kendal%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Anyway, Feel free to pop along to the next one, folks. Get your tickets <a href="https://www.waterstones.com/events/an-evening-with-m-w-craven-and-paul-finch/kendal"><b>HERE</b></a>. I guarantee a fun evening.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now, something else that yet again is not entirely unrelated ...<br /><br /><br /><div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>MOMENTS THAT MATTERED</b></h2><div><br /></div><div>What on earth is it that could make you want to be a writer?</div><br />I suppose on one hand, you could argue that the most basic requirement is to be pompous enough to believe yourself so important that others will pay to read your words. <br /><br />To be honest, that’s pretty undeniable. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>But on the other hand, joining the writing profession is also quite a laudable act. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4wtcgmv2qxQG22QdSJZi3EbUYBuq_yN95xlpGmgVrjVSODQQrXKlYgbIR5md-UThHCTZ4AigQ7Pfzjp9rszag8wrQliyefpZcHjfgUGm7GXrJfaG7KI_VtKgKWUYymf_Jm5JS0YkMBDsV5STEh2fUBqxuUxRu4FyO9AGAgxJs9v0SwhEhBzyjkqSqKs/s488/granada%20blog%20-%20happy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="454" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz4wtcgmv2qxQG22QdSJZi3EbUYBuq_yN95xlpGmgVrjVSODQQrXKlYgbIR5md-UThHCTZ4AigQ7Pfzjp9rszag8wrQliyefpZcHjfgUGm7GXrJfaG7KI_VtKgKWUYymf_Jm5JS0YkMBDsV5STEh2fUBqxuUxRu4FyO9AGAgxJs9v0SwhEhBzyjkqSqKs/w186-h200/granada%20blog%20-%20happy.jpg" width="186" /></a></div>Firstly, because it means you’re seeking to share wisdom, learning, expertise and even personal interest in a manner that you hope will entertain and inform others. Secondly, because you attach such value to this prospective profession that you are prepared to put in the hard yards, in exchange for rewards which, at best, can be variable and uncertain, and at worst, non-existent. In other words, you’re undertaking a vocation that you really believe in – and that’s surely a good thing, but the fact that you’re doing something ‘good’ may be the best you ever get out of it. <br /><br />But of all the writers I’ve met during my life, I can’t name one who ever told me that he or she came into this world with this ambition already hardwired into them. So many, if not all, seem to have muddled their way into the profession. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even those among us who toyed with the idea of becoming writers when we were young often had other careers to take care of first. Some of these we might have enjoyed a great deal. Others we merely tolerated because we had to get the money in. Either way, they filled our time and thoughts. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQQ1cBESlY49CWtOy3cueXuNoSQUY3HSBlmjqtZwCCU4ifJO7G46Xtis3gJoUZQFdCd22pywAofFrF-auHcW4TmWzkX-qMyAbagOg-gIm8WVnAo9JskDeh_BrldjeAq8Zy1muI0JHoC-aotzkcfKYKZKjaAgJYKSW68DiYKwzsgnpmrsDRAFCqsBZ-7Y/s767/granada%20revelation.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="586" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQQ1cBESlY49CWtOy3cueXuNoSQUY3HSBlmjqtZwCCU4ifJO7G46Xtis3gJoUZQFdCd22pywAofFrF-auHcW4TmWzkX-qMyAbagOg-gIm8WVnAo9JskDeh_BrldjeAq8Zy1muI0JHoC-aotzkcfKYKZKjaAgJYKSW68DiYKwzsgnpmrsDRAFCqsBZ-7Y/s320/granada%20revelation.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>But every one of us, I’m certain, has also experienced ‘Damascene moments,’ in other words has suddenly been struck by an astonishing revelation or motivation that we never saw coming, and which, while it might not have jolted us into the world of authorship at that very moment, became a persuasive factor as we continued forward in life.</div><br />Was the spur in fact, that would drive us on towards a very different future. <br /><br />So … I thought it might be fun over this blogpost and several in the future, to highlight a few of these seminal moments in my own life when the die was indisputably cast, when I realised that there was something vastly more satisfying I <i>could</i> be engaged in. <br /><br />Now before we start, what I am NOT talking about here is the actual, physical moment when I moved into full-time writing. In my case that was something beyond my control. It involved a series of unexpected redundancies, which, ultimately, though none were welcome at the time, removed that very difficult decision about whether or not to pack my day job in. But that’s not a particularly exciting story. The moments I’m looking for in this new occasional series are those instances of divine inspiration. Those moments when your vision clears, everything falls into place, and your reason for existing in this world is suddenly made very plain to you …</div><div> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>SPUR #1 – GRANADA TELEVISION</b></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52PL5TJkOZfTubD6AQ0dwUUMrbih61Kj2H_tyT7kBOnT4BP8xLP1rlz0RFRMndwbiZIzN8MLMRaIzApVaPdaEgN6IT7yRJ1tDiuLJ1-7i6rLJnk8KI22oUt8GtJ43SLWuJqTVqGCCM5Tt4OLg8ll0PP4rI_SU8D5Xey7VDxqOKltkWnT7nTLbnOPJR4Y/s450/granada_house.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52PL5TJkOZfTubD6AQ0dwUUMrbih61Kj2H_tyT7kBOnT4BP8xLP1rlz0RFRMndwbiZIzN8MLMRaIzApVaPdaEgN6IT7yRJ1tDiuLJ1-7i6rLJnk8KI22oUt8GtJ43SLWuJqTVqGCCM5Tt4OLg8ll0PP4rI_SU8D5Xey7VDxqOKltkWnT7nTLbnOPJR4Y/w400-h266/granada_house.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div>One of my greatest inspirations, and I’m aware that I’ll need to explain this, was Granada Television.</div><div><br />My father, <b>Brian Finch</b>, was a screenwriter with a career that spanned four decades, his CV ultimately containing a wealth of successful programmes: <b><i>Coronation Street</i></b>, <i><b>The Tomorrow People</b></i>, <b><i>Captain Scarlet</i></b>, <b><i>Murphy’s Mob</i></b>, <i><b>Bergerac</b></i>, <b><i>Hunter’s Walk</i></b>, <i><b>Public Eye</b></i>, <i><b>All Creatures Great and Small</b></i>, among many others, culminating of course in the BAFTA he won in 1999 for <i><b>Goodnight Mister Tom</b></i>.<br /><br />Yet, this wasn’t the whole story.<br /><br />As I grew up in Wigan in the 1960s and early 1970s, my father was a local news reporter and a wannabe writer who was still jobbing his talents around. The earnings weren’t particularly great, of course. </div><div><br /></div><div>Though I’ve undoubtedly led a mostly middle-class existence, we were a working-class family by origin, my two grandfathers a coal miner and a gasworks foreman. I myself spent my formative years living in a terraced house. I only mention this to show that, as a youngster, I had a very conventional experience of the industrial northern town that was Wigan. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmQbfF0HbpZzYPYRlzc0elaZDIaT1vXyDI2R_sOKW8vbVO3kiqpVgj1mjUGPVoacawDbGmFnGDnmU92YqyolO43tUK6Sr64jhio2AeDXIpu4a9XZt_3Usy0UaRXeIgbQ-UIZW5MBNBTjlCPkgJPxnCfA4aDJcwQKDTsydbXSpzD0zm-IJk-Bia7pw8G8/s1584/dad%20at%20corrie%20party%20-%20cut.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1584" data-original-width="1553" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmQbfF0HbpZzYPYRlzc0elaZDIaT1vXyDI2R_sOKW8vbVO3kiqpVgj1mjUGPVoacawDbGmFnGDnmU92YqyolO43tUK6Sr64jhio2AeDXIpu4a9XZt_3Usy0UaRXeIgbQ-UIZW5MBNBTjlCPkgJPxnCfA4aDJcwQKDTsydbXSpzD0zm-IJk-Bia7pw8G8/s320/dad%20at%20corrie%20party%20-%20cut.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>And yet, somehow, as we progressed into and through the 1970s, my father’s writing career blossomed, and more and more celebrities came in and out of our lives. (The image right shows my Dad at a <b><i>Coronation Street</i></b> party with Violet Carson, aka Ena Sharples, some time circa 1969/1970).<br /><br />I honestly could spin a hundred anecdotes relating to this.<br /><br />For example, when the phone rang one evening and my mother answered, a boomy and distinctive voice asked: ‘Is Brian there?” When my mother replied, “I’ll just get him for you, Frankie,” the voice said, “How did you know it was me, dear?” My mum: “There’s only one Frankie Howerd.” The voice: “Ooooo!”<br /><br />Then, there was the script-meeting in our front room for my Dad’s Rugby League drama, <i><b>Fallen Hero</b></i>, where the ever-lovely Wanda Ventham (Benedict Cumberbatch’s mum), had to eat some of the most appalling looking cheese sandwiches, which my Dad had just made, and did so without complaint because they’d been working all day and were starving.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpv4su-TnzdU6IvqXw2JSfLCDBw9cTq1V-uo9rRPmyupZ5glIsMmKjyAq7KBeSzZckpZoWP21FM_snNufFrfBRvLMSwOCGmNpERCGNTJUZfVU_kZfnNsJSJk4bXykpEEoJ9Svp8R-zcSmRWmqak1JLJmdPLtHiLA138fhE_n69uCzgIkgLwOArq0Y3PJE/s780/granada%20straw.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="651" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpv4su-TnzdU6IvqXw2JSfLCDBw9cTq1V-uo9rRPmyupZ5glIsMmKjyAq7KBeSzZckpZoWP21FM_snNufFrfBRvLMSwOCGmNpERCGNTJUZfVU_kZfnNsJSJk4bXykpEEoJ9Svp8R-zcSmRWmqak1JLJmdPLtHiLA138fhE_n69uCzgIkgLwOArq0Y3PJE/s320/granada%20straw.jpeg" width="267" /></a></div>In a similar, informal way, my Dad introduced me to Del Henney and Ken Hutchison, two screen hardmen so convincing in those roles that you’ll probably remember them playing the two lead villains in the movie thriller, <i><b>Straw Dogs</b></i>, but a couple of actors who were also so versatile that they’d play good guys in my Dad’s dramas.<br /><br />I could go on and on about this, but it would get boring.<br /><br />The point is that it was all so gradual a process that I wasn’t aware of it being anything unusual. If my Dad casually mentioned that he’d just been speaking on the phone for half an hour to Boris Karloff, it meant nothing to me. These were the sorts of people my Dad knew.<br /><br />Which brings us back to Granada Television, the home of <i><b>Coronation Street</b></i>, and umpteen other shows my Dad worked on.<br /><br />Granada TV was the brainchild of media mogul, Sidney Bernstein, and one of the original four independent television franchises created in 1954. It covered Manchester, Lancashire, Merseyside, Cumbria, Cheshire, North Wales and parts of Yorkshire, and was praised by TV critics for the distinctively northern and ‘socially realistic’ nature of its programming.<br /><br />My Dad considered it the thumping heart of independent television in that era. I visited the studio with him again and again over many years, to drop scripts off, to watch the filming of <i><b>Sherlock Holmes</b></i> (and get to shake hands with Jeremy Brett), or to stand quietly by while he discussed potential new children’s shows with such diverse TV personalities as Ken Dodd and Charlie Caroli.<br /><br />When it came to widespread family entertainment, Granada TV was unbeatable. And yet, it never felt like a privilege being there and interacting with those who were integral to it.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Until the early 1980s, when I left civilian life and joined the Greater Manchester Police.</div><div><br />You may wonder, given the background I’ve just outlined, what the hell possessed me. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YJXNRdKbebaLD48XsPmO8fdxbzuuvYlhaU5YxeTYOCHmlUsNTH3xhuAHP-SZERhg_jDoqgt2dsGTJU0IKrTlT82jiW-aKp_R8zulSyljyofFR_L5xoFUoDTFZo0pweETzYiABj1q8VPpGhDrT2oTzNQvwd2IdHSsGE17aYpcpK36EVmneivzxloEEvQ/s155/granada%20crime.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="155" data-original-width="95" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YJXNRdKbebaLD48XsPmO8fdxbzuuvYlhaU5YxeTYOCHmlUsNTH3xhuAHP-SZERhg_jDoqgt2dsGTJU0IKrTlT82jiW-aKp_R8zulSyljyofFR_L5xoFUoDTFZo0pweETzYiABj1q8VPpGhDrT2oTzNQvwd2IdHSsGE17aYpcpK36EVmneivzxloEEvQ/w123-h200/granada%20crime.jpg" width="123" /></a></div>Well, ever since I was a lad, I’d always wanted to be a copper. Even though I’d been a dab hand at writing stories while at school, in my early adulthood I had no interest in that. I wanted to go out and lock up villains. Even when I was being interviewed for the job at Chester House, the chief superintendent on the other side of the desk said something to the effect of: ‘Your father’s a well-known television writer. Do you not want to do the same thing?’ <br /><br />I gave what a thought was a very honest answer, perhaps riskily honest. I said: ‘I may do at some point, but I’ve no interest in that yet.’ <br /><br />To which he smiled and said: ’Well, if nothing else, we’ll certainly give you lots of grist for that mill.’ (And how prophetic that turned out to be). <br /><br />But the yearning to write didn’t come yet. In many ways, the job completely absorbed me, left its mark even when I was off-duty. You worked long and difficult hours, were in constant high stress situations, and spent almost every shift dealing with people who were having the worst day of their lives. The difference between dreaming about the police and policing for real is an abyssal gulf.<br /><br />Some of it was terrifically exciting, but some of it was more than a little bit depressing. <br /><br />For example, when you went into rooms, often in the most desolate parts of town, that you would never forget as long as you lived ... rooms you would keep on revisiting in your dreams. <br /><br />On one such occasion, after I’d discharged all my duties as a first responder, I remember stomping up the stairs to the roof of the high rise in question, and gazing bleary-eyed across the silent, benighted cityscapes of Salford and Manchester, finally focussing on that distant neon sign, shimmering cherry-red: <b>GRANADA TV</b>.<br /><br />A rush of happy memories came back to me. For half a second, at that terrible time in that terrible place, I was relocated back to my early life, when I’d been surrounded by these stars of stage and screen without really knowing it, when I’d been immersed in that atmosphere of entertainment and creativity, which I’d so taken for granted at the time. <br /><br />I knew there and then that I didn’t just want to go back to that world, I <i>had</i> to. <br /><br /></div><div>That was where I belonged. Not this one, as personified by that room downstairs, now in a state of chaos, the world and his brother having arrived (all too late, of course, as we nearly always were). <br /><br />I’m not sure why my ambition suddenly came alive at that moment. I’d seen the Granada TV sign many times during my police service and thought nothing of it. Yes, I had vague memories of those heady days, but always considered them the distant past, a fantasy childhood that could never have meaning for me long-term. And yet somehow, that night, that sign became the most potent lure. <br /><br />I signed off at the end of that shift with one objective in mind. I was leaving the cops, and by hook or by crook, I was going to worm my way into my Dad’s world … or something close to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>(To be continued ...) <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZHv5aHZb3uDCUyMUaMU8nkxYnwShoPkFZZQ_EhInpYF7dM_OC1yVtpQRGMp-9zB5PYDXfs2eA4-FOTeu1y2GFLfhhLA8KwE4QerbpuonkAmDdOhB4WXQ2E3TCoaTm1x6Du9MUjAAFBULzJmPjI1bPoBUtq_IT7-mbhqoX04iO8a9bymto9zez9gWN15k/s500/fearless.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="309" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZHv5aHZb3uDCUyMUaMU8nkxYnwShoPkFZZQ_EhInpYF7dM_OC1yVtpQRGMp-9zB5PYDXfs2eA4-FOTeu1y2GFLfhhLA8KwE4QerbpuonkAmDdOhB4WXQ2E3TCoaTm1x6Du9MUjAAFBULzJmPjI1bPoBUtq_IT7-mbhqoX04iO8a9bymto9zez9gWN15k/w248-h400/fearless.jpg" width="248" /></a></div></b><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1687447892&sr=1-1">FEARLESS</a> </b></div><div><i><b>by MW Craven (2023) </b><br /></i><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Ben Koenig is a US Marshall with the Special Operations Group. Or rather, he was. At present, he’s dropped off the grid. Six years ago, he shot dead a suspect while closing in with his team on an isolated ranch where a particularly loathsome bunch of deviants were making ‘toddler versus attack dog’ movies. The deceased suspect happened to be the son of a leading member of the Russian Mafia. The Russian mob themselves were not involved in the vile racket, in fact they deplored it, but rules are rules, and as such, Koenig was marked for death. <br /><br />He’s been on the run and lying low ever since. <br /><br />We join the narrative with Koenig in Wayne County, New York, where, as usual, he is minding his own business. Until he is bewildered to learn from watching TV in a bar that he has made the US Marshals’ ‘Most Wanted’ list. <br /><br />Even Koenig, skilled as he is, finds it difficult to disappear again when his face is suddenly on every TV screen, and he is subsequently arrested by local cops. However, this is only a ruse. In reality, US Marshals Service director, Mitch Burridge desperately needs to make contact with him. They are old mates who go way back, and Mitch would normally respect Koenig’s desire to stay out of sight, but a very serious situation has now arisen. <br /><br />In short, Mitch’s pre-grad daughter, Martha, has been abducted. Inevitably, a range of security services are already on the case, but Mitch wants Koenig involved too. Not just because he’s a human bloodhound – the Devil’s Bloodhound, as some crims have come to refer to him – but because at present he’s an unofficial asset. He’s also an apex predator. If Martha Burridge is dead, as her father fears, he wants Koenig to kill those responsible. <br /><br />Koenig is certainly ideal for this kind of work. Earlier in his career, a raid went south, and he was shot in the head. He survived it, but during the subsequent operation, the brain surgeon discovered that he was suffering a rare degenerative condition called Urbach-Wiethe disease, which normally causes an abnormal fear of just about everything, though in some cases, exactly the opposite can result: the patient finds that they have no fear of anything at all. <br /><br />In Koenig’s case it’s the latter, which officially at least meant that further service in the field would be problematic. A man without fear could pose a high risk, not just to himself, but to his colleagues. Not wishing to lose a talented operator like Koenig to permanent deskwork, the Service responded by sending him off to train with some of the world’s most elite spec ops, the SAS, the Navy SEALS and so on, where he would compensate for his lack of fear by learning how to make professional judgements based on knowledge and acquired skill. It also meant that, when he finally got back in the field, he was by far the deadliest man in the US Marshals. <br /><br />Living up to this reputation, Koenig guarantees Mitch that he will find Martha, or discover what happened to her, and will do whatever it takes to make this happen. <br /><br />The first part of Koenig’s investigation takes him to DC, and Georgetown Uni, where Martha was studying. Her academic supervisor, Robin Marston, is a Marxist professor who regards it as his civic duty to impede law enforcement wherever he can. Koenig has no time for this, and gets rough with Marston, leading the frightened academic to admit that he hasn’t given all of Martha’s files to the Washington PD. However, before Marston can retrieve the info he has held back, he is shot and killed by an unknown female assassin, who takes out a campus cop at the same time. <br /><br />Perhaps inevitably, Koenig, who’s already knocked Marston around, is blamed, and finds himself back in custody, in a local holding cell. While he’s in there, on suspicion that he’s just another crazy shooter, two white supremacist hoodlums are put in with him, clearly under orders to finish him off. The resulting fight is violent, but it leaves one of the neo-Nazis dead and the other badly injured. Frustrated, the cops look to charge Koenig with murder anyway, only for one of their senior ranks to engineer his escape from the precinct. <br /><br />Increasingly suspecting that this whole thing is a set-up, and that somehow or other, there is official involvement in the kidnapping of Martha Burridge, Koenig has no choice but to accept the cops’ escape route. At which point he is confronted by an old colleague of his, Jen Draper, a top agent who also happens to hate him. Unsure what to make of this, Koenig stumbles to a halt. <br /><br />Draper meanwhile, raises her pistol. And fires … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />In my opinion, the acid test for any thriller is whether or not it thrills. Does it intrigue you? Does it excite you? Does it keep you hooked? It’s not a genre for which great writing and unforgettable characters are often considered essential ingredients, which makes MW Craven’s work all the more impressive. Because if there is one thing Mike Craven is, it’s a hell of a writer across the board. <br /><br />First of all, let’s deal with the thriller aspects of <i><b>Fearless</b></i>, because they are here in abundance. <br /><br />A few reviewers have suggested that Ben Koenig will be the new Jack Reacher. At first glance there are undeniable similarities. Like Reacher, Koenig is a drifter out there in the vastness of the US. Also like Reacher, he has a law-enforcement background but is also highly trained in the skills of violence. In addition, though he’s as rough and ready as they come on the outside, he also has a deep moral sense and innate hostility to those who do wrong, at whatever level of society they predate on the innocent. And again, pretty much like Jack Reacher, he encounters these warped individuals plenty often during his ramblings. <br /><br />But here, to be honest, the similarity ends. <br /><br />Koenig is not a physical giant who can knock six guys out with a single punch. By the same token, he is still, officially at least, a cop rather than a vigilante, and the investigations he often undertakes are official, albeit the legalities are clouded by the sort of uncertainties that only black ops can generate. (All this said, it would be remiss of me not to mention the amusing moment in the novel, when Mitch Burridge remonstrates with Koenig for going ‘all Jack Reacher’ on them). <br /><br />If anything, for me, there are probably more links between Ben Koenig and one of Craven’s parallel characters, Washington Poe. At first glance, you might disagree. Poe, you’d rightly argue is a regular police officer based in the north of England, and he is governed by the numerous controls that prevent British cops using extreme methods. But Poe, who also has a military background, resents that. He can function inside the framework, but he doesn’t like it. He’ll readily strongarm villains if it’s required, because he sympathises with the law-abiding public ahead of them. On top of that, he’s an arch-cynic, and displays this attitude with just about everyone, friend and foe alike, and definitely to his superiors. In all these ways, and others, he is similar to Koenig, though Koenig, by the nature of who he is and what he does, and because he has almost no limits imposed on him in his efforts to secure justice, is the next stage along in terms of ferocity. <br /><br />Koenig also has the fearlessness factor, which is an ingenious way of explaining the recklessness he displays in his pursuit of the novel’s antagonists (and also a good way for the author to make him seem unreliable to his superiors without calling his abilities into question). <br /><br />If I was to liken Ben Koenig to any other action hero currently bestriding the genre, it would be Robert McCall, as interpreted by Denzel Washington in <b><i>The Equalizer</i></b> franchise, because Koenig, while he often keeps tight control of himself, is guaranteed bad news for the opposition in that he’s ruthless and vengeful, and when he tells a bad guy that he’s going to kill him, you know that it’s no idle threat. But also, and this is the most intriguing aspect of Ben Koenig, because he is so amazingly disciplined and methodical.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because this novel is written in the first person, it’s full of fascinating thought processes, as Koenig makes highly professional assessments of each and every predicament, reminding us constantly about the psychology of the opposition, about the potential of different weapons, about the advantages and disadvantages posed by each new location, about the best vehicles to use, about the distances he’ll need to travel, and the speed he’ll need to travel at, in order to disarm, cripple or kill an opponent, even about the different means available to him, sometimes which he must go out of his way to acquire, to foil sophisticated alarm systems or fox professional security staff. <br /><br />There is a plethora of such info in <i><b>Fearless</b></i>, but at no stage is it intrusive. For me, it illuminates the book, first of all because it assures the reader that our main protagonist is a real professional who knows exactly what he’s doing, and secondly because it offers a full and convincing explanation for why our main hero wins such regular and improbable victories. It absolutely is NOT the case, as we were so used to in Schwarzenegger and Stallone movies, that Koenig just turns up at the crucial moment, often having blundered his way there, and takes out every bad guy either because he has a bigger gun than they do or because they’re just rank poor shots. <br /><br />And yet this explanatory undertone is all done so succinctly and so interestingly that you can’t help but be seduced by it. And that brings me onto the quality of the writing itself. <br /><br />Whether he’s describing tense one-to-ones between vividly drawn and distinctive characters (all multi-levelled, not all of them even remotely likeable), whether it’s atmospheric description of the unforgiving badlands or, yes, those frequent, bone-crunching action sequences, Craven hits the mark each time. He’s a wordsmith of high technical skill. He can paint pretty pictures, but he keeps then tight and ultra-believable, and he knows how to let the narrative flow. It’s superb writing all-round, and it totally merits that overly-used honour ‘unputdownable’. <br /><br />More than likely, you’ll already know what you’re going to get with <b><i>Fearless</i></b>, but I’d just reiterate that this is one serious cut above the rest of the action-thriller genre. It’s high-quality work, and all built around an intriguing new character, who frankly, has got film and/or TV written all over him. <br /><br /><i>And now, here I go with my usual ill-advised attempt to cast this beast before the real film and TV people get their grubby mitts on it. It’s only a laugh, but hell, someone’s got to do it. <br /><br />Ben Koenig – Sebastian Stan <br />Jen Draper – Emily Blunt <br />Mitch Burridge – Forest Whitaker <br />Peyton North – Scott Adkins <br />Samuel – John David Washington</i></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-68874708650152120082023-06-05T06:27:00.001-07:002023-06-05T06:27:12.178-07:00Dark treats coming between now and 2024<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRt2VjJ3OTGpqvLAfagPgnMCQoSlj8OembwX85AM0956YOVd5Jpd1yLzgo6wufIAaiTEDv7pTqx5nkcY_nC5BRa5BpFgVeJLDbjbxK-jVJr_29UXkb_b_YpXHwUm20nkaPjDXMEbpDqMfU7Rmjk6DXhgdpF7ZrZEFOCYwUfUKZqVRNR0oDKBJcjjH/s785/scary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="785" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguRt2VjJ3OTGpqvLAfagPgnMCQoSlj8OembwX85AM0956YOVd5Jpd1yLzgo6wufIAaiTEDv7pTqx5nkcY_nC5BRa5BpFgVeJLDbjbxK-jVJr_29UXkb_b_YpXHwUm20nkaPjDXMEbpDqMfU7Rmjk6DXhgdpF7ZrZEFOCYwUfUKZqVRNR0oDKBJcjjH/w400-h225/scary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><b>It seems like yesterday when I posted my round-up of eagerly anticipated forthcoming reads for the first half of this year, and yet amazingly to me, that was a whole six months ago ... yep, it was that dullest, coldest month of the year, January, the skies leaden, the ground frozen. Not so now of course. Now, we’re in the heart of flaming June, and a what a glorious one it’s looking like. Bright sunshine, blue skies, green countryside. What more could you ask?<br /><br />And to add to the general joy, June also means that I will today present my second half of the year’s list of upcoming works of dark fiction.<br /><br />In a nutshell, I’ll be running a rule over the 10 crime novels, the 10 thriller novels and the 10 horror novels (and anthologies) due to be released between the end of this month and the end of December that I am most looking forward to.</b><div><b><br />As usual though, there are other treats on offer too. Given that we are talking crime, thriller and horror today, I’ve opted for a book to review that incorporates all three: </b><b>Joan Samson’s compelling literary chiller, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Auctioneer-Valancourt-20th-Century-Classics/dp/1948405687/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685955346&sr=1-1">THE AUCTIONEER</a>. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>As always, you’ll find that in the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section at the bottom end of today’s post. Before any of that though, let’s see what the immediate future holds bookwise …</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><h3><b><span style="text-align: left;">DARK TREATS DUE BETWEEN NOW AND 2024 </span></b></h3><b><span style="text-align: left;">Titles to read with the light on</span></b></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div>There isn’t enough space or time to list every book due for publication later this year that I’m looking forward to, so as usual, I’ve cherry-picked thirty that I hope to get hold in the second half of 2023, specifically those published between the start of July and the end of December. </div><div><br /></div><div>For those new to this column, it is mainly dedicated to ‘dark fiction,’ which means <b>Crime</b>, <b>Thriller</b> and <b>Horror</b>. So, in the spirit of giving each of those subgenres an equal crack of the whip, I’ve selected ten of each that are due out between now and the end of the year.<br /><br />I don’t expect everyone to agree with my choices, and no doubt there’ll be some very cool upcoming titles that I’ve missed out on. I can only apologise for that in advance and point out in mitigation that I am only human and don’t get everything right. But feel free to note any additions to this list in the Comments section.</div><div><br /></div><div>As always, because I haven’t read any of these books yet, I’ll be leaving it to the publishers to do the main selling job by featuring the back-cover blurb for each title that I choose, along with the jacket art …</div><div><br /></div><div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>CRIME</b></h2><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzCIpAreSnVfMs228oVd2K0rAT9ntBmxAAUSabGZfS1PEDohWW1YJGHj161OafGtniDBxrtGk9K5swLNpfDijV8n8dFmaQ7MyJPofuum6RgbPh6Qg0T-EZ5NymLDhxPW7O9U8leeghIrjXJgNcbwalJDwBZjDebUEys1RMC109oGFP3MsW808E5fz/s499/51uU1iZcsWL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzCIpAreSnVfMs228oVd2K0rAT9ntBmxAAUSabGZfS1PEDohWW1YJGHj161OafGtniDBxrtGk9K5swLNpfDijV8n8dFmaQ7MyJPofuum6RgbPh6Qg0T-EZ5NymLDhxPW7O9U8leeghIrjXJgNcbwalJDwBZjDebUEys1RMC109oGFP3MsW808E5fz/s320/51uU1iZcsWL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bone-Hacker-Kathy-Reichs/dp/1398510831/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685945912&sr=1-1">THE BONE HACKER</a> </b><div><b>by Kathy Reichs</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb, hb and Audible on Aug 3)</i><br /><br /><b>Even on an island paradise, danger still lurks</b><br /><br />Called in to examine what is left of a body struck by lightning, Temperance Brennan traces an unusual tattoo to its source and is soon embroiled in a much larger case. Young men – tourists – have been disappearing on the islands of Turks and Caicos for years. Seven years ago, the first victim was found with both hands cut off; the other visitors vanished without a trace. But recently, tantalizing leads have emerged and only Tempe can unravel them.<br /><br />Maddeningly, the victims seem to have nothing in common – other than the unusual locations where their bodies are eventually found, and the fact that the young men all seem to be the least likely to be involved in foul play. Do these attacks have something to do with the islands’ seething culture of gang violence? Tempe isn’t so sure. And then she turns up disturbing clues that what’s at stake may actually have global significance.<br /><br />It isn’t long before the sound of a ticking clock grows menacingly loud, and then Tempe herself becomes a target.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItIU02Y2jKDdxz-YbhaY1QT4NNjyZWjF-gwHq3HYIeOSF5TUsmeog4y5t-_RLrPu721jxB1zrOGlcFjmq88g44OL5XqGwDBu0D9yVFYSIpEjI2Gzlhgq5Iy7Fu585c_qoCPJKsjvrP2tX2s0mFSMi7KiLEUc18YsJKIh_ohqGfDf1pKReuaWjoIcd/s500/51VF9-r+IwL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItIU02Y2jKDdxz-YbhaY1QT4NNjyZWjF-gwHq3HYIeOSF5TUsmeog4y5t-_RLrPu721jxB1zrOGlcFjmq88g44OL5XqGwDBu0D9yVFYSIpEjI2Gzlhgq5Iy7Fu585c_qoCPJKsjvrP2tX2s0mFSMi7KiLEUc18YsJKIh_ohqGfDf1pKReuaWjoIcd/s320/51VF9-r+IwL.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Without-Trace-detective-unexpected-Geraldine/dp/0857304755/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685945997&sr=1-1">WITHOUT TRACE </a></b></div><div><b>by Leigh Russell</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb on Aug 3, in pb on Aug 31)</i><br /><br />She opened her mouth to scream, but he slapped something across her lips. The gag tasted of salt and mould, rough sacking on her tongue.<br /><br />With a terrifying certainty, she knew she was going to die.<br /><br />DI Geraldine Steel knows people go missing all the time; sometimes because they don’t want to be found. So when her partner Ian asks her to look into the disappearance of his football-buddy’s girlfriend, her first instinct is to reassure him there’s no need for concern.<br /><br />Until she’s called to a suspected murder, and all her instincts tell her she’s right about the identity of the victim.<br /><br />The young woman has earth and leaf mould and fragments of twigs in her long fair hair, her nose, her mouth, under her finger nails, clinging to her clothes. It’s as if she’d been completely encased in earth. And yet she was found on the pavement, at the side of a suburban road, where she wasn’t in contact with any soil or mud.<br /><br />Had she managed to escape a living grave?<br /><br />Without a crime scene, the investigation focuses on her boyfriend. But Ian insists his friend is incapable of murder, and Steel is torn. Without evidence, she knows their case is weak. But without evidence, can she let a possible killer go free?<br /><br />She needs to find out what really happened. Where did the assault occur? Why are there traces of DNA from two other unidentified sources on the body? What reason could there be to attack a popular young woman who never did anyone any harm? And why bury her body so carelessly that she was able to escape?<br /><br />Then another young woman is reported missing. Unless he has an accomplice, they have an innocent man in custody. And Steel is running out of time ...<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBpmi_G7nc5W44ZROBHGQMI8EKKzRLg9W2NLJ0bFW8nHqisJ4NZcVhZOpR2jazgNr1ApLar1GjXoqEZ_aTVs5fPwVEflFXQElijc-wIM3YMOhrqn0ww7W4GSIz51O5fQ5D49ZVRKvtflAbZS8HAA22noNxgJ4b0bQ3A3mHWpXMw8qRPzvt9IaDH8z/s499/51BpUJnyZ4L._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfBpmi_G7nc5W44ZROBHGQMI8EKKzRLg9W2NLJ0bFW8nHqisJ4NZcVhZOpR2jazgNr1ApLar1GjXoqEZ_aTVs5fPwVEflFXQElijc-wIM3YMOhrqn0ww7W4GSIz51O5fQ5D49ZVRKvtflAbZS8HAA22noNxgJ4b0bQ3A3mHWpXMw8qRPzvt9IaDH8z/s320/51BpUJnyZ4L._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Things-Get-Ugly-Fiction-Lansdale/dp/1616963964/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3OK42BDEHBXP3&keywords=THINGS+GET+UGLY+by+Joe+R+Lansdale&qid=1685946070&s=books&sprefix=things+get+ugly+by+joe+r+lansdale%2Cstripbooks%2C711&sr=1-1">THINGS GET UGLY</a> </b></div><div><b>by Joe R Lansdale </b><br /><i>(Pub in pb on Aug 15)</i><br /><br />In the 1950s, a young small-town projectionist mixes it up with a violent gang. </div><div><br /></div><div>When Mr. Bear is not alerting us to the dangers of forest fires, he lives a life of debauchery and murder. </div><div><br /></div><div>A brother and sister travel to Oklahoma to recover the dead body of their uncle. </div><div><br /></div><div>A lonely man engages in dubious acts while pining for his rubber duckie.<br /><br />In this collection of nineteen unforgettable crime tales, Joe R. Lansdale brings his legendary mojo and gritty, dark humor to harrowing heists, revenge, homicide, and mayhem. No matter how they begin, things are bound to get ugly - and fast.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDSBdFXd7LH0ljZ9jZY04ipQC7mgq21on_H0v2hhsP-8BfBKHJ25AOQKsFHNZs5RDKxpyBA-E2vC3_PimGCaNKeIwjuUKYfUtp5Y49AOfIrBLX_E3BD_JQMDw3wV_8HLVwTgJ4AQcnJwt9He1JvaN2IrceQoaa6JfsXvPCCzuHmXAMHPOaZNwg81C/s499/51mWaQIlgnL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihDSBdFXd7LH0ljZ9jZY04ipQC7mgq21on_H0v2hhsP-8BfBKHJ25AOQKsFHNZs5RDKxpyBA-E2vC3_PimGCaNKeIwjuUKYfUtp5Y49AOfIrBLX_E3BD_JQMDw3wV_8HLVwTgJ4AQcnJwt9He1JvaN2IrceQoaa6JfsXvPCCzuHmXAMHPOaZNwg81C/s320/51mWaQIlgnL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Raging-Storm-brilliant-featuring-bestselling/dp/1529077699/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685946124&sr=1-3">THE RAGING STORM </a></b></div><div><b>by Ann Cleeves</b><br /><i>(pub in hb, eb and on Audible on Aug 31)</i><br /><br />When Jem Rosco – sailor, adventurer and local legend – blows into town in the middle of an autumn gale, the residents of Greystone, Devon, are delighted to have a celebrity in their midst. The residents think nothing of it when Rosco disappears again; that’s the sort of man he is.<br /><br />Until the lifeboat is launched to a hoax call-out during a raging storm and his body is found in a dinghy, anchored off Scully Cove, a place with legends of its own.<br /><br />This is an uncomfortable case for DI Matthew Venn. He came to the remote village as a child, its community populated by the Barum Brethren that he parted ways with, so when superstition and rumour mix and another body is found in the cove, Matthew soon finds his judgement clouded.<br /><br />As the stormy winds howl and the village is cut off, Venn and his team start their investigation, little realizing their own lives might be in danger...<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-AetI0CYAy2wPkzGlCjMXtKgXHvOZp_qdJc5p_Xjzis8GGPPF3R1s0dwJeR5r2FPYcgsHcQ2oL9hppI4SHnqn4PSn4KdDFzXnPgY3BT1RvdnedaMsSKJCVNurBi8SyVV1FkVCsss4wMrrs_l4zvJl9h-kysZ6Gfrh5OahZCFa1DmQYZu8ChBsuVX/s499/51-FFly7YxL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-AetI0CYAy2wPkzGlCjMXtKgXHvOZp_qdJc5p_Xjzis8GGPPF3R1s0dwJeR5r2FPYcgsHcQ2oL9hppI4SHnqn4PSn4KdDFzXnPgY3BT1RvdnedaMsSKJCVNurBi8SyVV1FkVCsss4wMrrs_l4zvJl9h-kysZ6Gfrh5OahZCFa1DmQYZu8ChBsuVX/s320/51-FFly7YxL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Stop-Them-Dead-Roy-Grace/dp/1529089964/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685946200&sr=1-1">STOP THEM DEAD</a> </b></div><div><b>by Peter James</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb, hb and Audible on Sept 28)</i><br /><br />A ruthless crime. A race against time.<br /><br />When a young farmer confronts intruders in the middle of the night he has no idea that just minutes later he will be left dying in a pool of blood. What’s more chilling is what the perpetrators were willing to kill for.<br /><br />At the scene of the crime, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace soon realises this is no isolated robbery gone wrong but the tip of the iceberg of a nationwide crime wave, in which ruthless organised gangs are making more money from the illegal trade in dogs than drugs. A trade which pits him against some ruthless people who will kill anyone who gets in their way, because where there is greed, there is murder.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqS2cnoUIQGlY6FVGwDgCZdi5P18zmbIZ7eBWGSkUeIxsKzCzV7_i_ZBJt0zUEwF7e5H-wIweOUxnlc1zko3wMPMB_rG3FajRD5YHoYODJiLD43FBbCL1jYt0_x_s7i-Heh4QEkXIiU2-KDdmwR4CHM6uvTvNZrEIa-XfAoU6iXGb4dBM0iFYkjEO/s499/51gDmAkuCvL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsqS2cnoUIQGlY6FVGwDgCZdi5P18zmbIZ7eBWGSkUeIxsKzCzV7_i_ZBJt0zUEwF7e5H-wIweOUxnlc1zko3wMPMB_rG3FajRD5YHoYODJiLD43FBbCL1jYt0_x_s7i-Heh4QEkXIiU2-KDdmwR4CHM6uvTvNZrEIa-XfAoU6iXGb4dBM0iFYkjEO/s320/51gDmAkuCvL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Night-Maxim-Jakubowsku/dp/B0BVF1971L/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">BLACK IS THE NIGHT</a> </b></div><div><b>ed by Maxim Jakubowski </b><br /><i>(Pub in pb on Oct 3)</i><br /><br />An anthology of exclusive new short stories in tribute to the master of pulp era crime writing, Cornell Woolrich. Woolrich, also published as William Irish and George Hopley, stands with Raymond Chandler, Erle Stanley Gardner and Dashiell Hammett as a legend in the genre.<br /><br />He is a hugely influential figure for crime writers, and is also remembered through the 50+ films made from his novels and stories, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, The Bride Wore Black, I Married a Dead Man, Phantom Lady, Truffaut's La Sirène du Mississippi, and Black Alibi.<br /><br />Collected and edited by one of the most experienced editors in the field, Maxim Jakubowski, features original work from: Neil Gaiman, Joel Lane, Joe R. Lansdale, Vaseem Khan, Brandon Barrows, Tara Moss, Kim Newman, Nick Mamatas, Mason Cross, Martin Edwards, Donna Moore, James Grady, Lavie Tidhar, Barry N. Malzberg, James Sallis, A.K. Benedict, Warren Moore, Max Décharné, Paul Di Filippo, M.W. Craven, Charles Ardai, Susi Holliday, Bill Pronzini, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Maxim Jakubowski, Joseph S. Walker, Samantha Lee Howe, O'Neil De Noux, David Quantick, Ana Teresa Pereira, William Boyle.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2zMZKX_T-fEyqqWIqKf5eE6mbg6fCX1Qz64hUjpdc5nf11rKwQbqWRoIcmh3qkwW591Ts-ympKxeBzPzpolqN6EaM_W-cblx9jGizLp5jfvdKkh8XFiwz7b30TKGHtereMvUt7g7_eV1hDhsZtMoj1rjY_r49r2ul-0dmkHJVjKsna-_MF21tv6P/s752/515udEAfx9L._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2zMZKX_T-fEyqqWIqKf5eE6mbg6fCX1Qz64hUjpdc5nf11rKwQbqWRoIcmh3qkwW591Ts-ympKxeBzPzpolqN6EaM_W-cblx9jGizLp5jfvdKkh8XFiwz7b30TKGHtereMvUt7g7_eV1hDhsZtMoj1rjY_r49r2ul-0dmkHJVjKsna-_MF21tv6P/s320/515udEAfx9L._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/BRIGHTON-MYSTERY-7-ELLY-GRIFFITHS/dp/1529409926/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685946365&sr=1-3">THE GREAT DECEIVER</a> </b></div><div><b>by Elly Griffiths</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb, hb and Audible on Oct 24)</i><br /><br />Magician Max Mephisto, now divorced and living in London, is on his way to visit daughter Ruby and her new-born baby when he is hailed by a voice from the past, fellow performer Ted English, aka the Great Deceiver. Ted’s assistant, Cherry, has been found dead in her Brighton boarding house and he’s convinced that he’ll be accused of her murder.<br /><br />Max agrees to talk to his friend, Superintendent Edgar Stephens, who is investigating the case. What Max doesn’t know is that the girl’s family have hired private detective duo Emma Holmes (aka Mrs Stephens) and Sam Collins to do some digging of their own.<br /><br />The inhabitants of the boarding house, most of whom are performing in an Old Time Music Hall show on Brighton pier, are a motley crew. The house is also connected to a sinister radio personality called Pal. Ruby, along with every woman in showbusiness, has heard some disturbing rumours about Pal.<br /><br />When a second magician’s assistant is killed, Edgar suspects a serial killer. He has the wild idea of persuading Max to come out of semi-retirement and take part in a summer show. But who can pose as his assistant? Edgar shocks the team by recommending someone close ...<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXF9odhDPjI6kl4xEmH5zUYVwGWmk1ZwqK1dJg4lY9jjqoCXJbO16J8YIuLt2wTpfLZxUZ4q0mppxhBeXbrGeEHQ-hYYl_2TMB1laTWoLwrAYlejG8EdCqrJeaeCMCrFq4JL4EN88yQ5iP8SF5EF_IO0wUiJtMDDn7QX8T52B2h6jBDntth_TGR2Mu/s499/51cKfryQ7ML._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXF9odhDPjI6kl4xEmH5zUYVwGWmk1ZwqK1dJg4lY9jjqoCXJbO16J8YIuLt2wTpfLZxUZ4q0mppxhBeXbrGeEHQ-hYYl_2TMB1laTWoLwrAYlejG8EdCqrJeaeCMCrFq4JL4EN88yQ5iP8SF5EF_IO0wUiJtMDDn7QX8T52B2h6jBDntth_TGR2Mu/s320/51cKfryQ7ML._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Resurrection-Walk-Blockbuster-Lincoln-Thriller/dp/1398718963/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685946440&sr=1-1">RESURRECTION WALK</a> </b></div><div><b>by Michael Connelly</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb, pb and Audible on Nov 7) </i><br /><br />Defense attorney Mickey Haller is back, taking the long shot cases, where the chances of winning are one in a million. He agrees to represent a woman in prison for killing her husband, a sheriff’s deputy. Despite her conviction four years earlier, she still maintains her innocence. Haller enlists his half brother, retired LAPD Detective Harry Bosch, as investigator. Reviewing the case, Bosch sees something that doesn’t add up, and a sheriff’s department intent on bringing a quick search for justice in the killing of one of its own.<br /><br />The path to justice for both the lawyer and his investigator is fraught with danger from those who don’t want the case reopened. And they will stop at nothing to keep the Haller-Bosch dream team from uncovering what the deputy’s killing was really about.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5DYyNLvk_EgGexmdaosKKXil3lPMiOKAlVZgkEiVopqh_BblYuouSTJ8TICp_dYKeGsOpyiBLQqLesuzVhx6X1LiMtPPqIKsUaGDmDMYiNPdm0hM-E2zbLtCkg8cYPbG2_ZHlkkRW4A8mnazEDog6Tfd7LwxWnpoPbaHvyImpWjBufu7mnNDYbL7e/s499/41siH8eBDnL._SX321_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="323" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5DYyNLvk_EgGexmdaosKKXil3lPMiOKAlVZgkEiVopqh_BblYuouSTJ8TICp_dYKeGsOpyiBLQqLesuzVhx6X1LiMtPPqIKsUaGDmDMYiNPdm0hM-E2zbLtCkg8cYPbG2_ZHlkkRW4A8mnazEDog6Tfd7LwxWnpoPbaHvyImpWjBufu7mnNDYbL7e/s320/41siH8eBDnL._SX321_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sweet-Thing-Novel-David-Swinson/dp/0316528617/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685946482&sr=1-1">SWEET THING</a> </b></div><div><b>by David Swinson</b><br /><i>(Pub on eb and Audible on Nov 7, hb on Nov 23)</i><br /><br />In a red brick house on a tree-lined street, DC homicide detective Alex Blum stares at the bullet-pocked body of Chris Doyle. As he roots around for evidence, he finds an old polaroid: the deceased, arm in arm with Arthur Holland, Blum’s informant from years ago when he worked at the Narcotics branch.<br /><br />But Arthur has been missing for days. Blum’s only source: Arthur’s girl, Celeste - beautiful, seductive, and tragic - whom he can’t get out of his head. Blum is drawn to her and feels compelled to save her from Arthur’s underworld. As the investigation ticks on and dead bodies domino, Blum unearths clues with damning implications for Celeste. Swallowed by desire, Blum’s single misstep sends him tunnelling down a rabbit hole of transgression. He may soon find the only way out is down below.<br /><br />Set in 1999, Swinson, a former DC cop, offers a look back at a rougher, grittier, bygone DC replete with seedy strip clubs, pagers beeping, and Y2K anxiety. It's here we're taken inside sting operations, fluorescent-tinged interrogation chambers, and rooms that have seen irreversible mistakes. At once authentic, gritty, tragic, and profound, SWEET THING asks how far can you fall when the world teeters on the edge?<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKApnSpMbT-jPdHphdwhnHBO4K00_UuYjmy9ljk6_-NMu0ruQNVhElS-ce9YOHlvp3Erz9A0iyN1VDI-9zfDpLy5YE_ZTKOU6GSAOu1utqUdNy_c1junuvfuMxmFmAiYRvjRU6dwtiogtCCLF-Bj0JUdh8iGYElVTZdbdJpREGsfNW_s7gBTHoj8s/s500/518gpzbxa4L.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKApnSpMbT-jPdHphdwhnHBO4K00_UuYjmy9ljk6_-NMu0ruQNVhElS-ce9YOHlvp3Erz9A0iyN1VDI-9zfDpLy5YE_ZTKOU6GSAOu1utqUdNy_c1junuvfuMxmFmAiYRvjRU6dwtiogtCCLF-Bj0JUdh8iGYElVTZdbdJpREGsfNW_s7gBTHoj8s/s320/518gpzbxa4L.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Watchmakers-Hand-Jeffery-Deaver-ebook/dp/B0C32JBMC2/ref=sr_1_1?crid=23XSQURNI317K&keywords=THE+WATCHMAKER%E2%80%99S+HAND+by+Geoffrey+Deaver&qid=1685946547&s=books&sprefix=the+watchmaker+s+hand+by+geoffrey+deaver%2Cstripbooks%2C71&sr=1-1">THE WATCHMAKER</a></b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Watchmakers-Hand-Jeffery-Deaver-ebook/dp/B0C32JBMC2/ref=sr_1_1?crid=23XSQURNI317K&keywords=THE+WATCHMAKER%E2%80%99S+HAND+by+Geoffrey+Deaver&qid=1685946547&s=books&sprefix=the+watchmaker+s+hand+by+geoffrey+deaver%2Cstripbooks%2C71&sr=1-1">’</a><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Watchmakers-Hand-Jeffery-Deaver-ebook/dp/B0C32JBMC2/ref=sr_1_1?crid=23XSQURNI317K&keywords=THE+WATCHMAKER%E2%80%99S+HAND+by+Geoffrey+Deaver&qid=1685946547&s=books&sprefix=the+watchmaker+s+hand+by+geoffrey+deaver%2Cstripbooks%2C71&sr=1-1">S HAND</a> </b></div><div><b>by Geoffrey Deaver</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb on Nov 23, in hb on Nov 28)<br /></i><br />Looming over the Manhattan skyline, a lone crane comes crashing down into the city, sending panic radiating across New York City.<br /><br />NY Detective Lon Sellitto believes a political group is behind the sabotage, and turns to Lincoln Rhyme for help. He believes this is just the beginning. Their aim? To have a ruthless killer released from prison.<br /><br />Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs must race to stop further attacks before more chaos is unleashed upon the city.<br /><br />Meanwhile, The Watchmaker has Rhyme in his sights, and is preparing to strike…<br /><br /><br /><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>THRILLER</b></h2><div><br /></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZ3prdDOJI3CmBjz79wAYGCn_ufSJBRpda7SMupu4dVeNKmb88VCmGEjJMf6VZ2E6QpcPKvw6HDYbUp1nNVESPYeQ7MK5VWyNbTuwGRaPABxp9TMK09TPMfQsJ_7dJtgJzn9y-5KIa8sF1yaKP2iC232WRS73PZrK9wMl4YOqTdwmhdOapESiZtHG/s499/41I0DJnZ2ML._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZ3prdDOJI3CmBjz79wAYGCn_ufSJBRpda7SMupu4dVeNKmb88VCmGEjJMf6VZ2E6QpcPKvw6HDYbUp1nNVESPYeQ7MK5VWyNbTuwGRaPABxp9TMK09TPMfQsJ_7dJtgJzn9y-5KIa8sF1yaKP2iC232WRS73PZrK9wMl4YOqTdwmhdOapESiZtHG/s320/41I0DJnZ2ML._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rule-Three-chilling-suspense-thriller/dp/1398514977/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2T8LRWJUDTDOQ&keywords=THE+RULE+OF+THREE+by+Sam+Ripley&qid=1685946590&s=books&sprefix=the+rule+of+three+by+sam+ripley%2Cstripbooks%2C62&sr=1-1">THE RULE OF THREE</a> </b></div><div><b>by Sam Ripley</b><br /><i>(Pub in hb, eb and Audible on Jun 2)</i><br /><br />That’s the one.<br />That’s the girl who’s going to die.<br /> <br />I didn’t believe in the Rule of Three. Not at first.<br />It was just one of those urban myths you hear about all the time.<br />A story my boyfriend told me about a girl cursed by the number three.<br />A girl whose parents had killed themselves after her sibling had died in an accident.<br />Which meant that she was doomed to die too because that’s the Rule of Three.<br /> <br />Bad things always happen in threes, they say, and they are right.<br />Because it’s happening again.<br />But this time the curse is coming for me.<br />And worst of all?<br />It’s coming for you, too.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr053_pravzJf8upfac-T_JfTBwH19mqXnd09GUtu_Rd5Os_HxPIEfeYN05gTkO_FfenlqfL6sy7R7c_p68aiO_t5IGkdUVGvay4IY2aFp4Cf9AXuU1I_GNSc9aNPeplYarnEpcfqSGpQbT8wo6B3UZlwCBDV587SWaMd3nwbdciNwZ-7zre6x3WXE/s754/51IuEysSBTL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr053_pravzJf8upfac-T_JfTBwH19mqXnd09GUtu_Rd5Os_HxPIEfeYN05gTkO_FfenlqfL6sy7R7c_p68aiO_t5IGkdUVGvay4IY2aFp4Cf9AXuU1I_GNSc9aNPeplYarnEpcfqSGpQbT8wo6B3UZlwCBDV587SWaMd3nwbdciNwZ-7zre6x3WXE/s320/51IuEysSBTL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Only-One-Left-gripping-genre-bending/dp/1399712373/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685946634&sr=1-1">THE ONLY ONE LEFT</a> </b></div><div><b>by Riley Sager</b><br /><i>(Pub in hb, eb and on Audible on Jul 4, in pb on Dec 28)</i><br /><br /><i>At seventeen, Lenora Hope<br />Hung her sister with a rope</i><br /><br />Now reduced to a schoolyard chant, the Hope family murders shocked the Maine coast one bloody night in 1929. While most people assume seventeen-year-old Lenora was responsible, the police were never able to prove it. Other than her denial after the killings, she has never spoken publicly about that night, nor has she set foot outside Hope’s End, the cliffside mansion where the massacre occurred.<br /><br /><i>Stabbed her father with a knife<br />Took her mother's happy life</i><br /><br />It’s now 1983, and home-health aide Kit McDeere arrives at a decaying Hope’s End to care for Lenora after her previous nurse fled in the middle of the night. In her seventies and confined to a wheelchair, Lenora was rendered mute by a series of strokes and can only communicate with Kit by tapping out sentences on an old typewriter. One night, Lenora uses it to make a tantalizing offer-I want to tell you everything.<br /><br /><i>It wasn't me," Lenora said<br />But she’s the only one not dead<br /></i><br />As Kit helps Lenora write about the events leading to the Hope family massacre, it becomes clear there’s more to the tale than people know. But when new details about her predecessor’s departure come to light, Kit starts to suspect Lenora might not be telling the complete truth-and that the seemingly harmless woman in her care could be far more dangerous than she first thought.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_cqR5YstShZ4fP0kBSJS_iJPXbgMw4-cyUTRcRRqmkL6VbZN9oqd7jyFayRCmHQXWcTDXXRaK8pYnuzsAyrzRbhYmgABSSNin09N5x6qlmTU6D6JohUfvEbz__WO2U8rmyfLIIOWaqrwXxaiW79DCfEUdncQZrQf9xfnISSGCrlaSv84cFc1Cd0l/s499/51O05q-0t7L._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib_cqR5YstShZ4fP0kBSJS_iJPXbgMw4-cyUTRcRRqmkL6VbZN9oqd7jyFayRCmHQXWcTDXXRaK8pYnuzsAyrzRbhYmgABSSNin09N5x6qlmTU6D6JohUfvEbz__WO2U8rmyfLIIOWaqrwXxaiW79DCfEUdncQZrQf9xfnISSGCrlaSv84cFc1Cd0l/s320/51O05q-0t7L._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girl-Photo-utterly-gripping-thriller/dp/000843641X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=PMT55UWCAR2M&keywords=THE+GIRL+IN+THE+PHOTO+by+Sam+Carrington&qid=1685947183&s=books&sprefix=the+girl+in+the+photo+by+sam+carrington%2Cstripbooks%2C117&sr=1-1">THE GIRL IN THE PHOTO</a> </b></div><div><b>by Sam Carrington</b><br /><i>(Pub in pb, eb and Audible on Jul 20)</i><br /><br />Her child is missing. And she’d do anything to find her…<br /><br />Every Friday Mercy Hamilton goes to the same supermarket. She doesn’t go to buy groceries. Instead, she shows a fading photo of a little girl to anyone who’ll look – begging for help to find her daughter.<br /><br />One Friday, Erica Fielding comes across Mercy, and touched by her story, Erica agrees to help.<br /><br />As Erica is drawn deeper and deeper into Mercy’s life, she discovers there is no record of Mercy’s daughter. In fact, there’s no record of a child at all.<br /><br />But who is the girl in the photo if not Mercy’s missing daughter? And what danger will Erica find herself in by pursuing the truth?<div><br /></div><div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxViS20vrInqJhnQxFUtKxmfMD8xJuPzPP0-7Z6O2Gfd6qq1JueXr449JssmEEbwD0BbmlxmRiC1NLUHFmbq6VWs8_T8HMC150fCJgAKVaa5FPXY64svDgqQeR4bhqblsGYLrVJ0sfN4vHildxWa789-RgL5q4aP07dKU03eM1tu8UCHQc6_uo4hJ/s346/61qpR4Du+8L._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="230" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrxViS20vrInqJhnQxFUtKxmfMD8xJuPzPP0-7Z6O2Gfd6qq1JueXr449JssmEEbwD0BbmlxmRiC1NLUHFmbq6VWs8_T8HMC150fCJgAKVaa5FPXY64svDgqQeR4bhqblsGYLrVJ0sfN4vHildxWa789-RgL5q4aP07dKU03eM1tu8UCHQc6_uo4hJ/s320/61qpR4Du+8L._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kill-Me-You-twisting-bestseller/dp/1035408155/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685947269&sr=1-1">KILL FOR YOU, KILL FOR ME</a> </b></div><div><b>by Steve Cavanagh</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb and Audible on Jul 20, in hb on Aug 3)</i><br /><br />SHE WILL KILL YOUR WORST ENEMY. ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS KILL HERS.<br /><br />One dark evening in New York City, two strangers meet by chance.<br />Over drinks, Amanda and Wendy realise they have so much in common.<br /><br />They both feel alone. They both drink alone.</div><div><br />And they both desperately want revenge against the two men who destroyed their families.<br /><br />Together, they have the perfect plan.<br />If you kill for me, I’ll kill for you ...</div><div><br /></div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1VDiM5XnBGGiA-WjxQBTMQtAF_1f_Nj6MQT8ocSz4CZWE-eX79ivKJyeIcp3veBzxI2jfgPOspB-rX7M_kP86bPDSPKkF9om_1ZOcRPMVjsJPwfCh5oZda2AYvdW2qVP_AT-zzP_vulM7pmyUazBgOZePY02iWM0zazJvWRVWYXf3_oA0y_UIFh1/s499/41wq-YmHJKL._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1VDiM5XnBGGiA-WjxQBTMQtAF_1f_Nj6MQT8ocSz4CZWE-eX79ivKJyeIcp3veBzxI2jfgPOspB-rX7M_kP86bPDSPKkF9om_1ZOcRPMVjsJPwfCh5oZda2AYvdW2qVP_AT-zzP_vulM7pmyUazBgOZePY02iWM0zazJvWRVWYXf3_oA0y_UIFh1/s320/41wq-YmHJKL._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Linwood-Barclay-2023/dp/0008555699/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2J6PIEYJITRVD&keywords=THE+LIE+MAKER+by+Linwood+Barclay&qid=1685947233&s=books&sprefix=the+lie+maker+by+linwood+barclay%2Cstripbooks%2C63&sr=1-1">THE LIE MAKER</a> </b></div><div><b>by Linwood Barclay<br /></b><i>(Pub in hb and Audible on Aug 31)</i><br /><br />Your dad’s not a good person. Your dad killed people, son.<br /><br /></div><div>These are some of the last words Jack Givins’s father spoke to him before he was whisked away by Witness Protection, leaving Jack and his mother to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives.<br /><br />Years later, Jack is a struggling author, recruited by the US Marshals to create false histories for people in Witness Protection. Jack realises this may be a chance to find his dad – but then he discovers he’s gone missing, and he could be in serious danger.<br /><br />Jack knows he has to track him down. But how will he find a man he’s never truly known? And how will he evade his father’s deadly enemies – enemies who wouldn’t think twice about using his own son against him? <br /><br /></div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYIe4hAG-xYGECJEFp_gtSg2mCmk9-ekGggler3yWXvY8h7wgFLfZnlA5lP-HL7B-g7EGQ6hXoe9hsdY3gl4KLas_OX-YbRGKhFlbnrCIunQHyeHBpleqEnA0IKOo44Sva6KCp6pOdHRaF-RrpCpou8qp9DnMVrBKF39NIiVbuxAkBmPBuQkUb5il/s293/51rzalZeBeL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="191" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYIe4hAG-xYGECJEFp_gtSg2mCmk9-ekGggler3yWXvY8h7wgFLfZnlA5lP-HL7B-g7EGQ6hXoe9hsdY3gl4KLas_OX-YbRGKhFlbnrCIunQHyeHBpleqEnA0IKOo44Sva6KCp6pOdHRaF-RrpCpou8qp9DnMVrBKF39NIiVbuxAkBmPBuQkUb5il/s1600/51rzalZeBeL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Holly-chilling-masterwork-Sunday-bestseller/dp/1399712918/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685947302&sr=1-1">HOLLY</a> </b></div><div><b>by Stephen King</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb, hb and Audible on Sept 5)</i><br /><br />Stephen King’s HOLLY marks the triumphant return of beloved King character Holly Gibney. Readers have witnessed Holly’s gradual transformation from a shy (but also brave and ethical) recluse in Mr Mercedes to Bill Hodges’s partner in Finders Keepers to a full-fledged, smart, and occasionally tough private detective in The Outsider. In King’s new novel, Holly is on her own, and up against a pair of unimaginably depraved and brilliantly disguised adversaries.</div><div><br />When Penny Dahl calls the Finders Keepers detective agency hoping for help locating her missing daughter, Holly is reluctant to accept the case. Her partner, Pete, has Covid. Her (very complicated) mother has just died. And Holly is meant to be on leave. But something in Penny Dahl's desperate voice makes it impossible for Holly to turn her down.</div><div><br />Mere blocks from where Bonnie Dahl disappeared live Professors Rodney and Emily Harris. They are the picture of bourgeois respectability: married octogenarians, devoted to each other, and semi-retired lifelong academics. But they are harbouring an unholy secret in the basement of their well-kept, book-lined home, one that may be related to Bonnie’s disappearance. And it will prove nearly impossible to discover what they are up to: they are savvy, they are patient, and they are ruthless.</div><div><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDh35P7PDQUCnze71xEPa8gwXtiaRD5LWjNtN8UzmQtfOxPoQcTPCdDkqqwdBFN_erRWE25Nujn8JRAkEnDA8-ByE58wKfaV-W9daY-0EnN6QqqsL88ZsoAjEhBqMmEerJiXIfuCBa4pqqn4qAXEgVKuOpdxia5Mi0Y3yaFXKTFZ19KFGfK3OTqx0/s499/51IJdvg5peL._SX309_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="311" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDh35P7PDQUCnze71xEPa8gwXtiaRD5LWjNtN8UzmQtfOxPoQcTPCdDkqqwdBFN_erRWE25Nujn8JRAkEnDA8-ByE58wKfaV-W9daY-0EnN6QqqsL88ZsoAjEhBqMmEerJiXIfuCBa4pqqn4qAXEgVKuOpdxia5Mi0Y3yaFXKTFZ19KFGfK3OTqx0/s320/51IJdvg5peL._SX309_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="199" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Guest-classic-country-festive/dp/0571378773/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3OXWBXISDU8ZH&keywords=THE+CHRISTMAS+GUEST+by+Peter+Swanson&qid=1685947340&s=books&sprefix=the+christmas+guest+by+peter+swanson%2Cstripbooks%2C56&sr=1-1">THE CHRISTMAS GUEST</a> </b></div><div><b>by Peter Swanson</b><br /><i>(Pub in hb and Audible on Sept 28)</i><br /><br />When Ashley Smith - a bright-eyed but lonely American studying in London - is invited to spend Christmas with her classmate’s family at their Cotswolds manor house, it seems like a perfect country idyll.</div><div><br />And for Ashley - who records it all in her diary - there’s the added romantic potential of her friend's twin brother, Adam, who she thinks could be her wildest dream come true.</div><div><br />But is there something strange about the old house, both stately and rundown? What could the motives of the mysterious Chapman family be? And what holiday horrors might be lying in wait?<br /> <br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRcg00MZU11Qph3lpPRwA4BTezTzq_MchV_lSpNkN4F9RVssdFktXL2YwGszIF_K1iHg2-zBzy06cJXamdsZfriAxX-YGHHzkE3p1xEVjTv2f4qXd021u35VzavyvqWGkZ35JlgyYimZqqb951U4_ny28oYysVR05oAGTaLeC8rfao72jCdGkgokh/s499/51PxFCuffXL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRcg00MZU11Qph3lpPRwA4BTezTzq_MchV_lSpNkN4F9RVssdFktXL2YwGszIF_K1iHg2-zBzy06cJXamdsZfriAxX-YGHHzkE3p1xEVjTv2f4qXd021u35VzavyvqWGkZ35JlgyYimZqqb951U4_ny28oYysVR05oAGTaLeC8rfao72jCdGkgokh/s320/51PxFCuffXL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Exchange-After-biggest-Grisham-decade/dp/1399724827/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">THE EXCHANGE</a> </b></div><div><b>by John Grisham</b><br /><i>(Pub in hb, eb and Audible on Oct 17)</i><br /><br />What became of Mitch and Abby McDeere after they exposed the crimes of Memphis law firm Bendini, Lambert and Locke and fled the country?<br /><br />The answer is in THE EXCHANGE, the riveting sequel to the blockbuster thriller, THE FIRM.<br /><br />It is now fifteen years later, and Mitch and Abby are living in Manhattan, where Mitch is a partner at the largest law firm in the world. When a mentor in Rome asks him for a favour that will take him far from home, Mitch finds himself at the centre of a sinister plot that has worldwide implications - and once again endangers his colleagues, friends and family.</div><div><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVvDODYfYVG0yDfuR1uwdPESk5EE2lCHnNrwN9oG_3ZoxD-EYWDo0KFBoY7FaxI--Wk2qJjQNoAhhgtPYpeb0TUIp8Y2fYbpyMAyqnlaaoWRBSY9cqL7QszOVz5q5C89mRmCwZbQPig96xlspR6nF0AQIW1Wo_NVe-RAMVGotVHKc2H51xXfIdK6Y/s499/51Cxj3T45NL._SX321_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="323" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVvDODYfYVG0yDfuR1uwdPESk5EE2lCHnNrwN9oG_3ZoxD-EYWDo0KFBoY7FaxI--Wk2qJjQNoAhhgtPYpeb0TUIp8Y2fYbpyMAyqnlaaoWRBSY9cqL7QszOVz5q5C89mRmCwZbQPig96xlspR6nF0AQIW1Wo_NVe-RAMVGotVHKc2H51xXfIdK6Y/s320/51Cxj3T45NL._SX321_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Secret-Jack-Reacher-Novel/dp/0593793617/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685947502&sr=1-1">THE SECRET</a> </b></div><div><b>by Lee Child and Andrew Child</b><br /><i>(Pub in hb, pb, eb and Audible on Oct 24)</i><br /><br />1992. Eight respectable, upstanding people have been found dead across the United States. These deaths look like accidents and don’t appear to be connected until one body - the victim of a fatal fall from a hospital window - generates some unexpected attention.</div><div><br />That attention comes from the secretary of defence, who promptly calls for an interagency task force to investigate. Jack Reacher is assigned as the army's representative.<br /><br />Reacher may be an exceptional soldier, but sweeping other people’s secrets under the carpet isn’t part of his skill set. As he races to discover the link between these victims, and who killed them, he must navigate around the ulterior motives of his new partners, all while moving into the sight line of some of the most dangerous people he has ever encountered.</div><div><br />His mission is to uncover the truth. The question is: Will Reacher bring the bad guys to justice the official way ... or his way?<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9FOGneZ6YFLa4mSe5WO_0k_pCKYYYbBeDqyrRv6dYCJ82SK9zczQK0EIV0fhVtJ49O0jyi4NMQ8w61nvNhCUg1jL81P0MYn7OG2b--YWicMa0xHNw-Hxc703RQq2aExEpmywmZL3Th8sQJi-r2GeGu0CVM58V0aFnJqqdKbEdHM0vau4BlmmW4cX/s275/download.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9FOGneZ6YFLa4mSe5WO_0k_pCKYYYbBeDqyrRv6dYCJ82SK9zczQK0EIV0fhVtJ49O0jyi4NMQ8w61nvNhCUg1jL81P0MYn7OG2b--YWicMa0xHNw-Hxc703RQq2aExEpmywmZL3Th8sQJi-r2GeGu0CVM58V0aFnJqqdKbEdHM0vau4BlmmW4cX/s1600/download.png" width="183" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-Debt-non-stop-danger-filled-thriller-ebook/dp/B0BS3D6P98/ref=sr_1_1?crid=31P7JOQCY2WX6&keywords=BLOOD+DEBT+by+Tom+Wood&qid=1685947540&s=books&sprefix=blood+debt+by+tom+wood%2Cstripbooks%2C80&sr=1-1">BLOOD DEBT</a> </b></div><div><b>by Tom Wood </b><br /><i>(Pub in hb and eb on Nov 23)</i><br /><br />They want an eye for an eye. He’ll fight to the last drop is spilled.<br /><br />The incredible latest novel in the most visceral, action-packed series around sees the assassin Victor fighting enemies on all sides, with no allies in sight.<br /><br />To make amends for past mistakes, the enigmatic assassin known only as Victor is now in servitude to the world’s most dangerous criminal enterprise, the Russian Mafia. Although a hired gun without loyalties, Victor never picks a fight he cannot win so he intends to pay off his debt, however long it takes.</div><div><br />Yet when his new employer is shot dead in London, Victor has both the means and the motive to make him the most likely suspect. With a turf war breaking out in the power vacuum, and enemies on all sides, either Victor discovers who the real murderer is or suffer the full wrath of the Mafia's vengeance. <br /><br /><br /><h2 style="text-align: center;"><b>HORROR</b></h2><div><b><br /></b></div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTN8iPTqWIup2HLmwxUi0QUDW-CsGqI5FZW_vt9Hv9WG0OgnOIA4Z-CTcMN1fmv58vcZALUNhwORGPT-e33E-lH4jNw2lyvm0fk_NC2UmAZ1YyoRQzJskZHLWbwyZRe3nAFd-W2bTXPLCIO75U47DcZSLzj7RarLyiaP6SXdB8KzmyHwIObkorFVP/s499/41VamKVIZrL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTN8iPTqWIup2HLmwxUi0QUDW-CsGqI5FZW_vt9Hv9WG0OgnOIA4Z-CTcMN1fmv58vcZALUNhwORGPT-e33E-lH4jNw2lyvm0fk_NC2UmAZ1YyoRQzJskZHLWbwyZRe3nAFd-W2bTXPLCIO75U47DcZSLzj7RarLyiaP6SXdB8KzmyHwIObkorFVP/s320/41VamKVIZrL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Others-Edenwell-Verity-M-Holloway/dp/1803363959/ref=sr_1_1?crid=4S5MYYMHYICI&keywords=THE+OTHERS+OF+EDENWELL+by+Verity+M+Holloway&qid=1685947578&s=books&sprefix=the+others+of+edenwell+by+verity+m+holloway%2Cstripbooks%2C87&sr=1-1">THE OTHERS OF EDENWELL</a> </b></div><div><b>by Verity M Holloway</b><br /><i>(Pub in pb and eb on July 4)<br /></i><br />Norfolk, 1917. Unable to join the army due to a heart condition, Freddie lives and works with his father in the grounds of the Edenwell Hydropathic, a wellness retreat in the Norfolk broads. Preferring the company of birds – who talk to him as one of their own – over the eccentric characters who live in the spa, bathing in its healing waters, Freddie overhears their premonitions of murder.<br /><br />Eustace Moncrieff is a troublemaker, desperate to go to war and leave behind his wealthy family. Shipped to Edenwell by his mother to keep him safe from the horrors of the trenches, he strikes up a friendship with Freddie at the behest of Doctor Chalice, the American owner of the Hydropathic.<br /><br />As the two friends grow closer and grapple with their demons, they discover a body, and something terrifying stalking the woods. The dark halls of the spa are breached, haunted by the woodland beast, and the boys soon realise that they may be the only things standing between this monster and the whole of Edenwell.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4waYFZq2KvrcC3yOCJk9G0bH3fgQDEKxXnuPKYshIzAdQfvY2t9SaI2tDw8cJ_4i0hWucBqJwZcogUqClR8Yd4wYIWD51idu6szJokanA5YnEKiLsCMKFnMO4w8L6EYYrVn5QVVr6xLCk8byRiVxeFqdkbwuQD0JSc-Rq9yyYxm_LKOfjtoyMePD9/s499/41gJS6hzonL._SX318_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4waYFZq2KvrcC3yOCJk9G0bH3fgQDEKxXnuPKYshIzAdQfvY2t9SaI2tDw8cJ_4i0hWucBqJwZcogUqClR8Yd4wYIWD51idu6szJokanA5YnEKiLsCMKFnMO4w8L6EYYrVn5QVVr6xLCk8byRiVxeFqdkbwuQD0JSc-Rq9yyYxm_LKOfjtoyMePD9/s320/41gJS6hzonL._SX318_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="205" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Boys-Valley-Philip-Fracassi/dp/0356520552/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685947654&sr=1-1">BOYS IN THE VALLEY</a> </b></div><div><b>by Philip Fracassi</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb and Audible on Jul 11, pb on Jul 13)</i><br /><br />St. Vincent’s Orphanage for Boys. Turn of the century, in a remote valley in Pennsylvania.</div><div><br />Here, under the watchful eyes of several priests, thirty boys work, learn, and worship. Peter Barlow, orphaned as a child by a gruesome murder, has made a new life here. As he approaches adulthood, he has friends, a future ... a family.<br /><br />Then, late one stormy night, a group of men arrive at their door, one of whom is badly wounded, occult symbols carved into his flesh. His death releases an ancient evil that spreads like sickness, infecting St. Vincent’s and the children within.</div><div><br />Soon, boys begin acting differently, forming groups. Taking sides. Others turn up dead. Now Peter and those dear to him must choose sides of their own, each of them knowing their lives - and perhaps their eternal souls - are at risk.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4verD7ZqUI1BG8LZFplJn6E2ijMjTPNx48Ei2yFrEBQE9hEZRlkKPYeb3QmP97WXP2TEh0RrQTUYR8DBYW7WQpnHr-JApWLOfz-5vdzTB78RZ7gumI0Cd-TICu8r_mfSZQNRb-wDQVUWx_RuSy4plk20iWCl_pcHbuJ9tXo0L-totVhLudPu0l1n/s499/510mtd2IEQL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4verD7ZqUI1BG8LZFplJn6E2ijMjTPNx48Ei2yFrEBQE9hEZRlkKPYeb3QmP97WXP2TEh0RrQTUYR8DBYW7WQpnHr-JApWLOfz-5vdzTB78RZ7gumI0Cd-TICu8r_mfSZQNRb-wDQVUWx_RuSy4plk20iWCl_pcHbuJ9tXo0L-totVhLudPu0l1n/s320/510mtd2IEQL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Beast-You-Are-Stories/dp/1803364270/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1DBI320JF9QT4&keywords=THE+BEAST+YOU+ARE+by+Paul+Tremblay&qid=1685947692&s=books&sprefix=the+beast+you+are+by+paul+tremblay%2Cstripbooks%2C73&sr=">THE BEAST YOU ARE</a> </b></div><div><b>by Paul Tremblay</b><br /><i>(Pub in pb, eb and Audible on Jul 11)</i><br /><br />Paul Tremblay has won widespread acclaim for illuminating the dark horrors of the mind in novels and stories that push the boundaries of storytelling itself. The fifteen pieces in this brilliant collection, The Beast You Are, are all monsters of a kind, ready to loudly (and lovingly) smash through your head and into your heart.<br /><br />In “The Dead Thing,” a middle-schooler struggles to deal with the aftermath of her parents’ substance addictions and split. One day, her little brother claims he found a shoebox with “the dead thing” inside. He won’t show it to her and he won’t let the box out of his sight. In “The Last Conversation,” a person wakes in a sterile, white room and begins to receive instructions via intercom from a woman named Anne. When they are finally allowed to leave the room to complete a task, what they find is as shocking as it is heartbreaking.<br /><br />The title novella, “The Beast You Are,” is a mini epic in which the destinies and secrets of a village, a dog, and a cat are intertwined with a giant monster that returns to wreak havoc every thirty years.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYmk094R1b6bAVMTX7hsoQiKC9aFYcwaTmQSpjDbfSWDw2sAPeE4blIojKgRv7sTlcZxTc6l88Vytl7U6aWj1oerlVNYjWh9dhCy28ONhFfx4VFhD1vxdVJyj0g0vCQagIMy5C6f4jfZK9HbtmxYbdl6gfPJzPlFQx3lVQAYKfi6LcsPEvBsW2eVXm/s499/416KOlpVa2L._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYmk094R1b6bAVMTX7hsoQiKC9aFYcwaTmQSpjDbfSWDw2sAPeE4blIojKgRv7sTlcZxTc6l88Vytl7U6aWj1oerlVNYjWh9dhCy28ONhFfx4VFhD1vxdVJyj0g0vCQagIMy5C6f4jfZK9HbtmxYbdl6gfPJzPlFQx3lVQAYKfi6LcsPEvBsW2eVXm/s320/416KOlpVa2L._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Zero-Sum-Joyce-Carol-Oates/dp/0008609764/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3MODWTGVULSWJ&keywords=ZERO+SUM+by+Joyce+Carol+Oates&qid=1685947726&s=books&sprefix=zero+sum+by+joyce+carol+oates%2Cstripbooks%2C76&sr=1-1">ZERO SUM</a> </b></div><div><b>by Joyce Carol Oates</b><br /><i>(Pub in eb and Audible on Jul 18, in hb on Jul 20)</i><br /><br />Zero-sum games are played for lethal stakes in these arresting stories by one of America’s most acclaimed writers.<br /><br />A brilliant young philosophy student bent on seducing her famous philosopher-mentor finds herself outmanoeuvered; diabolically clever high school girls wreak a particularly apt sort of vengeance on sexual predators in their community; a woman stalked by a would-be killer may be confiding in the wrong former lover; a young woman is morbidly obsessed by her unfamiliar new role as “mother.” In the collection’s longest story, a much-praised cutting-edge writer cruelly experiments with “drafts” of his own suicide.<br /><br />In these powerfully wrought stories that hold a mirror up to our time, Joyce Carol Oates has created a world of erotic obsession, thwarted idealism, and ever-shifting identities. Provocative and stunning, Zero-Sum reinforces Oates’s standing as a literary treasure and an artist of the mysterious interior life.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp52X3pjM-kNVrN-7MxQt29Ksy6gh9p6b8BwcXvrCithK8pLGOhz27J9VYef7QicOSmG2KGT8_WwC-06FKzS_daTv7dMOdBKXrkpyYLrbpjqDYqLR-Hl7tILVjAecb24B3THP2ujx_uwgkCKv-FVoi-TkVnuqBBNfUsEfx8wvnlF4ftiTJDMOrNPAZ/s499/51CJkxfU1OL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp52X3pjM-kNVrN-7MxQt29Ksy6gh9p6b8BwcXvrCithK8pLGOhz27J9VYef7QicOSmG2KGT8_WwC-06FKzS_daTv7dMOdBKXrkpyYLrbpjqDYqLR-Hl7tILVjAecb24B3THP2ujx_uwgkCKv-FVoi-TkVnuqBBNfUsEfx8wvnlF4ftiTJDMOrNPAZ/s320/51CJkxfU1OL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/They-Lurk-Ronald-Malfi/dp/1803365315/ref=sr_1_1?crid=HB4HFE18V3XP&keywords=THEY+LURK+by+Ronald+Malfi&qid=1685947757&s=books&sprefix=they+lurk+by+ronald+malfi%2Cstripbooks%2C72&sr=1-1">THEY LURK</a> </b></div><div><b>by Ronald Malfi</b><br /><i>(Pub in pb and eb on July 18)</i><br /><br />From the bestselling author of Come with Me, five collected novellas from the master of terror, featuring possession, parasites and something monstrous lurking outside…<br /><br />Skullbelly<br /><br />A private detective is hired after three teenagers disappear in a forest and uncovers a terrible local secret.<br /><br />The Separation<br /><br />Marcus arrives in Germany to find his friend up-and-coming prizefighter Charlie in a deep depression. But soon Charlie’s behavior grows increasingly bizarre. Is he suffering from a nervous breakdown, or are otherworldly forces at work?</div><div><br />The Stranger<br /><br />Set a rural Florida parking lot, David returns to his car to find a stranger sat behind the wheel. The doors are locked and there’s a gun on the dashboard. And that was when then the insanity started…<br /><br />After the Fade<br /><br />A girl walked into a small Annapolis tavern, collapsed and died. Something had latched itself to the base of her skull. And it didn’t arrive alone.</div><div><br />Now, the patrons of The Fulcrum are trapped, held prisoner within the tavern’s walls by monstrous things, trying to find their way in.</div><div><br />And one more novella to be revealed!<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoV3GrSHrdTdHrg6BFQc2qu5LN_cUT1Gz2thpphSz76SzizjfLdVgrymYockDB1RHqZMKMZ7-cFVuOaql48C6t-5XvWbCmkGKgDvOOzEdhnZGgKdtVG7Z1SuvO9dY_QURrj92ZCL7y9nFzY9NqZKSqvhvKpNj8j7puxZuhXB-xJfwVjoWUM3O2UC5f/s499/513NsLYUSwL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoV3GrSHrdTdHrg6BFQc2qu5LN_cUT1Gz2thpphSz76SzizjfLdVgrymYockDB1RHqZMKMZ7-cFVuOaql48C6t-5XvWbCmkGKgDvOOzEdhnZGgKdtVG7Z1SuvO9dY_QURrj92ZCL7y9nFzY9NqZKSqvhvKpNj8j7puxZuhXB-xJfwVjoWUM3O2UC5f/s320/513NsLYUSwL._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/These-Hallowed-Halls-Academia-anthology/dp/1803363606/ref=sr_1_1?crid=BNHWHLJ4JRC&keywords=IN+THESE+HALLOWED+HALLS+by+Paul+Kane+and+Marie+O%E2%80%99Regan&qid=1685947793&s=books&sprefix=in+these+hallowed+halls+by+paul+kane+and+marie+o+regan%2Cstripbooks%2C68&sr=1-1">IN THESE HALLOWED HALLS</a> </b></div><div><b>by Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan</b><br /><i>(Pub on hb and eb on Sept 12)</i><br /><br />A beguiling, sinister collection of 12 dark academia short stories from masters of the genre!<br /><br />In these stories, dear student, retribution visits a lothario lecturer; the sinister truth is revealed about a missing professor; a forsaken lover uses a séance for revenge; an obsession blooms about a possible illicit affair; two graduates exhume the secrets of a reclusive scholar; horrors are uncovered in an obscure academic department; five hopeful initiates must complete a murderous task and much more!<br /><br />Featuring brand-new stories from: Olivie Blake, M.L. Rio, David Bell, Susie Yang, Layne Fargo, J.T. Ellison, James Tate Hill, Kelly Andrew, Phoebe Wynne, Kate Weinberg, Helen Grant, Tori Bovalino,<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLvD6-u1nM5L5BGLG5XYAjmm1sDDJtxwHWrkhfSxUqRL-PFE617kPpclRJMu8vRKJywYjfYzU8nbpFhj9iFbmUP-OVCbbmq17OBwe7gwQCvTCKM10K0H1IffpIdaHdpZdTNqQJo-lT5uiMMl7--iIxe3a7IJX7TqEUrZSsrZxIdcPdPJTGNhiTsoVc/s499/41Vlhzx6FPL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLvD6-u1nM5L5BGLG5XYAjmm1sDDJtxwHWrkhfSxUqRL-PFE617kPpclRJMu8vRKJywYjfYzU8nbpFhj9iFbmUP-OVCbbmq17OBwe7gwQCvTCKM10K0H1IffpIdaHdpZdTNqQJo-lT5uiMMl7--iIxe3a7IJX7TqEUrZSsrZxIdcPdPJTGNhiTsoVc/s320/41Vlhzx6FPL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/All-Hallows-Christopher-Golden/dp/1803364521/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3QR6G8QJYCQ8D&keywords=ALL+HALLOWS+by+Christopher+Golden&qid=1685947829&s=books&sprefix=all+hallows+by+christopher+golden%2Cstripbooks%2C81&sr=1-1">ALL HALLOWS</a> </b></div><div><b>by Christopher Golden</b><br /><i>(Pub on pb and eb on Sept 19)</i><br /><br />It’s Halloween night, 1984, in Coventry, Massachusetts, and two families are unravelling. The Barbosas have opened their annual Haunted Woods attraction in the forest behind their house―the house they’re about to lose. The Sweeneys are fighting about alcoholism and infidelity on their front lawn. Up the street, high-school senior Vanessa Montez is about to have her secrets exposed during the violent end to the neighbourhood’s block party, while down the street, the truth about Ruth and Zack Burgess turns out to be even more horrifying than the rumours ever were.<br /><br />And all the while, mixed in with the trick-or-treaters of all ages, four children who do not belong are walking door to door, merging with the kids of Parmenter Road. Children in vintage costumes with faded, eerie makeup. Children who seem terrified, and who beg the neighbourhood kids to hide them away, to keep them safe from The Cunning Man. There’s a small clearing in the woods now that was never there before, and a blackthorn tree that doesn’t belong at all. These odd children claim that The Cunning Man is coming for them ... and they want the local kids to protect them. But with families falling apart and the community splintered by bitterness, who will save the children of Parmenter Road?<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0MHX2_3X8nXFm-p-Ttly5PPhpzGD4nqby3hot3Fj-9pibVn-YxQ4SJxdCtKbtFCfFJWWbzj6lD1aqT460mrfNarIltS9DZMo9NI0O5MgDGPx4BpBH3RqcoJ7k5Qh45qID76AcRKP9B60xuR2g3xeVV0odRBKzLxsd_JDkgmSQSZ9RWRxK5xKYVfQC/s499/516VIqbn59L._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="326" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0MHX2_3X8nXFm-p-Ttly5PPhpzGD4nqby3hot3Fj-9pibVn-YxQ4SJxdCtKbtFCfFJWWbzj6lD1aqT460mrfNarIltS9DZMo9NI0O5MgDGPx4BpBH3RqcoJ7k5Qh45qID76AcRKP9B60xuR2g3xeVV0odRBKzLxsd_JDkgmSQSZ9RWRxK5xKYVfQC/s320/516VIqbn59L._SX324_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Between-Trees-Fiona-Barnett/dp/1786187140/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685947864&sr=1-1">THE DARK BETWEEN THE TREES</a> </b></div><div><b>by Fiona Barnett</b><br /><i>(Pub in pb on Oct 12)<br /></i><br />1643: A small group of Parliamentarian soldiers are ambushed in an isolated part of Northern England. Their only hope for survival is to flee into the nearby Moresby Wood ... unwise though that may seem. For Moresby Wood is known to be an unnatural place, the realm of witchcraft and shadows, where the Devil is said to go walking by moonlight ...<br /><br />Seventeen men enter the wood. Only two are ever seen again, and the stories they tell of what happened make no sense. Stories of shifting landscapes, of trees that appear and disappear at will .. and of something else. Something dark. Something hungry.<br /><br />Today, five women are headed into Moresby Wood to discover, once and for all, what happened to that unfortunate group of soldiers. Led by Dr Alice Christopher, an historian who has devoted her entire academic career to uncovering the secrets of Moresby Wood. Armed with metal detectors, GPS units, mobile phones and the most recent map of the area (which is nearly 50 years old), Dr Christopher's group enters the wood ready for anything.<br /><br />Or so they think.<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFbowtKXj7Rs--l19Jjj7ZAict8-2e3zmbbpcb7wPBUaHjYZT8tc5hT74P6wAlPP5vL3xpYDW1mQM_SO0djDBs3hffOI-GSBwishBUlWzcqKNnqt_PmgevOw7r2AartIFNWhEFN9SjZ1PdkZjblQczwf6EPCTil4511FNtxjhOC6ZWYerJmefEDVZ/s275/riesen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="185" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFbowtKXj7Rs--l19Jjj7ZAict8-2e3zmbbpcb7wPBUaHjYZT8tc5hT74P6wAlPP5vL3xpYDW1mQM_SO0djDBs3hffOI-GSBwishBUlWzcqKNnqt_PmgevOw7r2AartIFNWhEFN9SjZ1PdkZjblQczwf6EPCTil4511FNtxjhOC6ZWYerJmefEDVZ/s1600/riesen.jpg" width="185" /></a></div>TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN </b></div><div><b>ed by Paul Finch</b><br /><i>(Pub in pb and eb Oct / Nov)</i><br /><br />The Mediterranean. Sun-bleached ruins, azure seas. But history’s cruellest tyrants once reigned here. Thousands died on crosses or burned at the stake. Myths tell of snake-haired harridans and one-eyed giants, of devious deities who raped for pleasure, played wars like chess and punished Man’s weakness with curses and scourges unimaginable … <br /><br />The poison apples of <b>Aegle </b><br />The human sacrifices on <b>Crete </b><br />The tortured spirits of <b>Poveglia </b><br />The beautiful predator of <b>Palermo </b><br />The evil artefact at <b>Koyuluk </b><br />The blood-drinking baron of <b>Emporda</b></div><div>The demon attack in <b>Vatican City</b><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>(It is hopefully obvious that the above image is not the actual cover; the real one will be coming very soon - watch this space).</i></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBuD156l7hG1TAlh3e9OZMQZAHgP-aZk4WO-mCWNxeQZ3Zz5oinI89GU7T1HMvsu-krVTpKNJ48sFlbMbl-3SpKXAQJunNA70uM3ng_LWEkPbuV-nCOSnNlCODp2OzJpkl3Ar98cy8hPOzYHUrHd5dCmR0-qRXiZCeg9QWJ10URYZrie4bNpqX1CgL/s499/51ydmsKgFRL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBuD156l7hG1TAlh3e9OZMQZAHgP-aZk4WO-mCWNxeQZ3Zz5oinI89GU7T1HMvsu-krVTpKNJ48sFlbMbl-3SpKXAQJunNA70uM3ng_LWEkPbuV-nCOSnNlCODp2OzJpkl3Ar98cy8hPOzYHUrHd5dCmR0-qRXiZCeg9QWJ10URYZrie4bNpqX1CgL/s320/51ydmsKgFRL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-Other-Horrors-Anthology-Solstice/dp/1803363266">CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HORRORS</a> </b></div><div><b>ed by Ellen Datlow</b><br /><i>(Pub in hb and eb on Oct 24)</i><br /><br />Hugo Award winning editor, and horror legend, Ellen Datlow presents a terrifying and chilling horror anthology of original short stories exploring the endless terrors of winter solstice traditions across the globe, featuring chillers by Tananarive Due, Stephen Graham Jones, Alma Katsu and many more.<br /><br />Even though many celebrate the winter solstice as a time of joy, a darker tradition of ghost tales and horror stories resides in the long winter nights. This anthology of all new stories will scour the world for the unholy, the dark, the dangerous, the horrific aspects of a time when families and friends come together―for better and worse.<br /><br />Alongside Christmas celebrations, around the world are Makara Sankranti in the Hindu calendar in India, Yalda Night in Iran, Chanukah, the Roman Saturnalia, the Krampus, Dongzhi (solar term) in East Asia where sunlight passes through the 17 arches of Seventeen Arch Bridge, Summer Palace, Beijing, the pagan festival of Yule, St. Lucia’s Day in Scandinavia, the Druidic tradition of Alban Arthan, Soyal for Hopi Indians, Peruvian solstice festivals, and even Christmas in Antarctica at the research stations.<br /><br />Because the weather outside is frightful, but the fire inside is hungry…<br /><br />Featuring stories from: Nadia Bulkin, Terry Dowling, Tananarive Due, Jeffrey Ford, Christopher Golden, Stephen Graham Jones, Glen Hirshberg, Richard Kadrey, Alma Katsu, Cassandra Khaw, Josh Malerman, Nick Mamatas, Garth Nix, Benjamin Percy, M. Rickert, Kaaron Warren.<br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing.</b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Auctioneer-Valancourt-20th-Century-Classics/dp/1948405687/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685955346&sr=1-1"><br /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Auctioneer-Valancourt-20th-Century-Classics/dp/1948405687/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685955346&sr=1-1"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="313" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndJ2oCR4SSRqek0DIImA9KPiEdN1jO9YLV2roNqKMx0KJWFAeNxsjSsTD9c7HV05a2ZAtGW1x0uE2Jdbm6UW9_0wq-McSDzyCCtHCknZjC-8gSUpeJAZdwfzkCcA8J0emZdt183zZtWfd-t3HwN5WFtmzBhv9w2t7Dk34woGELH6iAnX4IoCo2UK7/w251-h400/auctioneer.jpg" width="251" /></a></span></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Auctioneer-Valancourt-20th-Century-Classics/dp/1948405687/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1685955346&sr=1-1">THE AUCTIONEER</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Joan Samson (1976) </i><br /></b><br /><b>Outline </b><br />In rural New Hampshire in the mid-1970s, the Moore family, farmers from way back, lead a hardscrabble but relatively contented existence on the outskirts of the small country town, Harlowe. They comprise the husband, John, the wife, Miriam (or Mim), the grandma, Ma, and young, cute-as-a-button Hildie. They have few modern conveniences but work hard and are thankful for what they’ve got. <br /><br />Above all, the Moores, like most of their neighbours, are determined to cling onto their patch of land, which, as we are told several times, their family has occupied ‘since Indian times’. <br /><br />When a murder occurs in a rundown mansion on the edge of town, it makes no real difference to the Moores, though thanks to the local sheriff, Bob Gore, a slow-moving, unimpressive man, it remains unsolved, which is a surprise to no one … but it still precipitates an enormous change in Harlowe. <br /><br />A charismatic incomer, a handsome, sophisticated guy called Perly Dunsmore, who claims to have lived and worked in forty different countries, takes up residence in town, and persuades Gore and other leading citizens that change is needed here because the outside world is closing in. To start with, the local police and fire departments need more personnel and better resources. <br /><br />The stage is thus set for a series of auctions, and the call goes out for local folks to provide what they can – any dusty old antiques, any useful tools they might have spare – which can be put on the stands and sold to the increasing numbers of tourists in this scenic corner of New England, providing much-needed cash for the town to spruce itself up. <br /><br />At first, this seems like a solid idea. Perly Dunsmore has the air of a good man who will do his very best for his new neighbours. So, everyone donates generously, and the first auction turns a tidy profit. It’s only when these profits are spent that questions arise, particularly in the minds of John Moore and his long-lived Ma. <br /><br />New deputies are appointed, but the quality of these men is lacking: Micky Cogswell for example, the town drunk, and Red Mudgett, a hooligan and trouble-maker who is widely disliked, and one of the last people who Ma, who taught him at Sunday School, would ever have considered suitable to wear a badge. <br /><br />However, the first auction is deemed to be such a success that a second one is called, and then a third, until finally it has become a regular event in Harlowe, attracting more and more out-of-towners, but demanding more and more contributions from the local population. As always, Dunsmore is able to smooth the way for these grand events, gently persuading everyone that it’s all in a good cause. He’s only after their extraneous property, anything that’s in the attic or cellar, any old furniture, obsolete tools, even spare bits of farm machinery. So long as they can do without it, of course. <br /><br />Encouraged because they believe in being neighbourly, the people of Harlowe continue to help. John, a subsistence farmer, is as generous as everyone else, but he is also one of the first to feel that they are now being pressured unfairly. <br /><br />It’s certainly true that it’s paying off, at least superficially. Herds of money-spending visitors are now crowding the town every weekend, keen to buy up these wonderful country oddments laid out for sale, so some folks, storekeepers and the like, are doing well out of Perly Dunsmore’s grand scheme. Every so often, people like the Moores get a kick-back from this, though it rarely amounts to very much, so increasingly there are concerns about where most of the money is going. What’s more, each Thursday has now become collection day. Without fail, come Thursday, the belligerent Red Mudgett, sometimes with other unsmiling deputies in tow, tours the outlying farms like the Moores’ as it is now taken for granted that they will supply him with goods, because word is also now travelling that if they don’t, bad things might happen. <br /><br />One or two townsfolk, who have complained or refused to contribute, have supposedly disappeared. Apparently, they’ve upped and left town without so much as a word. At the same time, strange accidents are reported, ‘accidental shootings’ and the like. <br /><br />Dunsmore remains charm itself. ‘You’re all so generous,’ and so on. But increasingly, there is menace behind his handsome smile, a threat behind his gently coaxing words. <br /><br />It’s soon evident to John that at least a couple of the lawmen, Cogswell, who’s pretty useless anyway, but also Bob Gore, who seems to have been subtly coerced into taking on this mission, are reluctant to keep participating, but something keeps driving them on. Likewise, something keeps galvanising people to donate, though fewer and fewer personal possessions remain in family homes, and more and more are sold off to the gleeful and completely oblivious tourists. <br /><br />Suspicion about who or what Perly Dunsmore is, and what his motivations are, turns gradually to hatred. And yet every Thursday, his collecting truck turns up, driven by deputies who now come armed and are almost openly threatening, the losses increasingly grievous: chainsaws, toolboxes, even a herd of cattle. John is convinced that they’ll be left with nothing. There’s even talk that their land and property will be taken off them and sold, and maybe even – incredible though this seems – their children. Yet why do they continue to comply? Why do they not resist more forcefully, as his mother attempts to one day, only to be knocked down by Red Mudgett. <br /><br /> When Perly Dunsmore makes a personal visit to the Moore farm to collect John’s prized collection of guns, there is more than menace in the air. Clearly, the guy is intent on stripping their district bare of everything it needs. By the time John Moore fully realises what a dangerous and relentless predator they have in their midst, he hasn’t got a single item left with which to defend his family … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />Joan Samson was another tragically short-lived horror writer, dying at the tender age of 39, with this, <i><b>The Auctioneer</b></i>, her only novel ever to see publication. However, if nothing else, she left us a very thought-provoking piece of work. <br /><br />From the very beginning, <i><b>The Auctioneer</b></i> needs to be seen as a kind of horror satire, a microcosmic portrayal of the way extremist authorities are able, firstly, to take power, then to hold onto it, then to expand it until they’re in a position where they can’t be challenged, at which point the façade drops, and the true motivations, invariably criminal, are laid bare, with dissenters dealt with in the harshest way. <br /><br />Charming, smooth-talking Perly Dunsmore arrives in a remote farming community where the hometown folks know a great deal about the land but not much about anything else, and points out to them that they are living a hard life while the rest of the world is progressing, lulling them into a false sense of trust by taking measures to provide new emergency response vehicles, both ambulances and fire-trucks, and bringing in extra cops in case the recent (extremely rare) murder signals that a crime-wave is about to commence. What he’s basically done is implant the idea that Harlowe and its surrounding farmsteads could be so much more than they currently are, creating an attractive but unrealistically expensive aspiration, at the same time as espousing all the traditional virtues: neighbourliness, generosity, frugality. <br /><br />Meanwhile, as he plucks at the heartstrings of these honest but simple country folk, encouraging them to donate more than they can afford, he also divides and conquers, ensuring that other figures in the town become beneficiaries of the new regime, and thus remain strong supporters. While all this is going on, even more covertly, he’s putting thugs into cop uniforms, and identifying potential dissidents, side-lining them for special treatment. Of course, by the time folk start waking up to the reality that they are living in a police state – a kleptocracy in fact, where there is no such thing as private property – it’s too late. The bare-faced robberies continue unabated, and none of the powers-that-be give two hoots whether anyone objects or not. A dictatorship has been born. <br /><br />If you consider that this is the main story here, <i><b>The Auctioneer</b></i> is a most satisfying read. But it works equally as a slow-burn slice of subtle rural horror. The fact that John Moore, a decent man who accepts his place in the world, and puts great stock in abiding by the law, and yet is increasingly dumbfounded by the law’s unwillingness to help him even though it’s plainly obvious that he and his family are being subjected to regular and increasingly aggressive criminality, makes this whole thing a nightmarish experience both for him and the reader. In what is perhaps the most difficult part of the narrative to get through, our farm-boy hero makes a desperate attempt to journey out of town and secure help from higher powers, only to find himself bedevilled by a wall of red tape and corrupt officialdom. <br /><br />Some observers have objected strongly and have even sneered at the very notion that gun-loving farm folk like the Moores and their neighbours would ever stand by while everything they possess is systemically stripped away by a stranger in town and his army of thoughtless and greedy property speculators. But I reiterate that the purpose here was not really to tell a true-to-life tale. In addition, the book was first published in 1976, when gun-ownership and gun-crimes were a problem in America, but not nearly the problem they are today. <br /><br />It is the length of time it takes John Moore and the rest of Harlowe’s inhabitants to finally retaliate against the new – paper-thin, as it turns out – authority that is controlling and blatantly ruining their lives that harrows the most. As I keep saying, these are good, law-abiding folks. All suffer in stoic silence for longer than they should, having pinned all their hopes on a belief that at some point the law will come through for them, but by the end of this story, so many monstrous liberties have been taken at their expense that you’ve become impatient with the lack of reprisal. Time after time, you think it’s about to happen, and it doesn’t. And when it finally does, it’s all disorganised and piecemeal, as it would be in the real world. <br /><br />It is also unremittingly savage, as it also often is in real life when the put-upon finally turn, no one emerging with much credit from the resulting chaos. <br /><br />None of this means that <b><i>The Auctioneer</i></b> is a frustrating narrative. I found myself flying through it, yearning to know what was going to happen and how our heroes would fight back, if they ever would (though even I wasn’t expecting as soberingly horrific an outcome as we get). <br /><br />Many comparisons have been drawn between <b><i>The Auctioneer</i></b> and Stephen King’s 1991 novel, <i><b>Needful Things</b></i>, King himself acknowledging the similarities particularly between the mysterious main villains, Perly Dunsmore and Leland Gaunt, though for me, <i><b>Needful Things</b></i> is more of an out-and-out horror fantasy. The truly worrying aspect of <i><b>The Auctioneer</b></i> is that it could really happen, and in fact has, many times. <br /><br />Newly republished by Valancourt Books (again … what a stalwart job they are doing, bringing the horror classics of yesteryear to a modern audience), <i><b>The Auctioneer</b></i> has divided respective readers. I’ve heard such arguments as ‘it’s not real horror’ or ‘I don’t do satirical stuff, I only do real thrillers’, but I urge you all not to take that position. <br /><br /><i><b>The Auctioneer</b></i> is every inch real horror and very much a suspenseful thriller. What’s more, it’s gorgeously written and yet tight as a corkscrew. Joan Samson doesn’t waste a word and yet paints a vivid picture of unchanging rural life, every character finely drawn and deeply convincing, particularly the arch-villain, Perly Dunsmore, one of the most memorable but subtle personifications of evil that I’ve encountered on the written page for many a year. <br /><br /><i>And now – and how I’d love to see this – I’m going to make my usual mistake of imagining a film or TV version of <b>The Auctioneer</b>, which I have been invited to cast. So, here we go … <br /><br />John Moore – Jeremy Strong <br />Mim Moore – Kelly Reilly <br />Perly Dunsmore – James Frain <br />Ma – Janet Suzman <br />Bob Gore – Bill Sadler <br />Red Mudgett – Evan Peters</i><br /></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-33438012398329679342023-05-20T15:36:00.005-07:002023-05-21T15:16:52.648-07:00Gloating over a lavish Terror Tales review<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiicqFrrv8aXZmoRPiFK3pR46OmKZQ99vZ9Fc4laTYIdES0Bd2AoVQE5AsLkeZ08qqpLEryT-_tmG6QoMAqiKAFyQuebzw-v-ViEH7fYAuuoQ9k9Ujv91TB86tDzKwJYKRVHSmGUsns-TCdOYm0Cday7bHEpInfjS75-5mkaewGWDiFK_upyhbvBhSF/s680/1973%20-%20The%20Wicker%20Man.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="551" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiicqFrrv8aXZmoRPiFK3pR46OmKZQ99vZ9Fc4laTYIdES0Bd2AoVQE5AsLkeZ08qqpLEryT-_tmG6QoMAqiKAFyQuebzw-v-ViEH7fYAuuoQ9k9Ujv91TB86tDzKwJYKRVHSmGUsns-TCdOYm0Cday7bHEpInfjS75-5mkaewGWDiFK_upyhbvBhSF/w324-h400/1973%20-%20The%20Wicker%20Man.jpg" width="324" /></a></div>Today, I thought it would be nice to share a really cool review of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-West-Country-14/dp/1845832086/ref=sr_1_2?crid=BGHQMFFJ2N28&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+west+country&qid=1684518998&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+west+country%2Cstripbooks%2C79&sr=1-2">TERROR TALES OF THE WEST COUNTRY</a> courtesy of Rosemary Pardoe, editor of <a href="https://www.coldtonnage.com/products/author/GHOSTS%20AND%20SCHOLARS,/~/product_id_asc">GHOST AND SCHOLARS</a>, and one of Britain’s most respected and well-informed experts on the traditional ghost story. <br /><br />Also, in the spirit of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-West-Country-14/dp/1845832086/ref=sr_1_2?crid=BGHQMFFJ2N28&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+west+country&qid=1684518998&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+west+country%2Cstripbooks%2C79&sr=1-2">TERROR TALES OF THE WEST COUNTRY</a>, I’ll be running a gallery of folk horror on film, but specifically picking movies that are perhaps less well known or less associated with that genre. <br /><br />While we’re on the subject of rural horror, I’ll also be offering a detailed review of the late Michael McDowell’s 1979 classic, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Amulet-Michael-McDowell/dp/1939140455/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1684519422&sr=1-1">THE AMULET</a>. </b><br /><br />If you’re only here for the McDowell review, that’s A-okay as always. Just hop straight down to the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section of today’s blogpost, and you’ll find it there. <br /><br />Before then, however, let’s get back into the world of … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Terror Tales</b></div><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-West-Country-14/dp/1845832086/ref=sr_1_2?crid=BGHQMFFJ2N28&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+west+country&qid=1684518998&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+west+country%2Cstripbooks%2C79&sr=1-2"><b>TERROR TALES OF THE WEST COUNTRY</b></a> is the 14th in the <a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html"><b>TERROR TALES</b></a> series. For anyone who hasn’t encountered these books yet, they are a series of folklore-based horror anthologies, each one set in a different geographic region. They comprise both fiction (mostly original and from some of the best ghost and horror writers in the field) and snippet-length ‘true terror’ anecdotes. <br /><br /><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-West-Country-14/dp/1845832086/ref=sr_1_2?crid=BGHQMFFJ2N28&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+west+country&qid=1684518998&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+west+country%2Cstripbooks%2C79&sr=1-2">TERROR TALES OF THE WEST COUNTRY</a></b> kind of speaks for itself. It’s all about England’s mystical West Country. I don’t think I need to say too much more about that. Anyway, the amazing Ro Pardoe of <b><a href="https://www.coldtonnage.com/products/author/GHOSTS%20AND%20SCHOLARS,/~/product_id_asc">GHOST AND SCHOLARS</a></b> fame has finally cast her discerning eye over it, and on the whole seems to approve. I hope she won’t mind if I include a few quotes from her, as we work through her various high points. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3-yWSECS1fu66HbcV7nmq2dpvPGAHnFuo9Gp_6MN3v9UhYaQ4LMz5xXB1V9V2_BcQtiqhdLMWe3bSekM2Gi2SruYbV5kBsvhoCyzFGmM_BNRMVLZxuCuR_b2WJNdb0raBzvF-UMTK-bZiHV7g91jY2uY5ZO-zmYxw-caDGDFlytJk3AL_rHx4LMk/s798/west%20country%20first%20cover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="525" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3-yWSECS1fu66HbcV7nmq2dpvPGAHnFuo9Gp_6MN3v9UhYaQ4LMz5xXB1V9V2_BcQtiqhdLMWe3bSekM2Gi2SruYbV5kBsvhoCyzFGmM_BNRMVLZxuCuR_b2WJNdb0raBzvF-UMTK-bZiHV7g91jY2uY5ZO-zmYxw-caDGDFlytJk3AL_rHx4LMk/w264-h400/west%20country%20first%20cover.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>Ro heaped praise on the ‘incredibly impressive’ line-up and, in no particular order of preference, singled out a number of specific stories for praise, including Dan Coxon’s <b><i>The Darkness Below</i></b>, which she likens to Ramsey Campbell at his best, and summarises as ‘when a family visits Gough’s Cave at Cheddar Gorge, are they the same people who come out, and if not, which of them has changed?’ She also mentions Lisa Tuttle’s <i><b>Objects in Dreams May Be Closer Than They Appear</b></i>, which she calls ‘a fine tale of nightmarish time entrapments, and a Devon house visible on Google Satellite View which is almost impossible to find on the ground (it would have been better for the narrator if it had been <i>completely</i> impossible to find).’ <br /><br />Inevitably, Ro, an expert on MR James, is exceedingly fond of the volume’s antiquarian stories. Of John Linwood Grant’s <i><b>The Woden Jug</b></i>, she writes ‘in Somerset, an apparent stoneware witch-bottle, decorated with a one-eyed face, turns out to be a protection not against witches but against something else entirely’, and calls it ‘a good one’. Ro wastes few words when she likes something, so this is praise indeed. <br /><br />Another antiquarian tale she enjoyed was Stephen Volk’s <b><i>Unrecovered</i></b>, which she says stands out in the volume, adding ‘it begins in familiar territory, with the archaeological excavation of a Wiltshire Anglo-Saxon cemetery, and the sighting of a distant figure with only half a head … but the horror is of a more recent war and the trauma of losing a buddy on the battlefield. I can’t deny that I shed a tear’. <br /><br />There are three main Dartmoor-set stories in the anthology, an ancient landscape that has proved a happy hunting ground for horror writers going way back, and Ro seems to have particularly enjoyed these. She was pleased that in Thana Niveau’s <i><b>Epiphyte</b></i>, ‘the supernatural threat takes an unusual form’, and says of Adrian Cole’s <i><b>Land of Thunder</b></i> that ‘a horrific episode in the history of Dartmoor jail produces revenants raised by a much older force on the moor’. But above all, the story she considers the best in the book, is Steve Duffy’s <i><b>Certain Death for a Known Person</b></i>. Those who don’t know Steve Duffy’s work need to rectify that, as he’s an author of exceptional skill. Of his story here, Ro writes, ‘I don’t know many authors who could turn what is essentially a <i><b>Twilight Zone</b></i>-type plot about Death personified, and an agonising choice that needs to be made into something as introspective and deep’. <br /><br />As for own contribution,<i><b> Bullbeggar Walk</b></i>, which is ‘set on Exmoor, where a church’s stained glass window provides a vivid depiction of the legendary Bullbeggar, a monster created through a disagreement between an Anglo-Saxon and a Norman in the 11the century,’ Ro describes it as ‘effective’. <br /><br />Well … I told you that she doesn’t waste words. <br /><br />Secretly, I’m most pleased that Ro likes and appreciates how much time and effort went into my own creation of the anecdotal ‘true’ stories that intersperse the works of fiction. These are great fun but time-consuming to research and write. For the most part, reviewers seem to appreciate them, but Ro says of them that they ‘are among the highlights of the book’. <br /><br />Anyway, the overall review is far more extensive than I’ve quoted here. If you want to read it in full, you’ll need to get hold of <i><b>Ghosts & Scholars 44</b></i>. However, I’d like to thank Rosemary for taking the time and trouble to offer her opinions and provide us with what amounts to a detailed, fulsome and very warm-hearted review of the latest book in the series.<div><br /></div><div>(In an item of late news, I can also reveal that <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terror-Tales-West-Country-14/dp/1845832086/ref=sr_1_2?crid=BGHQMFFJ2N28&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+west+country&qid=1684518998&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+west+country%2Cstripbooks%2C79&sr=1-2">TERROR TALES OF THE WEST COUNTRY</a></b> will also be reviewed today, Sunday May 21, on <a href="https://bighitsradio.uk/"><b>BIG HIT RADIO</b></a> on Trevor Kennedy’s noon programme). </div><div><br />On the subject of <a href="https://paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/p/edited-anthologies.html"><b>TERROR TALES</b></a>, a few quick words now about the next one in the series, which will be <b>TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN</b>. You may consider that an unusual break-away from our more normal British-set volumes, and it probably is, but I’d draw your attention to the fact that we did <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/TERROR-TALES-OCEAN-Paul-Finch/dp/1906331987/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2HYJW976SEPO7&keywords=terror+tales+of+the+ocean&qid=1684519571&s=books&sprefix=terror+tales+of+the+ocean%2Cstripbooks%2C81&sr=1-1"><b>TERROR TALES OF THE OCEAN</b></a> in 2015, which obviously wasn’t British-bound, and maybe was a sign of things to come. After all, in the next two or three years, we’ll have run out of locations in mainland Britain. We opted to visit the Med this time around, with one or two UK locations still remaining, just to freshen things up a little and to check out the lie of the and where our readers are concerned. <br /><br />I beg no one to entertain even the remotest possibility that this location might not ‘do it for them’ in horror terms. Already, and the book is nowhere near ready yet, we’ve found some visceral terror in the secretive halls of Turin’s satanist university, in the Spanish/Pyrenean castle where a decadent and brutal vampire lurked, and among the mist-shrouded origins of some of that ancient region’s most terrifying monsters … among many others. <br /><br />And now, just for the hell of it, let’s check out a gallery of … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Lesser known folk horror</b></div><br />While we’re on the subject of folk horror, and also because I love this stuff so much, here’s a fun list. Folk horror(ish) movies you might not have heard of but ought to watch at least once. The first rule I’m imposing is that none of these films have got status as classics of folk horror, so that means no <i><b>The Wicker Man</b></i>, no <i><b>Blood on Satan’s Claw</b></i>, no <i><b>Witchfinder General</b></i>, no <b><i>Midsommar</i></b>, no <b><i>The Witch</i></b>. Second rule, none of these are British in origin, as it’s surely about time we looked beyond the borders of folk horror’s traditional home, which means no <i><b>Kill List</b></i>, no <b><i>Night of the Eagle</i></b> and no <i><b>A Field in England</b></i>. <br /><br />With luck, that doesn’t mean that you won’t enjoy it. So, in the order of their production, let’s get cracking.<div> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>HAXAN (1922)</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPsc0Db1IIpjDvCIX4ZpUYRF4zjIk2fXdXXEdzPK4WS8ZEligcBnIuMzVNln-P4QQUkAgZKzlQat-Jf7n20R2JAv7_O3OEzUPJv2DbdJrbY_cCM4qp8eMW2ue4AkA_u6v0FwFB5lECv-J5vVpE4Do7_ZuX_El83neMm2OLpkBnThfT4BBWW6alXpD/s999/1922%20-%20Haxan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="791" data-original-width="999" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPsc0Db1IIpjDvCIX4ZpUYRF4zjIk2fXdXXEdzPK4WS8ZEligcBnIuMzVNln-P4QQUkAgZKzlQat-Jf7n20R2JAv7_O3OEzUPJv2DbdJrbY_cCM4qp8eMW2ue4AkA_u6v0FwFB5lECv-J5vVpE4Do7_ZuX_El83neMm2OLpkBnThfT4BBWW6alXpD/w400-h316/1922%20-%20Haxan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><br />Dramatised but scholarly narrative, following the emergence of witchcraft as a potent force, from the early days of village ritual to the publication of <i><b>Malleus Maleficarum</b></i> and the violence of the Inquisition. Ben Christensen writes, directs and stars in this hotchpotch of pagan / Satanic / psychological horror, which was highly controversial for its depictions of nudity and torture. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>CITY OF THE DEAD (1960)</b></div></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dVhynB5e4oEUCKduRt315R-2td5XuLAm-iu15Hf0i-PXwZT0oxYpK2JGH_YzJcVdhcGzFJfMtqGaVPeawOL3nS_pxkPV4NItsoXkZ_sYQKYWJ0QSuXeoc9HUbTaUaLRq5KCMC-1x6H4n1p4pxKdf4ZjF7PaXK6azG2vyb5CybHN558-He4GtpCJ5/s1280/1060%20-%20City%20of%20the%20Dead.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="705" data-original-width="1280" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dVhynB5e4oEUCKduRt315R-2td5XuLAm-iu15Hf0i-PXwZT0oxYpK2JGH_YzJcVdhcGzFJfMtqGaVPeawOL3nS_pxkPV4NItsoXkZ_sYQKYWJ0QSuXeoc9HUbTaUaLRq5KCMC-1x6H4n1p4pxKdf4ZjF7PaXK6azG2vyb5CybHN558-He4GtpCJ5/w400-h220/1060%20-%20City%20of%20the%20Dead.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The search for a missing student leads two guys through mist-shrouded Massachusetts to the eerily <i>olde worlde</i> village of Whitewood. At first glance, a traditional witchcraft chiller, but with lots of neat folky touches: the Hour of Thirteen, the silent dancers etc. An early pre-Amicus effort for Milton Subotsky, with Chris Lee nailing himself down as horror’s primary villain. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE HAUNTED PALACE (1963)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33i6vlDlw4OfTOPZ_0WzSGueIlr8uYOB3C1Xa26OSCXKSG2rooInBIIjQ8t5m9dPtGoTyCEGSGMf0fE4zDye72dzXbLTIjY2-ET8HeKJxTLDRYdIhpec9lpipTFQ970SjnNumw4shHmzAAb1Wn42J1Z6ylAhXd1p9kpci_-XUzc_MePeRckm8-Bq2/s341/haunted%20palace%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="341" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33i6vlDlw4OfTOPZ_0WzSGueIlr8uYOB3C1Xa26OSCXKSG2rooInBIIjQ8t5m9dPtGoTyCEGSGMf0fE4zDye72dzXbLTIjY2-ET8HeKJxTLDRYdIhpec9lpipTFQ970SjnNumw4shHmzAAb1Wn42J1Z6ylAhXd1p9kpci_-XUzc_MePeRckm8-Bq2/w400-h174/haunted%20palace%202.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Newly married heir to a fortune, Charles Dexter Ward returns home to New England, to find deformed villagers everywhere, and his mansion-like residence the centre of a cult bent on summoning ancient powers to create an evil super race. HP Lovecraft gets in on the folk-horror act, Corman directs, Vincent Price and Lon Chaney Junior star. What more could you want?</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>KWAIDAN (1964)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg809rV6t4H_GodsXTxL5I8N12TgvXhuYJBWPOGkUBFLhHpKolbcHN9BVRmyfIYmjC83143WqioddpSTsUQpSxwA0Mb0AnffXqZ1g_yCrT9qm-p6eQrDp97-9SlhnX6NRlqoPs09BeLLxxGDmUFZBWiITCEM4U-gouRQ_APcMjzZ_3QgwXQaTBwXrFx/s780/1965%20-%20Kwaidan.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="780" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg809rV6t4H_GodsXTxL5I8N12TgvXhuYJBWPOGkUBFLhHpKolbcHN9BVRmyfIYmjC83143WqioddpSTsUQpSxwA0Mb0AnffXqZ1g_yCrT9qm-p6eQrDp97-9SlhnX6NRlqoPs09BeLLxxGDmUFZBWiITCEM4U-gouRQ_APcMjzZ_3QgwXQaTBwXrFx/w400-h225/1965%20-%20Kwaidan.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Horror abounds in this early, excellent portmanteau of Japanese folk tales, all adapted from the works of Lafcadio Hearn, including terrifying stories like <b><i>Black Hair</i></b> (which became go-to Japanese horror) and <i><b>Woman of the Snow</b></i>. Masaki Kobayashi directs while Yoko Mizuki scripts, the pair managing what had previously been thought impossible: bringing Japanese mysticism to western audiences.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>DARK NIGHT OF THE SCARECROW (1981)</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAstU6j4EDgjqNfwnLE8nU93lg4QT7ufop6NHC51GDid7I1npDEeCKioW_6NlenDDjhTJr3O-xrWgXKiy7gMHR8rOZqbZWkVR3g6KiAKYG5tfC05T2irkXjShVeRFTLAWE9_GJk8HiWmCBPZYhs53RCpdxv05SaDL79aTnP9emo4Bn6S2VIvIdLuj/s700/dark%20night%20of%20the%20scarecrow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAstU6j4EDgjqNfwnLE8nU93lg4QT7ufop6NHC51GDid7I1npDEeCKioW_6NlenDDjhTJr3O-xrWgXKiy7gMHR8rOZqbZWkVR3g6KiAKYG5tfC05T2irkXjShVeRFTLAWE9_GJk8HiWmCBPZYhs53RCpdxv05SaDL79aTnP9emo4Bn6S2VIvIdLuj/w400-h300/dark%20night%20of%20the%20scarecrow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>When a mentally ill man is lynched for a crime he didn’t commit, the country boys responsible seek to cover their tracks, but a mysterious scarecrow undertakes to kill them all. Not as gory as you’d expect, though there are some imaginative farm-tool related deaths, while at times it’s also rather sad. Veteran horror writer, Frank de Felitta, directed it for TV, which may explain its lack of fame in modern times.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES (1983)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SgkGtbLKX20tVU4HSOAPZW6KnsJpknI67MSAFKe2XkXO2RNh3lhuIb2HFD9aV3UzGsRmRTOK8mGQD-zUXL8HhgyR3VOjp3xgYTM-7LrylrgOIF3HoaMIannoNAXZ01Q5erSFXHUUFYtPV_et_9jG1u12KBWPral7rcZUpM_WLF-FgHUIfdSRTez5/s600/1983%20-%20Something%20Wicked%20This%20Way%20Comes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SgkGtbLKX20tVU4HSOAPZW6KnsJpknI67MSAFKe2XkXO2RNh3lhuIb2HFD9aV3UzGsRmRTOK8mGQD-zUXL8HhgyR3VOjp3xgYTM-7LrylrgOIF3HoaMIannoNAXZ01Q5erSFXHUUFYtPV_et_9jG1u12KBWPral7rcZUpM_WLF-FgHUIfdSRTez5/w400-h300/1983%20-%20Something%20Wicked%20This%20Way%20Comes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>In rural Illinois, two kids are captivated by the arrival in town of Mr Dark’s mysterious and grotesque carnival, gradually deducing that these aren’t normal entertainers, they’re actually the much-feared ‘Autumn People’. Ray Bradbury’s revered slice of fantastical Americana doesn’t translate ideally to the big screen – he and direct Jack Clayton fell out a lot – but you can rarely go wrong with Mr. Bradbury.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ANGEL HEART (1987)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWuRXcxL5aHQJFiwGx0_oe_91tMtsn2glCqYUeJuQ--LR5umY0GEJnaKyd94JrSXMmx-c6cBSu6EMPf-SnHqabWCVZ4LFLEJa9IN4BdUxRmVFVW4wB1SOTjHfcmK1GF2O3qg4mX2tZnEmP04-nRmAnEruqa7O5tv2OcvVY1UokH-KZFQGUdmHxML8/s1200/1987%20-%20Angel%20Heart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1200" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWuRXcxL5aHQJFiwGx0_oe_91tMtsn2glCqYUeJuQ--LR5umY0GEJnaKyd94JrSXMmx-c6cBSu6EMPf-SnHqabWCVZ4LFLEJa9IN4BdUxRmVFVW4wB1SOTjHfcmK1GF2O3qg4mX2tZnEmP04-nRmAnEruqa7O5tv2OcvVY1UokH-KZFQGUdmHxML8/w400-h166/1987%20-%20Angel%20Heart.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>A war-scarred PI pursues a missing singer around Harlem, a trail that finally leads down south into a world of hellish hoodoo. William Hjortsberg’s Gothic noir gets the Alan Parker treatment, Parker purposely taking it out of New York and into the Bayou, the resulting film so risque in parts that it got into a big wrangle with the censors. De Niro and Rourke add serious quality.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>PUMPKINHEAD (1988)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwDb6sbuDti5OlbyXNr1YEhVzZmI_nbbkh3_mzuSl4HY_qjs1YXF9B9PBQEbDuaGgYGOpx6ISji3Bvw4Ka7Elf-uKQ---vkeU_xHd7SGPn70DB4dEKc0V0QGEpT1R62TQMAbtpCmUIL-KAlhK9FtucygBcDeQ8HCYPY6W4Zr3wEtaEOzaQmMOlaX7/s940/1988%20-%20Pumpkinhead.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="940" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwDb6sbuDti5OlbyXNr1YEhVzZmI_nbbkh3_mzuSl4HY_qjs1YXF9B9PBQEbDuaGgYGOpx6ISji3Bvw4Ka7Elf-uKQ---vkeU_xHd7SGPn70DB4dEKc0V0QGEpT1R62TQMAbtpCmUIL-KAlhK9FtucygBcDeQ8HCYPY6W4Zr3wEtaEOzaQmMOlaX7/w400-h210/1988%20-%20Pumpkinhead.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>When dirt-bikers run down a small child, the bereaved father begs a woodland witch for vengeance, and a horrific creature is raised from the pumpkin patch. Special effects whizz Stan Winston finally got into the director’s chair for this low budget but hugely effective adaptation of Ed Justin’s poem. Lance Henrikson brings complexity, the monster brings genuine terror.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THE MEDIUM (2021)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHSgeBv3Sk6FR8wMU3rCqVdKkJ-CXhNen3LACg9H6iV3xpM5qogngaBXCo16U_8DzTIWI_0AIr-nqXf8fIpWj7DLCRrbH8zdXY5-WHLRZ0sAZEyHOEELHUDvIs8GTMjQamSjfrRaSuunYNSrSKpu3HrfNdki5QWlpHoccdck0K5Qm0-l5_Q7ZlBbe/s1200/2021%20-%20The%20Medium.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHSgeBv3Sk6FR8wMU3rCqVdKkJ-CXhNen3LACg9H6iV3xpM5qogngaBXCo16U_8DzTIWI_0AIr-nqXf8fIpWj7DLCRrbH8zdXY5-WHLRZ0sAZEyHOEELHUDvIs8GTMjQamSjfrRaSuunYNSrSKpu3HrfNdki5QWlpHoccdck0K5Qm0-l5_Q7ZlBbe/w400-h300/2021%20-%20The%20Medium.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>A Thai film crew heads way inland to interview Nim, a village matriach who claims to have been possessed by the spirit of Ba Yan, a goddess of the old religion. Director Banjong Pisanthanakun creates an atmosphere of visceral dread in this fast-moving found footage study of the old meeting the new, and all set against a tropical backdrop rich in folklore and superstition. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>MOLOCH (2022)</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLb4Z7DHtYHjVaL1fNCto0N3uSbUYL2DCD5akq_Q9LLeZYRXbq2Qupptz_m9yLen7QrbscPZYNI3fyOpGdR84qP4_J9JeIO5CrMoFreuDwVYKVa7RJ0OfFLFNC6hseEc6o9p79gGJvWkfhH_p1a9Cwp6OpjeC8QEBd9sJQAYX5xbOJ8upXL3p2PxTN/s699/2022%20-%20Moloch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="699" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLb4Z7DHtYHjVaL1fNCto0N3uSbUYL2DCD5akq_Q9LLeZYRXbq2Qupptz_m9yLen7QrbscPZYNI3fyOpGdR84qP4_J9JeIO5CrMoFreuDwVYKVa7RJ0OfFLFNC6hseEc6o9p79gGJvWkfhH_p1a9Cwp6OpjeC8QEBd9sJQAYX5xbOJ8upXL3p2PxTN/w400-h285/2022%20-%20Moloch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>A Dutch woman, traumatised as a child by a violent attack on her family, now lives a secluded life on the edge of marshland in the middle of nowhere. However, as an archaeological team start uncovering bog bodies, clues suggests than an ancient cult is still active. A tad slow, but esoterica mingles with bleakness in a typical Euro-horror outing. Nico van den Brink directs his own script with a sure hand.</div><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … </b><br /><br /><b>An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. </b><br /><br /><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Amulet-Michael-McDowell/dp/1939140455/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1684519422&sr=1-1"></a></b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Amulet-Michael-McDowell/dp/1939140455/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1684519422&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBG2iWnnmicuBdKVR7edrr0IXXvt-dPntC3K6XfRntAtGoaLhreWpG__a3nDhdKhUMMhVFb0-Gci4bubz2aF4o2SdHex9UM5w8FyDc1n8RoO-RDDsZKvOr9E1hv_EYCuBhj3rk7EtAGpuJgjnWCunYhyiSyCqugmeOHH1wvgKASAuqiblCMsEhWy4W/s1360/amulet.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="880" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBG2iWnnmicuBdKVR7edrr0IXXvt-dPntC3K6XfRntAtGoaLhreWpG__a3nDhdKhUMMhVFb0-Gci4bubz2aF4o2SdHex9UM5w8FyDc1n8RoO-RDDsZKvOr9E1hv_EYCuBhj3rk7EtAGpuJgjnWCunYhyiSyCqugmeOHH1wvgKASAuqiblCMsEhWy4W/w259-h400/amulet.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Amulet-Michael-McDowell/dp/1939140455/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1684541901&sr=1-1"><b>THE AMULET</b></a></div></div><div><b><i>by Michael McDowell (1979) </i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Pine Cone, Alabama, the mid-1960s. <br /><br />It’s the heartland of the rural South, but the Vietnam War has reached its tentacles even into this sleepy backwater. Local boy, Dean Howell, gets his call-up papers, but before he can ship out to Nam, he suffers a critical injury on the range, when a rifle, made in the munitions factory at Pine Cone no less, blows up in his face. A blinded, zombified mute, he is honourably discharged and sent home to become the problem of his hardworking but very tired wife, Sarah, and his middle-aged mother Jo, who is not just lazy, obese and relentlessly vicious-tongued, but who harbours grudges against almost everyone she knows, usually for the most imaginary of slights. <br /><br />Sarah’s constant exhaustion is due partly to her astonishing workload at the factory, where she functions on one of the actual conveyor belts along which travel the same rifles that injured her husband, but mainly because when she gets home she becomes Jo’s personal skivvy as well as the main carer for Dean. Becca Blair, her slightly older friend and neighbour, constantly harries her to stand up for herself, to make Jo share in the chores, but Sarah is a passive sort, who gets through either by trying to persuade herself that this is her lot in life, or alternatively, by grabbing a couple of moments’ rest here and there and simply not thinking about it. <br /><br />Then, something shocking happens. <br /><br />Larry, one of the supervisors at the munitions plant, and an old friend of Dean’s, comes to visit, and is genuinely and visibly shaken to see the paralysed, bandage-wrapped condition of the young ex-soldier. Even then, Jo Howell doesn’t have much time for Larry, but rather to Sarah’s surprise, she gives him a present for his wife, an exotic looking medallion, or amulet, hanging from a gold chain. No real explanation is offered and Larry doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but to avoid being rude, he takes the gift home and presents it to his wife, Rachel. <br /><br />Later that evening, having tried the amulet on and found that it suits her, Rachel poisons Larry and then sets the house on fire while her children are in bed. All of them die in the subsequent inferno, Rachel included. <br /><br />The whole town is appalled by what seems to have been an atrocious accident, with the exception of Jo Howell, who, from what Sarah can see, is smugly satisfied. <br /><br />Jo, it seems, continues to blame everyone in the town for her unhappy life, and the state of her son. She particularly blamed Larry for the latter because she believed he was in a position to make Dean an essential worker and therefore remove him from any danger of being drafted. Sarah is hardly surprised by such mean-spiritedness. In truth, she reviles Jo, only staying with her out of her sense of duty as a wife and daughter-in-law. But worse horrors are now to be visited on Pine Cone. <br /><br />Within a day or so, a cop assessing the ruins of the burned-down house comes into possession of the amulet, passing it on to his own wife. That same night, she too turns homicidal, puncturing his brain by stabbing him through the ear with an ice pick, before falling on broken glass and dying herself from a severed jugular. <br /><br />A terrifying, self-repeating pattern appears to have been set in motion, the amulet finding its way from one new owner to the next, every new owner then committing brutal murders before dying, him or herself, through some incredibly unlikely accident, each one seemingly more gruesome than the last. <br /><br />Increasingly certain that it’s something to do with the amulet, Sarah confronts Jo, only to be told that it came from a catalogue and doesn’t have any kind of power. In fact, the idea seems so ridiculous, even to Sarah, that she hesitates to mention it to Becca, though the ongoing succession of horrific deaths – a farmer whose skull is crushed by a tree branch wielded like a club, a farmer’s wife hurled off a bridge into a rushing river, another farmer’s wife trampled and savaged by a formerly placid but now insanely out-of-control mother-pig – gradually persuades her. <br /><br />Even Becca, who is superstitious to her bones, struggles to buy into the theory that the amulet is causing these acts of murderous rage, until the two of them hold a séance together and are delivered some frightening if non-specific messages. <br /><br />But who will believe them? <br /><br />The amulet, meanwhile, continues to make its round of Pine Cone’s citizens, usually in secret as everyone seems to get hold of it in some kind of underhand fashion, in which case the first the rest of the community hears about it is when the owner’s loved ones have been slain, they themselves following shortly afterwards. <br /><br />At this rate, Sarah thinks, unless she can do something soon, the whole town is likely to perish … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />Michael McDowell was a sadly short-lived American horror author, though in the time he was active, from 1979, when he had his first novel published, this one in fact, <i><b>The Amulet</b></i>, until his premature death in 1999 at the age of 49, he was very prolific. <br /><br />Whatever his long-term plans were, this debut novel of his, reissued in 2013 in a very neat new package by Valancourt Books, originally came about in unusual if macabre circumstances, when McDowell and a friend got together and to amuse themselves, tried to pass the time creating as many gory deaths as they could think of derived from everyday appliances. The two of them clearly had ghoulish and vivid imaginations, because they came up with a heck of a lot. On top of those previously mentioned, you can also add decapitation by ceiling fan, mangling by hay-baler and the almost unbearably horrible laundering of a young baby in a washing machine, with many others to follow. <br /><br />I’m not sure at which point McDowell decided there was a novel in this (or even a screenplay, as that is the form in which <i><b>The Amulet</b></i> was first written), but despite the incredibly lurid sounding material that he’d given himself to work with, once he’d actually started writing, he quickly pushed it beyond the norms of routine horror, the story taking us deep into the heart of his native southland, evoking a distinct air of the Southern Gothic. <br /><br />Many aspects of life in that world are touched upon convincingly. It’s the mid-1960s and the Civil Rights Movement is in progress, but Alabama is resisting, and folks down there still lead segregated lives. The whites themselves are not vastly happier than their black ‘across the river’ neighbours, having hot summers and barren winters to deal with, living in poor-quality housing and engaged in mind-numbing but physically demanding work. The pleasures these people enjoy, of both races, are few and far between: the occasional bit of hunting or fishing, but mostly, and quite briefly, sitting on rockers on their creaky old porches, grumbling about so-called friends and neighbours, while knowing nothing about the rest of the world and caring even less. <br /><br />It’s all very atmospheric, and a cut above most horror-writing of that era. All that said, whether the book can really be classified as a great horror novel, I’m not so sure. Valancourt have certainly done the reading world a favour in bringing it back to the light, for it has huge merits, but the mysterious amulet is never really explained (unless you assume that it’s some hoodoo-type transmitter for Jo Howell’s inherent vindictiveness, though that is never stated), while the narrative overall is a bit predictable and in the end becomes quite repetitive. <br /><br />I don’t often say this about classily written books – because <i><b>The Amulet</b></i> is expertly and even beautifully written, often avoiding outright gratuitousness (apart from in the finale, which is a<i><b> Carrie</b></i>-esque explosion of grisliness) – but even though it’s less than 300 pages long, I felt a vague sense of relief as the end approached, simply because, well-staged and imaginatively gory though they are, I didn’t think I could sit through yet another elaborate death scene. <br /><br />It holds together well enough. The dialogue crackles with believability (McDowell had a real ear for his own people), while the characters are vivid, the villains in particular – as evil and horrific hags go, Jo Howell will take some beating – while the sense of time and place, as I say, is immaculate. But all this really does, if I’m bluntly honest, is ensure that the procession of grotesque murders is all nicely packaged. <br /><br />It’s a book worth reading, though. It will keep you entertained, and it’s a great glimpse into the early career of a very fine author, who would go on to do much better things later, but was taken from us all too soon. <br /><br /><i>And now, my usual high-risk addendum of who should play what if this property ever hits the screen. Only a bit of fun, of course, though you never know: Michael McDowell first wrote <b>The Amulet</b> as a drama after all. Here would be my current choices (price-tag no object, of course): <br /><br />Sarah Howell – Erin Moriarty <br />Jo Howell – Conchata Ferrell <br />Becca Blair – Elizabeth Olsen <br />Sheriff Garret – Steve Buscemi</i></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-68343551927076700412023-04-26T14:51:00.002-07:002023-04-26T14:51:38.405-07:00It's always a battle, but our books make it<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6YElKlD_l1J7i2Jg2lDYNyHwMWxtDMT5P9WFaJ9e7D2OWg0Ky48OJFp0IfqqtMM_gueMxcLycPPsN_5a7Z1OsIkd879T4dgS0RE4FZz8uKAd2ss9LOZ2HFg4H-RUFReAlxiR2K6RNFlRigAIKwjphRsve-TFfM5ove9TcwtvSeQnXXtZRPaZ8_YB/s400/Usurper%20-%20medieval%20violence%208.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="400" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6YElKlD_l1J7i2Jg2lDYNyHwMWxtDMT5P9WFaJ9e7D2OWg0Ky48OJFp0IfqqtMM_gueMxcLycPPsN_5a7Z1OsIkd879T4dgS0RE4FZz8uKAd2ss9LOZ2HFg4H-RUFReAlxiR2K6RNFlRigAIKwjphRsve-TFfM5ove9TcwtvSeQnXXtZRPaZ8_YB/w400-h255/Usurper%20-%20medieval%20violence%208.gif" width="400" /></a></div></div><b><div><br /></div>I’m delighted to announce that today, my novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682452826&sr=1-1">USURPER</a>, is published in paperback, on Kindle and on Audible. I’ve done a lot of talking about this over the last few weeks, and I’ve probably bored people to death with the endless numbers of excerpts and snippets that I’ve been posting on Twitter and Facebook, so today I’m going to let the book itself do most of the talking. <br /><br />I’ll say one or two minor things, and then I’ll be posting a short video of me reading what I hope is a brief but juicy extract from the book (yeah, you’ll be getting the glory of me in person as well), so you can actually hear how it sounds and won’t just have to take my word for it. <br /><br />There’s other book news to share today too, and that will move us away from the historical adventure milieu where <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682452826&sr=1-1">USURPER</a> dwells, back into the realm of suspense/horror, which I know is close to the hearts of a lot of people who check in here. That also means it’s okay for me to review another dark thriller this week, which I will be doing, though this one has got a bit of history (of a sort) attached to it as well (see what I did there?). <br /><br />It’s <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girls-Emma-Cline/dp/1784701742/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682453087&sr=1-1">THE GIRLS</a> by Emma Cline, a very compelling study of a murderous cult. It’s a work of grim fiction but based closely on infamous real-life incidents. </b><br /><br />If you’re only here for the Cline chat, that’s fine as always. Just nip straight down to the lower end of today’s column, the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section, where all my book reviews dwell. <br /><br />In the meantime though, if you want to hear <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682452826&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, read by <i>moi</i>, let’s roll with …<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFrc1IaLpiuRPYPavkWhZBoymh-KB48bnvt3kFAl7SVc-vAyEbEBQYLDdL_s9dso5iFLWQ7Icr-pDFid1SWomwlcOS-0wnLTHq2uoonCwxQGAH0iHVWYki9SnofqsOW7LJkWQJrb_2VPxEvjP6-nC2r075wihj_JITIVygdhX3p9s70awFXtGDEkU/s346/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFrc1IaLpiuRPYPavkWhZBoymh-KB48bnvt3kFAl7SVc-vAyEbEBQYLDdL_s9dso5iFLWQ7Icr-pDFid1SWomwlcOS-0wnLTHq2uoonCwxQGAH0iHVWYki9SnofqsOW7LJkWQJrb_2VPxEvjP6-nC2r075wihj_JITIVygdhX3p9s70awFXtGDEkU/s320/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A dark and terrible past</b></div></b><div><br />I’m obviously chuffed to bits that <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682452826&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> is hitting the bookshelves today. As I’ve already said, you can get it either in paperback, Kindle or on Audible. I’m not going to say much more than that, though, because it’s time to let the book speak for itself. I’ll just quickly reiterate that it’s my first ever historical novel that doesn’t feature fantasy elements (it does feature horror, though it’s horror of the human variety rather than anything supernatural). <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It’s set during the autumn of 1066, at the commencement of the Norman Conquest of England, and tells the story of Cerdic, a young Saxon noble, who loses everything during the firestorm that soon engulfs his country, including his home and family. Left lost and wandering in a once-happy, prosperous realm, which has now been reduced to a corpse-strewn wilderness, he must somehow find it inside himself to win back his birthright. But he’s had no training for that. He was destined for the Church rather than warriorhood. He hasn’t even got a sword. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqI2Rc7iZzDAO9lElKVXxxHTedPZXBlAC7nvRjFFIBMRO0uHre6ucdbs-Hy0zM1kR2rFpXMVqh5Wj-gOsjyUd6ISx0SNMJ7zXP6pDFLas8au6gkIcNFev77RBL7WIo4ypnbU1y-u5lVzFHFCfqroTQ5G6RpxLH0x8oS49jltUSF982LAlBuz6EeBv/s700/Crusader_Bible-1240-detail.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="700" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqI2Rc7iZzDAO9lElKVXxxHTedPZXBlAC7nvRjFFIBMRO0uHre6ucdbs-Hy0zM1kR2rFpXMVqh5Wj-gOsjyUd6ISx0SNMJ7zXP6pDFLas8au6gkIcNFev77RBL7WIo4ypnbU1y-u5lVzFHFCfqroTQ5G6RpxLH0x8oS49jltUSF982LAlBuz6EeBv/s320/Crusader_Bible-1240-detail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>All he possesses is his will to survive, and to succeed, and he’s going to need both of these, because the alternative is a quick death courtesy of foreign steel, or the lingering torture of enslavement, starvation, mutilation, maybe even castration. With slaughters and massacres at every turn, there’s no hope of reversing this terrible tide of history, but Cerdic is determined that he won’t be a victim of it. He’s going to live, and reclaim what once was his, and if a further lake of blood must be shed in the process, he’s adamant that his own won’t be mingled with it.</div></div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xXJRkfoFNHc" width="320" youtube-src-id="xXJRkfoFNHc"></iframe></div></div></blockquote></blockquote><div><br />As a footnote to this tale, you might be interested to know, especially if you live in the Lake District area, that I’ll be discussing <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682452826&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> with top crime novelist <b>M.W. Craven</b> at Waterstones, Kendal, on the evening of July 4. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc-YiJsHLUaGORJ9Bj8YU2G8zmKcFRnoH0C8vjLEI7544qppeuWqU770WXmDU5hwcTGdPtzbZi5-ff7MIV1YqIeKGD6dI-di7b_McsKRY2JZT-boMXF2FySZbXeFHkE2fTDJUnzp1rfc787G5X7aA12KMMT0durng3LrdwgHVEgbN8qkKxU-9Nmsk/s500/fearless.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="309" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqc-YiJsHLUaGORJ9Bj8YU2G8zmKcFRnoH0C8vjLEI7544qppeuWqU770WXmDU5hwcTGdPtzbZi5-ff7MIV1YqIeKGD6dI-di7b_McsKRY2JZT-boMXF2FySZbXeFHkE2fTDJUnzp1rfc787G5X7aA12KMMT0durng3LrdwgHVEgbN8qkKxU-9Nmsk/s320/fearless.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>Mike will be presenting his new action thriller, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682452959&sr=1-1"><b>FEARLESS</b></a>, so we’ll have plenty to talk about and lots of blood and thunder notes to compare. The previous event Mike and I did together was a sell-out, so, if you’re interested, my advice is to get your tickets early. Get more info <a href="https://www.waterstones.com/events/an-evening-with-m-w-craven-and-paul-finch/kendal"><b>HERE</b></a> (or pop into the store itself and enquire at the counter). <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>When fiction becomes myth</b></div><br />Here’s the other book stuff I promised to chat about today. <br /><br /><div>We all of us dream that there’s a place, somewhere out there, just out of sight, where, if we could only reach it, all our problems would be solved, and all our worries would whisper away like summer mist. It’s so close that we can smell it. But we just can’t get to it, and we know to our deep sadness and regret that we likely never will, not in this life. <br /><br />Call it Heaven, call it Eden, call it the Blue Remembered Hills … or call it Neverland. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeZkOHmNChnPkYemsJPi0ePc9lgEL30cFlwnkfacudGAz5iUfEyM8XD4OsIL_FQOCSSdFU9PUlpPaECDw8-vFojkpUdv1IbKxLk6mVIq60K7B-Pf2B3mAzeptw_yn2W663XOYpHdMrIEdzd5LFcfc-0gUhhl0YmCMh9tHQp4sCB8KbtQYIyqS-dZR/s2048/NEVERLAND%20BOOK.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1344" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeZkOHmNChnPkYemsJPi0ePc9lgEL30cFlwnkfacudGAz5iUfEyM8XD4OsIL_FQOCSSdFU9PUlpPaECDw8-vFojkpUdv1IbKxLk6mVIq60K7B-Pf2B3mAzeptw_yn2W663XOYpHdMrIEdzd5LFcfc-0gUhhl0YmCMh9tHQp4sCB8KbtQYIyqS-dZR/w263-h400/NEVERLAND%20BOOK.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>Because that is the theme, at least of my story, in the imminent new Titan anthology, edited by Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Other-Side-Never-Tales-World/dp/1803361786/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2NLN7OALW76EF&keywords=the+other+side+of+never&qid=1682450638&s=books&sprefix=the+oth%2Cstripbooks%2C1198&sr=1-1"><b>THE OTHER SIDE OF NEVER</b></a>. I may have mentioned this in previous blogposts, but at last I can give a little more detail, as the editors have finally, officially released the Table of Contents. As you may have guessed, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Other-Side-Never-Tales-World/dp/1803361786/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2NLN7OALW76EF&keywords=the+other+side+of+never&qid=1682450638&s=books&sprefix=the+oth%2Cstripbooks%2C1198&sr=1-1"><b>THE OTHER SIDE OF NEVER</b></a> is a collection of short stories based on or drawing inspiration from the adventures of JM Barrie’s Peter Pan. <br /><br />All the tales are new and exclusively fantastical and/or horrific and/or thrilling in nature (yep, I told you we were back into the world of dark fiction with this one). Here, for your delectation, is the full list of contributors. <br /><br /><i><b>Foreword</b> by Jen Williams <br /><b>A Visit to Kensington Gardens</b> by Lavie Tidhar <br /><b>Manic Pixie Girl</b> by AC Wise <br /><b>Fear of the Pan-Child</b> by Robert Shearman <br /><b>And On ’til Morning</b> by Laura Mauro <br /><b>The Other Side of Never</b> by Edward Cox <br /><b>The Lost Boys Monologues</b> by Kirsty Logan <br /><b>A School for Peters</b> by Claire North <br /><b>Chasing Shadows</b> by Cavan Scott <br /><b>Saturday Morning</b> by Anna Smith Spark <br /><b>The Land Between Her Eyelashes</b> by Rio Youers <br /><b>Boy</b> by Guy Adams <br /><b>Never Was Born His Equal</b> by Premee Mohamed <br /><b>The Shadow Stitcher</b> by AK Benedict <br /><b>A House the Size of Me</b> by Alison Littlewood <br /><b>Silver Hook</b> by Gama Ray Martinez <br /><b>The Reeds Remember</b> by Juliet Marillier <br /><b>No Such Place</b> by Paul Finch <br /><b>Far From Home</b> by Muriel Gray<br /></i><br />I’m sure you’ll agree that there are some very august names on there. All these years on, I never take it for granted, appearing in rollcalls of this magnitude. I obviously can’t talk about any of the other stories, not having read the book yet, but my own tale, <i><b>No Such Place</b></i>, is set in the smoggy ruins of post-war London, and follows the fortunes of a veteran-turned-murder detective, who finds himself on the trail of a very real group of lost boys. <br /><br />And that’s all I’m going to say about it, except to add that <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Other-Side-Never-Tales-World/dp/1803361786/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2NLN7OALW76EF&keywords=the+other+side+of+never&qid=1682450638&s=books&sprefix=the+oth%2Cstripbooks%2C1198&sr=1-1"><b>THE OTHER SIDE OF NEVER</b></a> is published on May 9. Ah yes, it’s only two weeks before you can go and grab it off a bookshelf somewhere (or alternatively, get your pre-orders in right now). <br /><br />See you soon. <br /><br /><br /></div><div><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /></b><br /><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girls-Emma-Cline/dp/1784701742/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682453087&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girls-Emma-Cline/dp/1784701742/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682453087&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HQguRiN3nICOJueITGNqHFhqiUFRQYjuh0G6aso55-M-e2umGAM6DRR5vp96OBappL1f9VA514cnImucsjC6l9vXoPzVNeeQYRKGyhTQKNcdubWtlq-Ut4dXzG2FMQqTXmbl9nlGZffj3hcpKy1zYtS1Wq3t8AVcScIzBX9750xo0TsjzZtsflaH/s500/girls.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HQguRiN3nICOJueITGNqHFhqiUFRQYjuh0G6aso55-M-e2umGAM6DRR5vp96OBappL1f9VA514cnImucsjC6l9vXoPzVNeeQYRKGyhTQKNcdubWtlq-Ut4dXzG2FMQqTXmbl9nlGZffj3hcpKy1zYtS1Wq3t8AVcScIzBX9750xo0TsjzZtsflaH/w261-h400/girls.jpg" width="261" /></a></div></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Girls-Emma-Cline/dp/1784701742/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1682453087&sr=1-1">THE GIRLS</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Emma Cline (2016)</i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Evie Boyd is an uninspired and uninspiring California woman, middle-aged and drifting between jobs and relationships. While house-sitting for a friend, Dan, she meets his teenage son, Julian, who prides himself on being a drugs courier for local dealers, and his sad, rather needy girlfriend, Sasha. </div><div><br /></div><div>When Julian remembers that Evie was once part of a notorious hippie cult, whose crimes made national headlines, we are projected back to the summer of 1969, when Evie was only 14 and already something of a lost soul. <br /><br />The summer vacation has just started, and Evie doesn’t know how she’s going to get through it, especially as she is bound for boarding school when it’s over. Her home life, while wealthy (her late grandma a former Hollywood actress), is unsatisfying, while her parents, who are newly separated, rarely connect with her on an emotional level. Evie is aware that social change is going on elsewhere, but as a young teen has no real interest in any of that. In fact, her mother’s many New Age interests, all very expensive of course, evoke pity in her rather than enthusiasm, because she views them as pointless middle-class fads. As such, she hangs around a lot with her friend, Connie, a typical soon-to-be high school kid, who is mainly interested in gossip magazines and beauty products, and moons after Connie’s older brother, Pete, who already has a girlfriend, the gorgeous Pamela. <br /><br />Thoroughly bored and annoyed at the way Pete is nice to her because he thinks her a kid, Evie is then fascinated to spot some ragged teenage girls behaving recklessly in the town centre, dumpster-diving for food and exposing their breasts for their own amusement. A black-haired girl in particular, the seeming leader of the group, really catches her eye. A short time later, after Evie and Connie fall out, Pete having left home with the pregnant Pamela, and Connie, somewhat irrationally, blaming her friend, Evie meets the black-haired girl again, and this time buys some toilet paper for her after she is caught trying to shoplift. <br /><br />The girl, who’s called Suzanne and drives around with the others in a scruffy black bus, enters the narrative a second time after Evie, having fallen out with her mother, rides off on her bike and gets marooned when the chain breaks. This time, Suzanne takes her back to ‘the ranch’ where she and the others, having rejected the phoniness of ordinary life, live in a hippie commune. In truth, the place is a filthy hole, rubbish everywhere, the children unwashed brats, every possession looking as if it was scavenged or stolen. However, the girls, Suzanne included, are captivated by their leader and guru, a wandering musician called Russell Hadrick, who seems to have mesmerising powers of persuasion and espouses numerous revolutionary philosophies. Evie isn’t quite so enthralled by him, especially as almost the first thing he has her do is give him oral sex, but Suzanne is, and Evie is strongly attracted to Suzanne, so she joins the group as a kind of associate member. <br /><br />She visits regularly throughout the summer, always telling her mother that she’s staying with Connie, and gradually getting to know other members, the oafish Donna, the pretty Helen. Russell remains a mystery to her – he has immense charisma, that is certain, and he can make damaged people feel good about themselves, and more importantly, wanted – but she doesn’t really care about Russell as long as she can be close to Suzanne. <br /><br />There are many warning signs: the group talks a lot about love, but gets about by using multiple stolen credit cards; there is rampant drug abuse; the children in the commune are being raised in conditions of dirt and neglect; while the girls are all expected to provide either sex, or a waitressing/cleaning service for Russell, his brawny henchman, Guy, the occasional bikers who roll in, and Mitch Lewis, a successful guitarist and singer so besotted by the ‘California myth’ of freedom and irresponsibility that he too has been seduced by the group’s lifestyle. Evie sees all these problems for what they are but ignores them because this unconventional world is different from anything she’s been used to and because, if nothing else, she gets a feeling of belonging here. She even steals money from her own mother to provide for the group’s needs. <br /><br />Only on one occasion does Evie get physical with Suzanne, and this occurs when Russell, trying to persuade Mitch to secure him a record deal, ‘rewards’ the guy by sending Suzanne and Evie back with him to his expansive seafront property. They indulge in a threesome, which Evie doesn’t enjoy especially, though mainly because of Mitch, who’s pleasant enough but a total stoner. A short time later, still ready to do anything Suzanne asks of her, the two of them break into Evie’s mum’s neighbours house, but Evie is spotted and recognised. <br /><br />Sent to live with her father as punishment, Evie makes friends with Tamar, his much-younger girlfriend, but eventually realises that Tamar is interested only in getting what she can from her wealthy lover, and so hitchhikes back to the ranch. A nerdy guy from Berkeley, called Tom, drives her the last part of the way, but is appalled at the state of the place and the people who live there, and asks her to come away with him. Evie refuses but recognises that there is now a bad atmosphere in the group. It seems that Mitch has told Russell once and for all that the record company won’t take him on as an artist, and has cut ties. Russell, furious, has been harassing him and talks of nothing but revenge. <br /><br />That very night, it seems, Suzanne, who still idolises Russell, is setting out with some of the others on a mission, the purpose of which she won’t divulge. When Evie begs to come along, Suzanne reluctantly agrees, but tells her to ‘wear dark clothes’ … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />The Charles Manson story has been done to death, but never quite like this. Because this is the version that looks at it from the perspective of his acolytes, or at least from one of them, an adolescent girl coming of age in a tumultuous era, though not really aware of that as the struggle to make the shift from infancy to adulthood is overwhelming enough. <br /><br />Obviously, in <i><b>The Girls</b></i>, we are not talking about the Manson Family per se. But rather, a very similar group of mostly female hippie cultists centred around a highly manipulative male leader, and the path they eventually take, which leads to a horrific mass-murder. <br /><br />With hindsight, we all know what an imposter Charles Manson was. An intelligent but hardened criminal, he had great powers of persuasion and control, and when he came out of prison in 1967, after serving half his 32 years behind bars, and found himself in California in the Age of Aquarius, it was like unleashing a fox into the henhouse. Within a year, he’d recruited a band of willing followers, many of them young women with emotional difficulties or lost and confused by the rapidly changing times. <br /><br />Delighted by the ‘free love, free drugs, free everything’ mantra of the hippie movement, Manson, fully adopted the guise of the counterculture and created a commune based on principles of equality, sharing and love. He wasn’t the only one to do that, of course. On every streetcorner in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury there were spaced-out people with flowers in their hair, strumming guitars tunelessly and singing strange songs. The difference was that in Manson’s case, it was a façade from behind which his female acolytes could prostitute themselves, prowl for new recruits, deal drugs, steal, and provide him and his friends with sex on demand. Above all though, the group’s main objective was to secure for their sage, who at heart was a frustrated musician, a lucrative record deal. When that failed, Manson’s coked-out buddy, Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys, having provided no assistance, the cult leader’s true nature burst through … and the infamous Tate-LaBianca murders were the outcome. <br /><br />As I say, we are not in this exact territory, but we are very close, Emma Cline, in this, her dazzling debut novel, inventing a near-identical scenario and populating it with imaginary characters, though I reiterate, it’s the women she’s mainly interested in. Two in particular. Evie Boyd, who we’ve already met, an immature and directionless seeker, typical of the sort the real-life Manson preyed on, and the much more ‘together’ Suzanne. <br /><br />Of all the characters in this novel, Suzanne most closely resembles her real-life 1960s counterpart, Susan Atkins (aka Sexy Sadie). She obviously shares a first name with the original, but her physical description is similar too. Likewise, she is unquestioningly loyal to her leader, (the original Susan Atkins, in a bizarre recreation of Mary Magdalene’s second encounter with Jesus, is said to have fallen down on first meeting Manson and washed his feet with kisses), performs a ‘sergeant-major’-type role within the group itself, and is the one who’ll take the lead when the final bloodbath commences. <br /><br />Suzanne is the first member of the group whom Evie sees, she is the first one she actually meets, and the first one she converses with. Even when she is finally introduced to Russell Hadrick and he attempts to weave his personal mysticism around her (as well as demanding an immediate act of fellatio), it is Suzanne whom she remains intrigued by, because, while she maybe doesn’t trust Hadrick, Suzanne is the kind of freewheeling, independent spirit that Evie herself desires to be. <br /><br />Almost from the start, a ‘puppy love’ relationship exists between the two girls, even though Evie is only fourteen and Suzanne not yet twenty, the younger one attracted to the older one sexually as well as intellectually, though she is too inexperienced to work out exactly what this means. One thing Evie <i>does</i> know is that her home-life doesn’t satisfy her. Her mother is a bored rich woman, more interested in getting something – anything! – from her cool new hobbies than in her daughter, while her best friend, Connie’s main ambition is to be a hot chick, who when she’s old enough will appeal to moneyed guys. <br /><br />Compared to these two living, breathing examples of utter vacuousness, Suzanne is the real deal. <br /><br />The common sense side of me would have argued at this point that I didn’t buy it. That even someone like Evie, whose life is so spiritually dysfunctional, would not have been so easily seduced by what this cult appears to be offering, especially as Emma Cline doesn’t stint in describing the filth and degradation that awaits her in and around the ranch, and even more especially as she’s unimpressed by Russell Hadrick himself. <br /><br />I might have dismissed the whole idea out of hand … if it hadn’t happened in history. <br /><br />In the actual Manson trial, members of the group like Linda Kasabian, who either gave evidence against the murderers or wrote about it later in books and magazine articles, described various very innocent people, euphoric about the changing times but with judgement fuddled by drug use and the prospect of the hippie Nirvana that Manson and his ilk promised, simply giving up lives of privilege and becoming little better than brainwashed slaves. <br /><br />You can’t deny facts. <br /><br />But even if none of this had happened for real, <b><i>The Girls</i></b> is written with such intensity of feeling and a narrative drive that makes you want to keep reading even though you kind of know how it’s going to end, that it all feels completely plausible. <br /><br />On that same note, the lack of the actual ’60s in this book adds genuine authenticity, which is all the more remarkable given that Emma Cline, only 26 when she wrote it, was born in 1989. I, on the other hand, was a youngster in the 1960s. I remember it well, and yet at no stage did I think ‘Wow, this is the ’60s, man!’ Wherever I turned, I didn’t see 1960s-type things happening. For most ordinary folk, it was just everyday life. <br /><br />Cline gets that completely in <b><i>The Girls</i></b>, though of course the turbulent age isn’t that important to Evie Boyd’s reminiscences anyway. <br /><br />If I’ve any brickbats to throw at <i><b>The Girls</b></i>, it’s a minor concern I have with the wraparound narrative, wherein the older, listless and mostly uninteresting person that is the middle-aged Evie, spotting a like-minded lost soul in Sasha, whose boyfriend already thinks it’s cool to be on the edge of serious criminality, needs to make a decision about whether or not to offer words of experience. <br /><br />The problem with this is that, quite early on in the book, it shows us that Evie will emerge unscathed from the final horror (bear in mind that only one of the real Manson murderers has ever been released from prison, and it wasn’t Susan Atkins, who died while incarcerated way back in 2009). <br /><br />There are several reasons for Cline’s decision to do it like this, I suspect. Firstly, the way it plays out (but no spoilers here, so don’t ask), to give Suzanne a final shot at redemption. Secondly, to point up the unchanging nature of troubled adolescence and perceived empty futures. And thirdly, to remind us that <i><b>The Girls</b></i> isn’t really a mystery-thriller, but more a study of the human condition at that time of life when it’s most vulnerable. But I still think that some element of uncertainty about Evie’s fate might have served it better. <br /><br />For all that, <b><i>The Girls</i></b> gets my strongest recommendation. It’s blisteringly well-written, and completely engrossing, which is a real achievement considering the well-known tale it is based upon. It’s no surprise that Emma Cline’s star is rising so fast. You’ll definitely read it and want more. <br /><br /><i>A movie adaptation of <b>The Girls</b> is supposedly in the works, but after an (admittedly shallow) dive in search of it, I haven’t been able to find any such project green-lit at this stage. So, on the basis that casting operations have yet to commence, here are my suggestions: <br /><br />Evie – Millie Bobby Brown <br />Suzanne – Zendaya <br />Russell – James Franco <br />Mitch – Chad Michael Murray</i></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-51074662289373539972023-04-16T12:19:00.006-07:002023-04-16T14:44:31.236-07:00In a land and time where life had no value<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgqJlgz6oz82hbx2aYfyRE45XXiW92D6IubdlR-pFK0Iux55szM0fptXwpXLW-LI1B6kkS7H8u_3SpJG5ujRXDTBReQorUR5m1sSHkp7GFgdMgdS0SvlpM828PW24iFhy5qpSkfFRT2DmsJuW9yt14gCHY6OAAEH3npbvOKThUdNQ4fKdNIBZCp-i/s1794/quotes%20-%20hastings%20(2).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="836" data-original-width="1794" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgqJlgz6oz82hbx2aYfyRE45XXiW92D6IubdlR-pFK0Iux55szM0fptXwpXLW-LI1B6kkS7H8u_3SpJG5ujRXDTBReQorUR5m1sSHkp7GFgdMgdS0SvlpM828PW24iFhy5qpSkfFRT2DmsJuW9yt14gCHY6OAAEH3npbvOKThUdNQ4fKdNIBZCp-i/w400-h186/quotes%20-%20hastings%20(2).png" width="400" /></a></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>I’m on the verge of breaking into completely new territory, and frankly, it’s leaving me nervous.</b></div><b><br />My first real historical novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1">USURPER</a>, is published in 10 days' time. Yes, I can count it now in days rather than weeks or months. Today, I’m going to be talking a little more about this book – why I wrote it, why I’m nervous about it, and such. I’ll also be hitting you, as I do, with some of the rather splendiferous endorsements I’ve received for it from some of the true masters of the historical novel. <br /><br />I also want to talk a little bit about two other books of mine, both of them medieval in atmosphere. They now belong firmly in my distant past, though their presence in my back-catalogue may explain why I continually say that <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1">USURPER</a> will be my first REAL historical novel. </b><br /><br />In addition to all this, and there’s no link to any of the other subjects I’ll be discussing today (except maybe that one of my older medieval books concerned a war against the undead!!!), I’ll be reviewing Edward Lee’s blood-soaked horror novel, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brides-Impaler-Leisure-Fiction-Edward/dp/0843958073/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681660594&sr=1-1">BRIDES OF THE IMPALER</a></b>. <br /><br />If the Lee review is the only reason you’re here, you must feel free to skip down to the lower end of today’s blogpost, where my reviews usually lurk (in the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section). However, if you want to hear a bit more about <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, stick around and let’s … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Mine the past</b></div><br />I’m sure those who follow my fictional output will agree that <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, a historical adventure set during the Norman conquest of England, is a complete right-turn on my usual subject matter. <br /><br />I freely admit that I’m much better known for my crime thrillers. And I should probably even add that, though there’ll be more historical novels to come, this does not signal any kind of permanent changing of the guard. I’ll continue to write thriller novels (and horror stories) hopefully for many years to come, and with luck, readers will see them published concurrently with my all-new period pieces. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSy1buXAoY6S7-ostgk3zBeOswygYtJOh7zi2pPqFhVcWdTAqgP-AVZ9HVGGi16QiO2D-Pr6Dmdi8L0caU2d9xc44V8Gg05j_jPWqPCicU9DxamvkXZ7KhUKK5VCWlmFMdhdlp4hTlISSvrRozYKo_4JoCnL8yILQExBtrFYc9oIoe0_GJWWSKS8zP/s499/USURPER%20WITH%20CORRECT%20QUOTE.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="326" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSy1buXAoY6S7-ostgk3zBeOswygYtJOh7zi2pPqFhVcWdTAqgP-AVZ9HVGGi16QiO2D-Pr6Dmdi8L0caU2d9xc44V8Gg05j_jPWqPCicU9DxamvkXZ7KhUKK5VCWlmFMdhdlp4hTlISSvrRozYKo_4JoCnL8yILQExBtrFYc9oIoe0_GJWWSKS8zP/w261-h400/USURPER%20WITH%20CORRECT%20QUOTE.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>However, the origins of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> probably need some explanation.<br /><br />There’s no doubt that most of my thinking-time, the productive part of it anyway, is still wrapped up in worlds of contemporary darkness. What thoroughly unpleasant villainy can I dream up today? What scene of horror can I envisage in this blighted corner of Broken Britain?<div> <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><i>Usurper is an action-packed, coming-of-age, adventure set against the upheaval and battles of 1066. Finch gives us Cerdic, a troubled hero thrown into the maelstrom of events outside of his control, and we follow him breathlessly as he deals with brutal Vikings, familial rivalries, unrequited love, invading Normans and more!<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>Matthew Harffy</b></i></div></i><div><br /></div><br />But <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> had to come from somewhere, right? It wasn’t just a one-off moment of inspiration.</div><div><br /></div><div>It may surprise readers to know that, as a novel, it’s actually been a long time in gestation. I’ve been a huge fan of Dark Age and medieval history for ages. It’s always seemed to me that that era, especially here in Britain (that’s inevitable, I suppose, as it’s British history that I know about best), was born and bred for the telling of adventurous stories. I mean, you’re talking a landscape that was still mostly wild, a population that was thinly spread, a relatively ignorant society, much of which lay at the mercy of ruthless criminal elements, most of them fast-moving, many of them well-trained, a significant portion of them members of the ruling class itself. <br /><br />In all honesty, the Wild West has got nothing on Medieval Britain. <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><i>Usurper propels the reader from the very first page through a dark and desperate age when Britons fought for their survival. Fearsome battles, believable characters, uncommon valour. A relentless page turner. </i></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>David Gilman</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Then of course, you’ve got the major events of history taking place – the invasions, the civil wars, the rebellions – causing huge political and cultural convulsions, leading to murder, mayhem and the destruction of land and property on a massive scale, with almost zero comeback against the perpetrators. No comeback that was lawful, anyway.<br /><br />So, how could I, as a writer who enjoys pitting his characters against edificial evil, throwing them headfirst into a land where life seems to have no value at all, not want to get in on an act like this?<br /><br />Thus was born <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681673293&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>. <br /><br /><br /><i>The grim world of Anglo Saxon England is brought evocatively to life by master storyteller Paul Finch as he thrusts the reader deep into the cold and mud and blood of a country teetering on the brink of a devastating war for survival. Usurper is a must-read for any lover of history, capturing all the rich detail of a turbulent time and stitching it through with powerful emotion. </i></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>Mark Chadbourn / James Wilde</b></i></div><br /><br />It was almost a decade ago when I first hatched an idea about the teenage son of a great Saxon lord, who has lived an almost cossetted life thanks to the law, order and prosperity his father has brought to a remote corner of Edward the Confessor’s England, suddenly finding himself thrown out with the rubbish because the Norse army of Harald Hardraada has killed everyone he knows and loves and confiscated every last possession he once called his own, while the new Norman hegemony, maleficent in its triumph, has no time at all for the remnants of a culture they now plan to erase from history. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxN1-kvhwPodryoa3X5UfoB36h8QMRmdiLwzUa-jN1q38XvNY2O-skVTv0PU3rIdLmzq2pn2WWDAwukozyTHHfaZj3V-4lAGo8YWQgexJyhRgDb5wFmdVNPRW9Rz07LQajJZ1bJt8JRE5mFJaoz9It3vKl4mUbsTvhK_3x_rDz18eTyakUMlWwp9W/s800/quotes%20battlefield.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxN1-kvhwPodryoa3X5UfoB36h8QMRmdiLwzUa-jN1q38XvNY2O-skVTv0PU3rIdLmzq2pn2WWDAwukozyTHHfaZj3V-4lAGo8YWQgexJyhRgDb5wFmdVNPRW9Rz07LQajJZ1bJt8JRE5mFJaoz9It3vKl4mUbsTvhK_3x_rDz18eTyakUMlWwp9W/w400-h250/quotes%20battlefield.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>What kind of road back to normality can he find, this inexperienced lad? A kid who was actually training for the clergy and who had never picked a sword up in real combat, and yet now is friendless and lost in a devastated country he can no longer even recognise as his own?</div><div><br />I always knew there had to be a novel in that story. But for years and years, because I had many other commitments, all I could really do was sketch it down in note-form and knock out a few ideas, which I thought I might at some point be able to string together into an exciting narrative. <br /><br /><br /><i>Finch has written an authentically blood-soaked historical epic to rank with the best. <br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>Anthony Riches</b></i></div></i><br /><br />And then came the pandemic, and the world seemed to stop. Now, don’t get me wrong. I had lots of work to do during lockdown. There were still books I was contracted to write, but gradually, because it dragged on for such a tediously long time, and because it had such a mammoth impact on the publishing industry, delaying book launches, delaying the associated publicity drives, delaying responses to even the most simple questions that a writer might routinely pitch to his/her publishers, I found myself with less and less that I actually needed to do. <br /><br />Throughout this period, though perhaps inevitably, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> was on my mind. I began to see the long periods of inertia imposed by lockdown as an opportunity not just to catch up with some reading, but to do some speculative writing. And my proposed Saxon/Norman epic was top of that list. <br /><br /><br /><i>With all the brutal power of a battle-axe to the head, Finch brings 1066 to life in new and vivid ways. Packed with blistering battle scenes and believable characters, this is a superb historical novel. </i></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><b>Steven A. McKay</b></div><div><br /></div><br />In almost no time – mainly because I’d been thinking about it for so long already – I’d written a 40,000-word chunk. It seemed to flow smoothly, but of course I was unsure. It was new territory for me after all. Not completely new, but I’ll talk about that later. So, I sent it off for a second opinion from my wonderful agent, Kate Burke, at the Blake Friedmann Literary Agency, and even though this was an unexpected submission, Kate got back to me amazingly quickly, and seemed delighted with it. Even though it was new ground for us, she said she was impressed enough to send it out … assuming I was happy to take a break from my normal contemporary thrillers and write this novel in full should someone be interested. <br /><br />I certainly was. I didn’t expect the second half of this book to take me very long, because the first half hadn’t. Thankfully, the series of stop-start lockdowns we had to endure at the close of the pandemic was finally coming to an end, so I was hoping that things in the publishing world would speed up again, but I never would have imagined what happened next to happen so quickly. <br /><br /><br /><i>An authentic and vivid depiction of life in England in 1066, and a brutal, blood-soaked thriller that will be loved by fans of Cornwell's Last Kingdom. </i></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><b>Alex Gough</b></i></div><br /><br />The first publisher the manuscript was sent to was Canelo, who accepted <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a> for publication almost by return post, but as two books rather than one, and to add icing to the cake, then commissioned an additional historical adventure series, a second duology, set later on, in the twelfth century, the details of which must at present stay under wraps.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBRD1ZE_w3RX91ZpcQe50OEAVrYnrF6e9slRXqoqIJEp7VmSOe3SVSi1SmdrocY9mLUFymhGsgQ5ca6TM44eKkJc5LsLyegw-udoZVdgdPXT3ThdAXNu9UfgTAzh1li4bt7MsmchlD3RDu9kU8asakirxPfRSmRkIfvtQTxmTfJJ9FpMsY-OZvOOY/s523/quotes%20writer%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="523" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBRD1ZE_w3RX91ZpcQe50OEAVrYnrF6e9slRXqoqIJEp7VmSOe3SVSi1SmdrocY9mLUFymhGsgQ5ca6TM44eKkJc5LsLyegw-udoZVdgdPXT3ThdAXNu9UfgTAzh1li4bt7MsmchlD3RDu9kU8asakirxPfRSmRkIfvtQTxmTfJJ9FpMsY-OZvOOY/s320/quotes%20writer%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It was a strange feeling, all of these exciting developments coming to fruition so quickly when this idea had been germinating in the back of my mind for so many years, and often was pushed out of memory range entirely by the awful events that were happening in the real world at the time (even on those occasions when I remembered I wanted to write it, it struck me that no one might want to read about an apocalypse in 1066 when we seemed to be going through another in 2020).</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, all that is thankfully now over, and the long and short of it is that the first book in this new series, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681658579&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, <b>Vol One in the Wulfbury Chronicles</b> is published in paperback and on Kindle and Audible on April 27, and then you good people can judge for yourself whether it was worth all that effort. As I say, I’m a tad nervous because it’s completely new ground for me. But then, as you’ve hopefully already seen in this column, quite a few august names in the historical adventure fiction industry given it the thumbs-up. So, let’s see what the rest of you think.<div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Early trips back</b></div><br />I mentioned earlier that I’ve written a couple of medieval novels before. Well, I don’t want to waste too much of your time, so I’ll just quickly outline them here.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tomes-Dead-Stronghold-Paul-Finch/dp/1907519106/ref=sr_1_1?crid=28HIDA6P7GIL9&keywords=stronghold+by+paul+finch&qid=1681671498&s=books&sprefix=stronghold+by+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C80&sr=1-1"><b></b></a><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tomes-Dead-Stronghold-Paul-Finch/dp/1907519106/ref=sr_1_1?crid=28HIDA6P7GIL9&keywords=stronghold+by+paul+finch&qid=1681671498&s=books&sprefix=stronghold+by+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C80&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1isG4wi24CLqzqCHmMBteC-I8uvOgKWCdXr0qlmexIp1_G4YUve9RAALRaSRtzeckm-XfomyXU2z_Si2Bck7xka4B7vesNMYGJZO5PNL_ngU7atmz9jyR482tQmp5w0kgINVDhzc46xvUWjkEv2MzHmLXjGfthjpEUgN1GY9ibIYwlrvHoydnAZc/s419/quotes%20-%20stronghold%20proper.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="267" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1isG4wi24CLqzqCHmMBteC-I8uvOgKWCdXr0qlmexIp1_G4YUve9RAALRaSRtzeckm-XfomyXU2z_Si2Bck7xka4B7vesNMYGJZO5PNL_ngU7atmz9jyR482tQmp5w0kgINVDhzc46xvUWjkEv2MzHmLXjGfthjpEUgN1GY9ibIYwlrvHoydnAZc/w255-h400/quotes%20-%20stronghold%20proper.jpg" width="255" /></a></div></b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tomes-Dead-Stronghold-Paul-Finch/dp/1907519106/ref=sr_1_1?crid=28HIDA6P7GIL9&keywords=stronghold+by+paul+finch&qid=1681671498&s=books&sprefix=stronghold+by+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C80&sr=1-1"><b>STRONGHOLD</b></a> was published by Abaddon Books in 2010, and is a horror / fantasy / alternative history, which sees the outbreak of a zombie apocalypse in the 13th century. It follows the fortunes of a ruthless company of English knights, under the control of a merciless marcher-lord, who commit much repression in Wales in the days following the battle of Maes Moydog in 1295, and then take possession of one of King Edward I’s mighty castles, only for the local druids to make use of the fabled Cauldron of Regeneration, one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain, to raise an army from all those slain by the English during recent atrocities. The besieged knights soon find themselves battling relentlessly against an apparently numberless horde of the undead. <br /><br />Reviewers described it variously as ‘a very gory and bloody book, highly recommended’, as ‘fantasy military zombie porn - page after page of lavish description of the gruesome undead inflicting and receiving gruesome wounds’, and ‘a veritable dictionary of anatomical terms as body parts are skewered, severed, chewed and burnt in increasingly bizarre ways … It's all excellent fun delivered in the worst possible taste.’ <br /><br />So, I think you know what you’re getting with that one. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIEiP32cOAcaHOW_AgXe7YGe5qM-dmzVt7oVgfdfhjowuYHqXpUGRoW-B8JgN5gBaSrDewpK-yQte8wdLztKFwcwrDNf9W-gNdx_ndie8RDDY0wXUMOjkfqLgLiGvoKb9uBSBVbwSsgnQ-TdpiO7fAZPEsRz4KI-SfwfWVaY9nul5wp-JdmxhoR1w6/s293/new%20blog%20-%20dark%20north.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="186" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIEiP32cOAcaHOW_AgXe7YGe5qM-dmzVt7oVgfdfhjowuYHqXpUGRoW-B8JgN5gBaSrDewpK-yQte8wdLztKFwcwrDNf9W-gNdx_ndie8RDDY0wXUMOjkfqLgLiGvoKb9uBSBVbwSsgnQ-TdpiO7fAZPEsRz4KI-SfwfWVaY9nul5wp-JdmxhoR1w6/w203-h320/new%20blog%20-%20dark%20north.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>Then, also from Abaddon, we have <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-North-Malorys-Knights-Albion-ebook/dp/B007ZBD53G"><b>DARK NORTH</b></a>, published in 2012. This one was also a medieval fantasy rather than a medieval novel per se. It is set in Dark Age England, in this version called Albion, and instead of being a real-life scenario of hill forts, long-halls and muddy roads connecting small villages in otherwise trackless realms of forest, is basking in the Arthurian golden age, a landscape more reminiscent of the 14th century, full of lords and ladies, fairy tale castles and lush pageantry. However, the happy kingdom is now under threat from the reinvigorated Roman Empire, which, under the control of an aggressive new ruler, is determined to regain all its lost territories in Western Europe. A major war results, which provides the perfect cover for Sir Lucan, the Black Wolf of the North, one of the darkest characters ever to sit at the Round Table, to set off in pursuit of his wife, Trelawna, who abandoned him for a Roman officer, though he’s unaware that she’s now under the protection of the fearsome Malconi clan, who have the power to raise demons. <br /><br />Reviewers described this one as ‘a heady mix of violence, intrigue and some good old-fashioned knight-on-a-reckless-mission action, oh and some monsters thrown in too - this is a cracker of a book,’ along with ‘knightly fervour and noble deeds meet ruthless empire-building at full tilt’. <br /><br />Personally (though I’m admittedly biased) I think these short pitches sound great (and it doesn’t surprise me that <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tomes-Dead-Stronghold-Paul-Finch/dp/1907519106/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2XB6FD8MX398E&keywords=stronghold+paul+finch&qid=1681660417&s=books&sprefix=stronghold+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C67&sr=1-1"><b>STRONGHOLD</b></a> spent a year or so under option for movie development), but I’ll be the first to admit that they aren’t traditional historical novels, though they’re still available to buy if anyone’s interested. <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-O0MigOdbLF-F9MeEYy_7redY-fH_vJ_7NFUFa6iyFFU7IjrftptT-FOuBirLgbmAmnOx14uod8eSr8Xcdo5Jgte-L0iXFt5akdY9KlFmVCsfAtyuh7qwTuhLREySWASzqpAgmb3ehjiMmBO1AHrPmpHGIRtbvOuAf9368KGWagzRpLetCIcXdFu/s280/quotes%20blog%20-%20impler.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="174" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-O0MigOdbLF-F9MeEYy_7redY-fH_vJ_7NFUFa6iyFFU7IjrftptT-FOuBirLgbmAmnOx14uod8eSr8Xcdo5Jgte-L0iXFt5akdY9KlFmVCsfAtyuh7qwTuhLREySWASzqpAgmb3ehjiMmBO1AHrPmpHGIRtbvOuAf9368KGWagzRpLetCIcXdFu/w249-h400/quotes%20blog%20-%20impler.jpg" width="249" /></a></div></b><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brides-Impaler-Leisure-Fiction-Edward/dp/0843958073/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1681660594&sr=1-1">BRIDES OF THE IMPALER</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Edward Lee (2013) </i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />No-one would know to meet Britt Leibert and Cristina Nicholl that they’d shared a terrible childhood. The former a high-ranking New York social worker, the latter a successful designer of creepy dolls, they are not just firm friends, they are also a pair of beautiful, sophisticated women, cultured, fashion-conscious and well regarded among the Manhattan elite. Even more impressively (to some at least), they are engaged to two partners in a Manhattan law firm specialising in property and real estate, and financially at least, the sky is the limit. <br /><br />In all this, the two women have done incredibly well, because as juvenile foster-sisters they were subjected to horrific abuse at the hands of their so-called guardians, a depraved duo who are now serving life prison sentences. <br /><br />They each handle this awful heritage in their own way, though their methods are to an extent self-evident, Britt working professionally to assist those suffering abuse in the present day, Cristina channelling the horror of her memories into the creation of her cute but macabre toys. <br /><br />Aside from that, there are few clouds on their horizon. Husbands-to-be, Paul and Jess, are legal carnivores who think nothing of having basically conned the Catholic archdiocese out of a palatial townhouse (which Paul and Cristina now occupy), but that goes with the lawyer territory. Besides, while you don’t get the feeling these two men are instinctively loyal to their women, on the whole they are kind and loving. <br /><br />At the same time, local Homicide detective, Hal Vernon, has gone from having relatively little to do in this affluent part of town to dealing with a ghastly crime in which a drug addicted prostitute was impaled on a sharpened broomstick mounted in a Christmas tree stand. There is little to go on except that the body has been written on with marker pen, arcane and indecipherable lettering inscribed in black, green and red. He soon comes to suspect a gaggle of homeless women who have been seen around the district, allegedly in the company of a curvacious nun (yes, you heard that right!), though no-one seems able to locate any of these curious characters when the police want to speak with them. <br /><br />Meanwhile, things are not exactly hunky dory in Cristina’s life. One of her dolls was found in the pocket of the recent murder victim, which in due course will bring her into the police spotlight. But before then, she finds herself increasingly subject to erotic dreams and fantasies, which pumps her sex-drive up to the maximum – to the point where it begins to interfere with her everyday activities. What’s particularly worrying, though, is that many of these fantasies seem to involve a ravishing, sexually aggressive nun, whose vampire-like presence in Cristina’s new house, particularly in the cellar, where up until now she has ignored the strange inscriptions and the odd atmosphere, is increasingly tangible. <br /><br />It probably isn’t giving too much away to say that this mysterious nun is, in fact, Kanesae, a subcarnate succubus who was formerly the lover of Vlad the Impaler. The homeless women, whom she has mesmerised and who are now committing numerous crimes on her behalf, including desecrating the local church and impaling yet more unsuspecting victims, are her coven – or, as they see it, her ‘convent’, she being their ‘New Mother’. Even the nervous Father Rawlins, a Catholic priest who lives close by, was once custodian of the building in which Cristina now lives, and who knows about the dangerous relics buried underneath it, is unsure what action he can take, if any. Because though it may all seem like a frenzied erotic nightmare – and yes, the priest is also affected by Cristina’s beauty and her increasingly wanton behaviour! – he knows perfectly well that the sum of these horrors, in the very near future, will most likely be the second coming of Dracula … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />I wasn’t sure what to expect when I picked up <i><b>Brides of the Impaler</b></i>. <br /><br />Previously, I’ve been familiar with Edward Lee as a writer of extreme horror, a skilled wordsmith whose prose is often a delight and yet who nevertheless takes gruesomeness to new graphic levels which even a hardened horror-hound like me can sometimes find difficult to stomach. I should therefore state straight away that <i><b>Brides of the Impaler</b></i> is not like that. From the outset, it has the air of a traditional vampire story, focussing on magic, mystery and esoteric history rather than excessive violence. And Lee maintains that quaint atmosphere almost all the way through; it is strongly redolent of those latter-day Hammer vampire movies of the 1970s (though unfortunately not always in a good way, and a bit more about that shortly). <br /><br />In this one, the vamps are seductive killers from the past, thoroughly wicked and immoral, regularly communing with the demonic, and now, having been resurrected through arcane rites, imposing their blasphemous, predatory ways on a modern society that has cheerfully done away with religious belief and is therefore completely unprotected. Very thankfully indeed, Lee has jettisoned all those embarrassing teenage notions about vampires being some tragic nobility of the night who want only to be loved. <br /><br />It’s also a relief to see that we’ve moved away from Bram Stoker’s concept of Dracula. While there are some similarities here, such as the Lord of the Undead hailing from Eastern European aristocracy, having earned his vampire state as a punishment for evil deeds, Edward Lee is much more interested in the history of Vlad Tepes than he is Stoker’s fictional count. While Stoker plundered Wallachian history for little more than the name, Lee goes all out to give us a full-blooded ‘Impaler’ backdrop, weaving myth and fiction with fact (Kanesae, for example, appears in no actual records) to tell the vivid tale of a medieval despot driven to acts of horrific criminality through his perilous circumstances and finally embracing evil for its own sake because by then he’d gone too far to stop. <br /><br />These ideas have been promoted before, of course, mainly by patriotic Transylvanians, who can’t stand the thought of their national hero being defamed as an irredeemable villain, but Lee doesn’t stint in his portrayal of Dracula and his mistress as being themselves despicable, the former a deranged individual ripe for exploitation by the Devil, the latter a scheming demoness with one role only, to create Hell on Earth. <br /><br />With the actual narrative set in present-day Manhattan, you might think all this a tad anachronistic, but not a bit of it. When the streets are littered with the homeless and addicted, there are acolytes aplenty for the empowering vampire cult. With ruined buildings on every side, many connected by forgotten tunnels, there is a ready-made underworld by which the fiends can pass invisibly among us. With maniacs and weirdoes at large on a daily basis, what are a few impalement murders for the cops to deal with? With voracious, shark-like lawyers on the prowl, can’t New York already boast a ruling class of monsters who are just waiting to take charge? <br /><br />It’s all very clever, and a fun romp to boot, filled with wonderfully macabre details (Cristina’s creepy line of dolls, for instance, which includes such splendidly ghoulish specimens as Leprosy Linda, Hypothermia Harriet and Gutshot Glen) and some great innovations on the general theme … like the homeless ex-prostitutes forming a convent of vampiresses under the guidance of a devilish Mother Superior, and hero Hal Vernon killing one of them by repeatedly shooting her, but only because his bullet holes form the shape of a cross. <br /><br />At the same time, Lee pays homage to several of his horror heroes, lawyers Paul and Jess close in name to Spanish cult movie-makers, Paul Naschy and Jess Franco, while the Ketchum Hotel, which also figures in the narrative, reminds us of the late, great US horror author, Jack Ketchum. <br /><br />Yes, it’s all good fun, but it’s not good clean fun. If there’s a downside to <i><b>Brides of the Impaler</b></i>, it’s the sex. Frankly, there’s far too much of it and it’s far too explicit. Admittedly, students of the genre may not consider that a major problem, but in a mainstream horror novel in the 21st century it jars badly. And, dare I say it, at times it almost seems juvenile. <br /><br />To start with, all the females are heavily sexualised. Granted, our heroes and heroines have to be attractive, but it goes to a whole new level in this one. Cristina and Britt – and bear in mind that these two women were badly abused when they were children! – are a pair of stylish, sensual beauties who are repeatedly depicted having sex with their boyfriends, and regularly described as having cleavage exposed or going out minus panties, and who as Kanesae’s influence spreads – particularly where Cristina is concerned – become ever more sexually insatiable (to a point where it verges on the ridiculous). <br /><br />Kanesae herself, meanwhile, is the ultimate throwback to 1970s Hammer, as I mentioned previously: a gorgeous, voluptuous succubus, who, just to add to the kink, wears a revealing nun’s outfit and uses sex at every opportunity to overwhelm both friend and foe alike. <br /><br />And it doesn’t end there. Even the homeless women, though shown as emaciated, gap-toothed harridans with crusty hair and foul body odour, are frequently portrayed in a pseudo-sensual way, and shown to be experts at various sex acts. Even though this is supposed to be the influence of Kanesae, who destroys her victims’ souls as well as their bodies, it still feels tasteless to me. Even a middle-aged kindergarten teacher is referred to by the cops as ‘Bouncing Betty’ because she is so well-endowed, while we also hear repeatedly, for no gain, that a female student and a female security guard, both of whose main role in the book is to die unpleasantly, have similar advantages. <br /><br /><i><b>Brides of the Impaler</b></i> was published in 2013, so Lee doesn’t have the same excuse that the latter-day Hammer horrors did (namely that it was the product of an unashamedly raunchy age) and even for a reader like me, who’s pretty easy-going, this seamy side of the book soon becomes repetitive and boring. <br /><br />But this is the only real problem with the novel. <br /><br />Overall, <i><b>Brides of the Impaler</b></i> is a time-honoured kind of vampire story given an effective and entertaining modern twist. As always with Lee, it’s excellently written, taking you straight into the heart of the modern city and yet convincingly underwriting it with an evil, supernatural netherworld. Hal Vernon as the affable, middle-aged cop makes a good-natured hero, while Cristina Nicholl, even if she’s completely oblivious to her overt sexiness, makes for an appealing and (relatively) innocent heroine. And I say it again, at least it takes us right away from these Goth/teenage vampire farces in which the dividing lines between good and evil are naively blurred. In that regard, this is a very welcome addition to the vampire fiction cycle. <br /><br /><i>As usual, I’m now going to attempt some fantasy casting just in case <b>Brides of the Impaler</b> ever gets put on film, though it won’t be easy given that we no longer have an Ingrid Pitt or Susan Denberg to play Kanesae. The only solution is to assume that the sex, or some of it at least, will be toned down a bit. On that basis, here we go: <br /><br />Cristina Nicholl – Margot Robbie <br />Britt Leibert – Camille Belle <br />Paul Nasher – Kyle Gallner <br />Jess – Christopher Mintz-Plasse <br />Hal Vernon – Stanley Tucci <br />Father Rawlins – John Amos <br />Kanesae – Lena Gercke</i></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-78096554484592290652023-03-30T02:25:00.001-07:002023-03-30T02:27:39.599-07:00When swords and axes ruled the battlefield<b><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKjQ77xWPH0zC-qRRSI32IOxvxuq2tx3vHKbw2ri8GHNdHyrZhDbwM3LiRp1dz8U2EiF0yOgY4WtnQRUJvDox1bF3fgiNvUeSWrFkpdPESPZ5szq1mf9dtwpBzBgP8zkrI1VOfQQcrEaOoYLZJXvNvoEkGLOvg2QvjKJ0aUrfnbIJIrRl507RrApd/s1138/el%20cid.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1138" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKjQ77xWPH0zC-qRRSI32IOxvxuq2tx3vHKbw2ri8GHNdHyrZhDbwM3LiRp1dz8U2EiF0yOgY4WtnQRUJvDox1bF3fgiNvUeSWrFkpdPESPZ5szq1mf9dtwpBzBgP8zkrI1VOfQQcrEaOoYLZJXvNvoEkGLOvg2QvjKJ0aUrfnbIJIrRl507RrApd/w400-h300/el%20cid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div>For the next few weeks, we – as in Canelo Books and me – will be moving full tilt towards publication of my first ever serious historical novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1680165221&sr=1-1">USURPER</a>, published on April 27. I don’t want to give too much away, though by now, if you’ve been reading any of the advance material, it’ll be plain that the story is set during the autumn of 1066, against the backdrop of the dual invasion of England by both a Viking army and a Norman army at the same time. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglC_krzjFJkikO_fGR8CnEP4obfMdRYIWeNl5mcgGYK-JG2IGeEVjPMhjBIBJo7Jv9HyFvJqzqxNBPolGzCrI9YMGv1mBlm7MMoc76XzEnCu379XaktKmOnIHPeI_LFiC12HG7FDdccb0TJLVvPvMESmReJNfYBVHIbeILMz_GwNVaLpHdfwFSzQA/s346/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglC_krzjFJkikO_fGR8CnEP4obfMdRYIWeNl5mcgGYK-JG2IGeEVjPMhjBIBJo7Jv9HyFvJqzqxNBPolGzCrI9YMGv1mBlm7MMoc76XzEnCu379XaktKmOnIHPeI_LFiC12HG7FDdccb0TJLVvPvMESmReJNfYBVHIbeILMz_GwNVaLpHdfwFSzQA/s320/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>If you’ve been checking things out online, you may have noted that the book has already accrued a number of glowing endorsements by some very respectable authors of historical action-fiction. Several comments I’ve received from these august wordsmiths have mentioned the battle scenes, which they appear to have appreciated greatly. <br /><br />In honour of that, this week I thought I’d cast an eye over the ten best pre-industrial age battle scenes that Hollywood has thus far attempted. Please feel free to agree with my choices, or disagree, as you see fit, in the comments section or on Facebook, Twitter or wherever. In addition, on the subject of war, and bringing things forward somewhat worryingly close to our modern era, I’ll be reviewing Steve Alten’s sci-fi military epic, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Goliath-Steve-Alten/dp/0765340240/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2NF4TYKFO09NK&keywords=goliath+-+steve+alten&qid=1680165280&s=books&sprefix=goliath+-+steve+alten%2Cstripbooks%2C62&sr=1-1">GOLIATH</a>. </b><br /><br />If you’re only here for the Alten review, that’s no problem. You’ll find it as always at the lower end of today’s column in the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section. Just shoot on down there straight away. For the rest of you though, assuming you’ve got a spare moment or two, why not check out some of … <br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>CINEMA’S GREATEST ‘SWORD AND SPEAR’ BATTLES</b></div><br />Again, just a bit of fun, this item. Something we can chat idly about over a brew. Basically, I’ve picked ten pre-gunpowder era battle scenes from movies I admire. But there are certain criteria I’ve imposed on myself. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-ZZo7e0BY8HZH_v-fCWJZOrBvezTvtUjbYg9DanJTapmj4vCdz43P9dIYvB2zrZ-D4vfZ3NGQ-p7BjDHbKXUC_XWqREVg_csU_EYiGIJLsmmvWPyWG2z00dmh60hhW8UdyTUdf88H2J2700kYefuWmyd0YghrpNtnFp7RuyHsNLwR6Ht1-0EhLGQ/s520/excalibur.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="520" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-ZZo7e0BY8HZH_v-fCWJZOrBvezTvtUjbYg9DanJTapmj4vCdz43P9dIYvB2zrZ-D4vfZ3NGQ-p7BjDHbKXUC_XWqREVg_csU_EYiGIJLsmmvWPyWG2z00dmh60hhW8UdyTUdf88H2J2700kYefuWmyd0YghrpNtnFp7RuyHsNLwR6Ht1-0EhLGQ/s320/excalibur.webp" width="320" /></a></div>To start with, they can only be recreations of named battles that really happened in history. So, that rules out the likes of <b><i>Lord of the Rings</i></b> (2001/3), <i><b>Game of Thrones</b></i> (2011/19), <b><i>Excalibur</i></b> (1981), <i><b>The Warlord</b></i> (1966) and even the amazing opening sequence in <i><b>Gladiator</b></i> (2000), which was basically an amalgam of many battles and skirmishes fought by Rome’s frontier legions in the Danube region during the 170s AD rather than one single individual action. <br /><br />I’ve also stipulated for myself that I can only call on battle scenes that made at least an attempt to be realistic. So unfortunately, that also discounts the battle of Thermopylae as portrayed in Zack Snyder’s <i><b>300</b></i> (2006), because artistically brilliant though it was, it owed far more to Frank Miller’s original graphic novel than actual history. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUhxdWVjDEMPppj_S5AJV9fphoaIaMsFuOcgYiKaamr4xIQHIyWYviaHbKznv37ImwGhIcJdUt1P4DXXdfNkI3AzK-9ma24fCea-dhsJKTqqe6Uuma9-FeJq6A-YDXuP_a6QqduF7w76nWzSikjT6esTHi299ViuMPpe_EUiWDz3QMIsrP1bRtUCl/s1063/el%20cid%201%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1063" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUhxdWVjDEMPppj_S5AJV9fphoaIaMsFuOcgYiKaamr4xIQHIyWYviaHbKznv37ImwGhIcJdUt1P4DXXdfNkI3AzK-9ma24fCea-dhsJKTqqe6Uuma9-FeJq6A-YDXuP_a6QqduF7w76nWzSikjT6esTHi299ViuMPpe_EUiWDz3QMIsrP1bRtUCl/s320/el%20cid%201%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Likewise, it sidelines Anthony Mann’s colossal epic of the <i>Reconquista</i>, <i><b>El Cid</b></i> (1961), as the real battle that drove the Berber horde back from the city of Valencia in 1094 was on the inland plains, not the coast, and even Mel Gibson’s multi Oscar-winning <i><b>Braveheart</b></i> (1995), which, while it recreated two major historical battles – Stirling Bridge (1297) and Falkirk (1298) – is infamous the world over for its lack of historical correctness (the Stirling Bridge sequence is stupendously blood-soaked, but it doesn’t even include a bridge). <br /><br />As a final rule, the movies I choose should also have been made in the English language. Please don’t get on my case about that. Though in polite company I always discuss classic motion pictures like <i><b>Alexander Nevsky</b></i> (1938), <i><b>Kagemusha</b></i> (1980) and <b><i>Red Cliff </i></b>(2008) as if I know what I’m talking about, the truth is that I’m no expert on foreign films and it won’t pay to pretend that I am. <br /><br />Okay … them’s the rules, as they say. In order of preference, let’s get cracking. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>1. BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY (1403)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Chimes at Midnight, 1965</b></div></b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo5sJqXJfNpFCqLOn4M-U2UrhDzdovR_oUaTvJn9fiq_YMMIb8JrYno5NOgToDZH2vRh3j6FxWbrMfLVM8hmRZI_vbkfID_z7E0bRf9YXcQyNg5bCfcLuPbRPU2BzGrEIaYSJLlPeZxywKC5QnQwlZtl00KeQHGPf-NCBgW037D5_V6DY2nPt3_UH/s1321/Chimes%20at%20Midnight%20(1965).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="848" data-original-width="1321" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo5sJqXJfNpFCqLOn4M-U2UrhDzdovR_oUaTvJn9fiq_YMMIb8JrYno5NOgToDZH2vRh3j6FxWbrMfLVM8hmRZI_vbkfID_z7E0bRf9YXcQyNg5bCfcLuPbRPU2BzGrEIaYSJLlPeZxywKC5QnQwlZtl00KeQHGPf-NCBgW037D5_V6DY2nPt3_UH/w400-h256/Chimes%20at%20Midnight%20(1965).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>One of the greatest battles ever committed to celluloid, and all the more impressive because of its shoestring budget. Director/star Orson Welles condensed several of Shakespeare’s plays into this single account of the Northern Earls’ Rebellion, which threatened the stability of the entirety of mainland Britain. Shrewsbury was a bloody affair indeed, an estimated 12,000 dying on the field, Welles recreating it with incredible ingenuity, using swirling mist, flying mud, blood and splintered shields to mask his relatively limited numbers, yet it remains eye-poppingly intense. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>2. BATTLE OF THE RIVER SELE (71 BC)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Spartacus, 1960</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDJNfA33Nb7s0963IsfzXMhqiRLrWe37eXnHikO-WVVKCVHB4I0Y8txx9g4Or4iJ69q6VMCM8zyMH3cAAdSZxfelUvSe6euHOjmQvLaImaX7PkA81bQ4uLEnJgDhogYQ9Fvocd9j46dnlOaAm83KL-k687DQU2lF6wc7ADxhLAE5IxaYEkqsWygrj/s2500/Spartacus%201960.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1631" data-original-width="2500" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDJNfA33Nb7s0963IsfzXMhqiRLrWe37eXnHikO-WVVKCVHB4I0Y8txx9g4Or4iJ69q6VMCM8zyMH3cAAdSZxfelUvSe6euHOjmQvLaImaX7PkA81bQ4uLEnJgDhogYQ9Fvocd9j46dnlOaAm83KL-k687DQU2lF6wc7ADxhLAE5IxaYEkqsWygrj/w400-h261/Spartacus%201960.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone remembers the ‘I am Spartacus’ moment, but it wouldn’t have been as effective if it hadn’t come directly after the Battle of the River Sele, which in real life was fought upland and saw the heroic leader of the slave army confronted by three of Rome’s most proficient generals, Pompey, Lucullus and Crassus (with Julius Caesar in attendance as a junior officer). Hollywood legend Stanley Kubrick (still only 32) gave us one of cinema’s most realistic ever portrayals of Roman legionary tactics, and got up close and personal with burnings and hackings galore. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>3. BATTLE OF JERUSALEM (1187)</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Kingdom of Heaven, 2005</b></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-asuKXC9XFsLqQOJHX5oyWHim_X_1XDFcb7eMYcikwbs8PoO_22xiSAJBhw05gkDSPwHV4BesXc-SeM086YKziAXolcsDFLFnuGlipIw_WQvCbMo-veqzoSMn4ilc_jdguixHDt5AKkWhRSchKdbdAnmM9zhXpk0DERCIkqg8GO-aRx1Ia-QscFm2/s1000/jerusalem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="1000" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-asuKXC9XFsLqQOJHX5oyWHim_X_1XDFcb7eMYcikwbs8PoO_22xiSAJBhw05gkDSPwHV4BesXc-SeM086YKziAXolcsDFLFnuGlipIw_WQvCbMo-veqzoSMn4ilc_jdguixHDt5AKkWhRSchKdbdAnmM9zhXpk0DERCIkqg8GO-aRx1Ia-QscFm2/w400-h259/jerusalem.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Though as a prelude to this massive engagement, the Christian army of Outremer suffered the greatest defeat in its history at the hands of Islam’s ablest general, Sultan Saladin of Egypt, at Hattin, it was the follow-up action at Jerusalem that caught the eye of regular epic film-maker, Ridley Scott. Though much maligned thanks to the incomprehensible truncated version of this movie released by the studio, the director’s cut remains a visual feast, and culminates in one of the most impressively mounted battles against a bastion that Hollywood has ever given us.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>4. BATTLE OF GAUGEMALA (331 BC)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Alexander, 2004</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVPC_vX6pf_yjpB3_I7iymKIDEW9q1-XxZHiK-9PMRCqJg9ldQAHm1gxo7E61k8urKPWy71RVgOwxgWi2ISFKUKZCnV7UrHcU18lHMbxKJiDxKQMBQYP0oHAcxle-ZgbQAgjK9q6Xa8WlhNs5YRbtL1iGs8-tps_Gp-Sfc3eiM7S9CrG7TIl23X_n/s1200/gauge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1191" data-original-width="1200" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVPC_vX6pf_yjpB3_I7iymKIDEW9q1-XxZHiK-9PMRCqJg9ldQAHm1gxo7E61k8urKPWy71RVgOwxgWi2ISFKUKZCnV7UrHcU18lHMbxKJiDxKQMBQYP0oHAcxle-ZgbQAgjK9q6Xa8WlhNs5YRbtL1iGs8-tps_Gp-Sfc3eiM7S9CrG7TIl23X_n/w400-h398/gauge.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Though poorly received overall, Oliver Stone’s <i><b>Alexander</b></i> rises to some memorable battles, and it’s fitting that one of the most important in the Ancient World is given such prominence. Briefly at least, the unending tussle between Greece and Persia was settled when Alexander pitted his numerically inferior but better trained army against the vast but mostly indentured forces of Darius III. The outcome was in doubt to the end, and Stone sticks to that narrative, emphasising the Macedonian king’s ability to make key strategic changes even in the midst of mayhem.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>5. BATTLE OF AGINCOURT (1415)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Henry V, 1988</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQRhurXiaf49g755iw0Rtxb-YKCMERoN0IrLsOUyJdoT-r2Yph0UpDxoZMNdRgawqUygQrYScDd9uiyfJAuOogegLzmFksvbpXYFdaI7JOIG0GMl6qOQeox8wRj4458MGPhEDcYb735DK38DhtxBjxorv5oeDXxBZL-3bHAIn3BAK91x_-AMWECp_/s640/Henry%20V%201988.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIQRhurXiaf49g755iw0Rtxb-YKCMERoN0IrLsOUyJdoT-r2Yph0UpDxoZMNdRgawqUygQrYScDd9uiyfJAuOogegLzmFksvbpXYFdaI7JOIG0GMl6qOQeox8wRj4458MGPhEDcYb735DK38DhtxBjxorv5oeDXxBZL-3bHAIn3BAK91x_-AMWECp_/w400-h225/Henry%20V%201988.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The scale of England’s victory over France in this most famous battle of the Hundred Years War is staggering even now. Henry’s hungry, dysentery-ridden 8,000 overcame the flower of French chivalry, who were closer to 30,000, laying 10,000 of them dead in the mud of that bitter October day, losing only a few hundred in return. It was a triumph for discipline over enthusiasm, for the longbow over plate armour. But Ken Branagh’s version doesn’t glorify any of it, those left alive on the corpse-strewn field at the end shattered husks of the men they’d been. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>6. BATTLE OF EDINGTON (878)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Last Kingdom, 2015</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKGUVA5GrOyeRabMfg_tCMhTpmtt8iWD7r7_e9yQlY0kCsIEx-oh1cQ_mqDLi4WkR3NxNV0fzrdJYmv3i0oxf4-PSqqJPTRmkgt5o2mvdjthiMwqsYSCTjStHjqR0t7j8rVEniTJsAGeOjNveAOvUDn7-YGtxUD7yNwA4Z8k5dxLfco6MCrjxaaAU/s603/edington.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="603" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKGUVA5GrOyeRabMfg_tCMhTpmtt8iWD7r7_e9yQlY0kCsIEx-oh1cQ_mqDLi4WkR3NxNV0fzrdJYmv3i0oxf4-PSqqJPTRmkgt5o2mvdjthiMwqsYSCTjStHjqR0t7j8rVEniTJsAGeOjNveAOvUDn7-YGtxUD7yNwA4Z8k5dxLfco6MCrjxaaAU/w400-h223/edington.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Though much of <b><i>The Last Kingdom</i></b> owes mainly to Bernard Cornwell’s imagination, in which most of the early English state’s best wins over the Vikings are attributed to his semi-fictional hero, Uhtred, rather than the real leaders, at least this TV adaptation’s version of Alfred the Great’s mightiest victory is as close as damn it to the true event. The hideous meat-grinder of two hefty shield-walls clashing repeatedly over piles of butchered corpses, so characteristic of Saxon and Viking age warfare, is captured perfectly in this brutal bloodbath of attrition. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>7. BATTLE OF ORLEANS (1429)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc, 1999</b></div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG90f_MZnvTRkJJhDHzc0IWRXbTzyiwGvs8DV5oTpixu4hNiUPlKYBaX7iU4d5X13CVyKEwEttkTDI8ogVRpkIRblfLudCzBSDLJoEVti5mzTPUJdq1Z9zMKimK28Ft-RpQl1Bdiu76hRjg31IiyEDQSFxi-cXnHJz8wtNYrvzBBGJrIy6a-bWOk7T/s1400/joan.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1400" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG90f_MZnvTRkJJhDHzc0IWRXbTzyiwGvs8DV5oTpixu4hNiUPlKYBaX7iU4d5X13CVyKEwEttkTDI8ogVRpkIRblfLudCzBSDLJoEVti5mzTPUJdq1Z9zMKimK28Ft-RpQl1Bdiu76hRjg31IiyEDQSFxi-cXnHJz8wtNYrvzBBGJrIy6a-bWOk7T/w400-h216/joan.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Some may argue that Joan of Arc’s greatest triumph lay in her personal martyrdom for what she considered a holy cause, but in purely tactical terms, it was her defeat of the English forces entrenched in the fortified city of Orleans, which turned the tide of the Hundred Years War, so it’s perhaps no surprise that it took a French director, Luc Besson, to give us a committed and realistically workmanlike portrayal of this crucial military enterprise, in which all manner of medieval artillery is used, the English defences falling section by section as a direct result. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>8. BATTLE OF KADESH (1274 BC)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Exodus: Gods and Kings, 2014</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqHsebSDoj_YkFJ7vnFUeJllXG25bAAJYmty5q_4ChkynqwAIsmNqSL3H1aBLBmXDGEHaqmfvOexUiegh34ogZ4QNVBaZZ2zu97w87fX3bxj0qCmIcS4i0le3PxsSJQHS65nCm8zz_5IH1asrlSabWcmBFYE3P1hbMYOvZ5ILXl8BZcg6LEjKy6rwO/s621/Kadesh.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="621" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqHsebSDoj_YkFJ7vnFUeJllXG25bAAJYmty5q_4ChkynqwAIsmNqSL3H1aBLBmXDGEHaqmfvOexUiegh34ogZ4QNVBaZZ2zu97w87fX3bxj0qCmIcS4i0le3PxsSJQHS65nCm8zz_5IH1asrlSabWcmBFYE3P1hbMYOvZ5ILXl8BZcg6LEjKy6rwO/w400-h266/Kadesh.webp" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>One of the earliest battles we have a written record of, Kadesh saw the celebrated pharaoh, Ramesses II, strike a heavy blow against Egypt’s great rivals of that era, the Hittites. Whether it belongs in a movie about Moses is another matter, but both Ramesses and Kadesh are referred to repeatedly in non-Biblical texts, and it seems entirely fair that Ridley Scott should have featured this epic struggle in his most religious movie. To add authenticity, he gives the Egyptian chariot force a leading role, for it was this mobile arm that swung the battle in Ramesses’ favour. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>9. BATTLE OF LOUDOUN HILL (1307)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Outlaw King, 2018</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJr6uWNFVha8OqzjiIqwkvzQdFp5vmNVOqqsbklFhRAGXyBIkkfvPqDC4pAa5-xz_nlsBQdf8k_04DVNml5e-Qrvhx5aGobw69E26VDsn2fKO_1dxYnGqsEmdUw6Ymsbk9Q5ZJ-jQsuaX1lYEnhBGNxW99W1LXQr8KAuLSMQUflCgfwcvKur8Ox5L/s725/loudoun%20hill.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="725" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJr6uWNFVha8OqzjiIqwkvzQdFp5vmNVOqqsbklFhRAGXyBIkkfvPqDC4pAa5-xz_nlsBQdf8k_04DVNml5e-Qrvhx5aGobw69E26VDsn2fKO_1dxYnGqsEmdUw6Ymsbk9Q5ZJ-jQsuaX1lYEnhBGNxW99W1LXQr8KAuLSMQUflCgfwcvKur8Ox5L/w400-h199/loudoun%20hill.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Often overlooked for its bigger, noisier cousin, <b><i>Braveheart</i></b>, <i><b>Outlaw King</b></i> shows us the early days of Robert the Bruce, focussing on one of his first successes. Director David Mackenzie makes much more effort than Mel Gibson did to depict the era as it was, dispensing with any notion of Bronze Age face-paint and 16th century tartan, to tell a more emotionally and factually complex story, the whole thing culminating at Loudoun Hill, where the fighting, while it borrows some detail from the later victory at Bannockburn, is tactically accurate and appropriately grim and desperate.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>10. BATTLE OF ASHDOWN (871)</b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Alfred the Great, 1969</b></div></b><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VQmOOy7jPc5VLBvx8JqCyqeMU9KUMWvXiHgwtzGUwOwA8uUoGL1KwAZqYj1lG63TuYf-ZONuTnmIhwGRxxX5XxAnxkNhBeEEB_h1ZmDHXfnFNtLze5THvoawkSPGgn5M9Hen_hqfbcOCqu-p2LKppjMES_ZaOYRVFZwINd9Y8KYFFOKwPZyJ8XTT/s1023/whitehorse.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="1023" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VQmOOy7jPc5VLBvx8JqCyqeMU9KUMWvXiHgwtzGUwOwA8uUoGL1KwAZqYj1lG63TuYf-ZONuTnmIhwGRxxX5XxAnxkNhBeEEB_h1ZmDHXfnFNtLze5THvoawkSPGgn5M9Hen_hqfbcOCqu-p2LKppjMES_ZaOYRVFZwINd9Y8KYFFOKwPZyJ8XTT/w400-h178/whitehorse.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>The first major victory for an English army over the seemingly unstoppable Viking horde that invaded Britain in the mid-9th century. Alfred the Great, then only a prince, won the day by luring the overconfident Danes into an ambush, which was very neatly depicted in Clive Donner’s ‘warts and all’ 1969 account. And while the presence on the battle site of the Uffington White Horse is ahistorical – no one knows for sure whether the colossal figure was cut into the hillside before or after this war – it makes for a truly atmospheric location.</div><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qvPq5X4j5KLGwwnfJIl6TcdXi-vQFvDW4Qcdf6c8Dbp6ukIBcIpJkQvt0NcE3OVrS-yPLg0jjPz1jekqgUWgO0wlXyFqTKU21EdGTcYjEqkjecpUL2CDhYCGbQjheOrm-FODotlk29yGYGgd7UI1tmzMi6ux5BiMOrMngYWrS8XWdh61QhUJtJU7/s400/goliath.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="247" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qvPq5X4j5KLGwwnfJIl6TcdXi-vQFvDW4Qcdf6c8Dbp6ukIBcIpJkQvt0NcE3OVrS-yPLg0jjPz1jekqgUWgO0wlXyFqTKU21EdGTcYjEqkjecpUL2CDhYCGbQjheOrm-FODotlk29yGYGgd7UI1tmzMi6ux5BiMOrMngYWrS8XWdh61QhUJtJU7/w248-h400/goliath.jpg" width="248" /></a></div></i></b><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Goliath-Steve-Alten/dp/0765340240/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2NF4TYKFO09NK&keywords=goliath+-+steve+alten&qid=1680165280&s=books&sprefix=goliath+-+steve+alten%2Cstripbooks%2C62&sr=1-1">GOLIATH</a> <i>by Steve Alten (2002)</i></b><b><i><br /></i></b><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Tough and efficient female naval officer, Commander Rochelle ‘Rocky’ Jackson, is participating in ocean manoeuvres on board the <i>USS Ronald Reagan</i> when something unprecedented happens. Without warning, the US fleet, one of the most well-equipped and professionally managed fighting forces in the world, is attacked from below by <i>Goliath</i>, a US-developed, manta ray-shaped super-sub, a gigantic, futuristic undersea battle-platform armed with every kind of missile and torpedo, including multiple nuclear warheads. <br /><br />It is a remarkably one-sided fight. The US fleet is totally destroyed, with Rocky Jackson one of the few survivors. Some 8,000 men go to watery graves. <br /><br />Naturally, the world convulses in shock. Initially, the US military think the Chinese responsible, as it was the Chinese who acquired the blueprint for <i>Goliath</i> at an early stage due to the actions of senior engineer and former spec ops hero, Gunnar Wolfe. Wolfe, fearing an imbalance of power in the world, committed treason by handing over state secrets, and was subsequently sent to Leavenworth. But it actually isn’t the Chinese. They went ahead and built the <i>Goliath</i> prototype, at phenomenal cost, even installing ‘Sorceress’, a highly advanced biomechanical nano-brain – only for the vehicle then to get stolen from right under their noses by Simon Covah, a former Soviet sub-commander and a military and mechanical genius. <br /><br />Driven mad by the murder of his family at the hands of Kosovan terrorists, and the general state of a world riven apart by tyranny and fear, Covah, now aided by a cohort of physically and emotionally disfigured partisans, is in possession of the deadliest weapon on Earth, and takes refuge with it at the bottom of the ocean. A stealth-craft, <i>Goliath</i> is undetectable even near the surface and so is completely invisible down in the abyss, from where its new controller attempts to blackmail humanity, threatening nuclear devastation if his long list of terms is not met. <br /><br />As these terms include the public executions of known despots, the dismantling of various police states and the disassembly of everyone else’s nuclear arsenals, the US realises that it can’t bargain with Covah. But neither can it defeat him in a straight fight. The US also knows that he’s as good as his word; it isn’t long before atomic destruction is raining down on certain selected targets. <br /><br />A team of experts is swiftly put together to try and countermand the madman. Rocky Jackson, who worked on <i>Goliath</i> during its early stages, is one of them. Another is her ex-boyfriend now turned reviled traitor, Gunnar Wolfe, as he too was involved in the development programme. Naturally, they are antagonistic to each other, though for the time-being at least they must put their differences aside. <br /><br />It still seems like the tallest order imaginable, and things are only going to get worse. Because the real problem on board <i>Goliath</i> is not the deranged Covah, but Sorceress. The hi-tech computer has finally developed AI and is quietly hatching its own coldly logical and vastly more terrifying strategy … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />At best, <i><b>Goliath</b></i> is a high-octane techno-thriller with some lightweight political stuff woven in, a few warnings about the dangers of state-of-the-art computer science, and numerous of Steve Alten’s trademark gripping action sequences. It’s basically a load of fun. The reason you’ve probably not heard about it though is because, with almost indecent speed after publication, it was overtaken by real-life world events. <br /><br />It first hit the shelves in 2002, a time when, though there was constant trouble in the world, particularly in the Middle East, it hadn’t reached anything like the catastrophic state of affairs that exists today. This doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy the book, especially if you view it as a kind of alternate history, though the unfolding events of the 2000s in <i><b>Goliath</b></i> take a very different direction from those in our own experience, so it jars quite hard on first reading. That said, in some ways, the book is worryingly prophetic. Both Saddam Hussein and Colonel Gaddafi die violently during the course of it (though probably less horribly than they did in reality in 2003 and 2011 respectively). <br /><br />Another slight problem – and this perhaps is being picky – is that in <b><i>Goliath</i></b> the US is once again the hero nation, the team of good guys that sets out to save the planet and ultimately succeeds in bringing down this most monstrous manmade threat with minimal help from anyone else. Okay, it’s not quite as simplistic as that. For the most part, Alten adopts a mature approach, and incorporates lots of Machiavellian intrigue, with various senior politicians and military men putting their own interests first, failing to see the bigger picture – all that kind of thing. But ultimately in this day and age, whether rightly or wrongly, not everyone on Earth views the US as their inevitable friend and saviour. <br /><br />That’s hardly Steve Alten’s fault, of course. He’s an American writer and he writes about his own people first. No quibbles there. But this may be one other reason why the book is not widely regarded as a classic action romp. Because I’ll be absolutely honest … Alten has a prodigious talent for writing about modern-day technology, weaponry, military uniforms, military procedures and the like, and I don’t think he’s ever done it as well as he does it here. It’s all incredibly vivid and accessible. On top of that, it’s a lightning read. You can see and hear everything that’s happening easily and coherently, and yet Alten sacrifices none of his narrative’s pace or energy to achieve this. It’s almost like a well-written movie script, and it wouldn’t surprise me if <i><b>Goliath</b></i> had perhaps commenced its life in that format. It’s got ‘blockbuster action film’ written all over it, though as I say, real historic events suddenly ran way ahead. <br /><br />On the downside, the characters are perhaps a little clichéd. Rocky Jackson, an archetypical GI Jane, and Gunnar Wolfe, the tough guy with a conscience, are made-to-measure heroes: handsome, athletic, highly qualified, unfeasibly skilled in a massive range of disciplines. The back-story about Wolfe’s betrayal is interesting in terms of setting up their fire-and-water relationship, but it starts to intrude after a while, and, being frank, he did commit treason. It’s difficult not to empathise a little bit with those former colleagues who don’t trust him enough to bring him back on board, and I couldn’t help wondering why certain others, including Rocky’s dad, General ‘Bear’ Jackson, who at one time nearly became Gunnar’s father-in-law, would. <br /><br />It would also be wrong not to mention that a sentient but crazed computer is not a new concept. Just off the top of my head, I can think of two earlier examples: <i><b>Colossus</b></i> by DF Jones (1966) and of course <i><b>2001</b></i> by Arthur C. Clarke (1968); so, while Alten gets plaudits for exploring our increasing paranoia about advanced AI, it isn’t monumentally original. <br /><br />But hey … this is sci-fi fantasy, and it’s tackled by the author with an immense, contagious gusto. I freely admit that I found myself devouring <i><b>Goliath</b></i>, racing through the pages as we progressed from one high point to the next, a succession of huge, thunder-flashing, hull-crunching, metal-splintering action sequences, not a single one of which disappointed me. <br /><br />Just treat it as the rip-roaring undersea (and oversea) yarn that it is, and it should keep your attention until the very last page. <br /><br /><i>As always – purely for the fun of it – here are my picks for who should play the leads if <b>Goliath</b> is ever adapted for film or TV (though it would need some significant rewriting in terms of its plot first – and that never happens in Hollywood, does it!): <br /><br />Rocky Jackson – Zoe Saldana <br />Gunnar Wolfe – Jensen Ackles <br />Simon Corvah – Mark Rylance <br />General ‘Bear’ Jackson – Ving Rhames </i></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-21569378498455944922023-03-12T09:47:00.006-07:002023-03-13T01:55:51.768-07:00Twenty high points of horror in British TV<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4V5lr7xqM9HORbs2jsbEzhf7qbFv9s8cnyMLfdy0x-hR6Nva4U5IHNRVoDYBLq9IllQP6WYnG8dP_0xm4GECZY0gR8l2P8f8UV99J6m06WiSuo6wZBwM9ftzjZN39KvM7C_UpgUuMurA2LvlPhf8Glco23PzW72qcAxsQvlNvT0UKl4BH3lrX25e/s1200/p04bb2gn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4V5lr7xqM9HORbs2jsbEzhf7qbFv9s8cnyMLfdy0x-hR6Nva4U5IHNRVoDYBLq9IllQP6WYnG8dP_0xm4GECZY0gR8l2P8f8UV99J6m06WiSuo6wZBwM9ftzjZN39KvM7C_UpgUuMurA2LvlPhf8Glco23PzW72qcAxsQvlNvT0UKl4BH3lrX25e/w400-h225/p04bb2gn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><b>Well, I’m still in a holding pattern at present with regard to blogposts. There are several announcements I want to make, but simply can’t. So, perhaps you can indulge me and we’ll just have a fun post this week. </b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Today therefore, purely for a laugh, I thought I’d give you My TOP 20 SCARIEST BRITISH TV HORROR MOMENTS. <br /><br />Note that I said ‘TV’, not cinema. However, we’ll also be venturing into the world of literary horror today, because in addition to that, I’ll be reviewing <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devil-Takes-You-Home-unforgettable/dp/1472291077/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1678631425&sr=1-1">THE DEVIL TAKES YOU HOME</a> by Gabino Iglesias, a fascinating and terrifying crime novel, which ranges much further into the darkness than almost any other thriller I’ve read to date. </b><br /><br />If you’re only here for the Iglesias review, that’s no problem. Just do the usual thing. Scoot down to the bottom end of today’s post, to the <b>Thrillers, Chillers </b>section, and you’ll find it there. <br /><br />But, before we crack on with Brit TV’s best ever terror, check this out. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge3IdLAr1nqxDle0o7bjBhI2XUwXfvKV7P1oH3peHwWFBawqcMlsyriGj4ybn7mgyCYkydDd5Q6y5-cMpRy3xHJf0VFZL8e-pU3_HoKAYekKUJMnEr6sGN9dXKepYInDZW0TAw0r7vxh1a8OC8asCQ1Y_GmScPKgl96InVCBdbrroxACmifHJFweaT/s346/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="226" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge3IdLAr1nqxDle0o7bjBhI2XUwXfvKV7P1oH3peHwWFBawqcMlsyriGj4ybn7mgyCYkydDd5Q6y5-cMpRy3xHJf0VFZL8e-pU3_HoKAYekKUJMnEr6sGN9dXKepYInDZW0TAw0r7vxh1a8OC8asCQ1Y_GmScPKgl96InVCBdbrroxACmifHJFweaT/w261-h400/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>Why 1066?</b></div><br />I’m not going to spend too much time on this, because the podcast does most of the talking, but my new novel, a historical adventure called <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1678631095&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, is out in just over one month’s time. There’ll probably be quite a bit of promotional stuff appearing on this over the next few months, and last week I was pleased to get the ball rolling by being interviewed by Dick Newman for the Australian-based podcast, <a href="https://englishhistoryfactandfiction.com/2023/03/11/episode-295-german-george/?fbclid=IwAR13-Jes6yZCpMRc1Yo3FH5aWDS_3eqV9cMVP2MlkgpHZADL1cNvteYw5lU"><b>ENGLISH HISTORY, FACT AND FICTION</b></a>, a chat in which we focussed on that most apocalyptic year in the history of England, why I chose it and how I sought to milk the most darkness and drama out of it that I possibly could. And, well, here it is now. Those interested, please feel free to check it out. The interview kicks in at around 45.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Heck</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>A quick update on the Heck series, primarily because people keep tweeting me and asking, which I massively appreciate, by the way (I love it that the books made such an impact). All I can do is reiterate that the series is not finished. Two new Heck novels have been written, the first one picking up exactly where the last one left off, and I am as eager as anyone else to see them on the shelves. But I am NOT in full control of publishing schedules. There are other people involved in the process, and it’s always a matter of all our interests falling into line. But I ASSURE those of you to whom this matters, that the series is NOT done, and at some point soon, the next Heck novel will be published.</b></div><div><br />And now … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Top 20 SCARIEST MOMENTS IN BRITISH TV HORROR</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;">(As strongly influenced by <a href="https://www.horrifiedmagazine.co.uk/"><b>HORRIFIED MAGAZINE</b></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;">and <a href="https://www.lulu.com/shop/stephen-brotherstone-dave-lawrence/scarred-for-life-volume-one/paperback/product-23116461.html?page=1&pageSize=4"><b>SCARRED FOR LIFE</b></a>).</div><br />It seems bizarre in this day and age, when many of our network broadcasters seem convinced that fly-on-the-wall docu-soaps are vastly more captivating for British TV audiences than original drama or comedy, but television in the UK was once a seedbed of genuinely frightening horror. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-LcFKBLnPUGVdG4t8BX2Y9A2xd9sZ4d14c93_5aIcnoTNdLALqlIgwd71_6n2MFYbpPxaXg0WgMRZf11OVIQDI97Z4dZr9gPI54UFHzM0dwYSoJnKS6qzNfSxGhCltNWm0h28SoKYxCrSRNP3GpX4v8CSRPQU3b1NBJH2jHlB65pxMq46eBKt-XnF/s844/late%20night%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="416" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-LcFKBLnPUGVdG4t8BX2Y9A2xd9sZ4d14c93_5aIcnoTNdLALqlIgwd71_6n2MFYbpPxaXg0WgMRZf11OVIQDI97Z4dZr9gPI54UFHzM0dwYSoJnKS6qzNfSxGhCltNWm0h28SoKYxCrSRNP3GpX4v8CSRPQU3b1NBJH2jHlB65pxMq46eBKt-XnF/w198-h400/late%20night%20(2).jpg" width="198" /></a></div>The golden era of this was probably the 1970s and 1980s, when a plethora of horror anthology shows, aimed both at adults and younger viewers, darkened our screens. But you could go way further back than that, with Nigel Kneale’s ground-breaking <b>Quatermass</b> series (pictured at the top), which ran throughout the 1950s, and <b>Dr Who</b> of course, which kicked off in 1963, a so-called children’s TV show that would go on to scare the pants of viewers of all ages on umpteen occasions. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also in the ’60s, and perhaps in terms of harder core horror, we had <b>Mystery and Imagination</b> (1966-1970), <b>Late Night Horror</b> (1968) and <b>Journey to the Unknown</b> (1968/69), not all of which, sadly, remain intact in the television archive. <br /><br />As I say, it was really the 1970s when British TV genuinely picked up the horror torch and ran with it. The tone was set, weirdly enough, with a whole range of public information films, many of them again aimed at children, warning the UK populace about the dangers of everyday life. No one, but no one, forgets <b>Lonely Water</b> (1973), in which horror veteran Donald Pleasence played a menacing hooded figure who haunted the banks of isolated rivers, canals and millponds, just waiting to drown unwary youngsters. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgodC3znStS2k4X4Tn6aktUDnmooN2M4j_lOBZ4R2KC0qO8dfHI5UzaKV-Yvqo9t79zAfmJGaiKIinqdl6r99JeAfGxtFxgdejANTt7c5xhPnfJNA9vmngDYqyruxBUscjnfh7dYm8b7F299GyxpQm13df1ZNOL5x8BRFyqN5AGsbHGx667U18GueF/s346/Penda's_Fen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="245" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgodC3znStS2k4X4Tn6aktUDnmooN2M4j_lOBZ4R2KC0qO8dfHI5UzaKV-Yvqo9t79zAfmJGaiKIinqdl6r99JeAfGxtFxgdejANTt7c5xhPnfJNA9vmngDYqyruxBUscjnfh7dYm8b7F299GyxpQm13df1ZNOL5x8BRFyqN5AGsbHGx667U18GueF/s320/Penda's_Fen.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>But that was only the start of it. Even British TV’s exponents of higher culture got in on the act, <b>Play for Today</b> hitting the nation with <b>Robin Redbreast</b> in 1970 and <b>Penda’s Fen</b> in 1974. <br /><br />In terms of actual horror shows, the ’70s and ‘80s produced some bona fide classics, <b>Doom Watch</b>, <b>Dead of Night</b>, <b>Thriller</b>,<b> Ghost Story for Christmas</b>, <b>Beasts</b>, <b>Shadows</b>, <b>Supernatural</b>, <b>Hammer House of Horror</b>, <b>Tales of the Unexpected</b>, <b>Shades of Darkness</b>, among many others. <br /><br />Shows like these became thinner on the ground in later decades, but there are still one or two highlights post-1989 that are worth mentioning. Stephen Gallagher’s <b>Chimera</b>, a chilling adaptation of his own highly intelligent 1982 sci-fi/horror novel, hit our screens in 1992, while <b>Ghosts</b> in 1995 successfully revived the spirit of those earlier supernatural portmanteau dramas. <br /><br />But enough of all this. You didn’t come here today to get a TV history lesson. If you want one of those, you can easily learn more on the subject from far more scholarly websites than this. As I’ve already mentioned, <a href="https://www.horrifiedmagazine.co.uk/" style="text-align: center;"><b>HORRIFIED MAGAZINE</b></a> is a great place to start, and <a href="https://www.lulu.com/shop/stephen-brotherstone-dave-lawrence/scarred-for-life-volume-one/paperback/product-23116461.html?page=1&pageSize=4" style="text-align: center;"><b>SCARRED FOR LIFE</b></a> vols 1 and 2 would help as well. But perhaps if you’re keen to zero in on a few high points, this list below will be of interest.</div><div><br />As I say, it’s my personal <b>Top 20 Scariest Moments in British TV Horror</b>. I’m sure there’ll be many arguments about absentees. No <b>Warning to the Curious</b>? No <b>Robin Redbreast</b>? No reference at all to the legendary younger viewers’ series, <b>Children of the Stones</b>? Surely that one’s worthy of a mention? <br /><br />Well … yes, they all are. But there is insufficient time and room here for an encyclopaedic account. So, you’ll just have to make do with the really good moments I remember best, though by all means feel free to point out any particularly shocking absences in the Comments section. The more the merrier. <br /><br />Anyway, let’s get on with it …</div><div> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>1. WHITE BEAR – BLACK MIRROR</b> (2013)</div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCmTnH_WDS87yZcrVijRg9TYYXhX_SrGaSRtQuAkVXTZYMSG5WTSNJmCd8h-HAF7SeyqlzSLm43lzimvUCE3VGApJGSHYgqJqB30k7HUtUZBzQGN2SZy7GY34USTeaVdVqc4GY0euD9c2-ocETUbjdWbL_YennI7qB0gM3USpuO0Sq3N3a6JlRTNc/s856/white%20bear.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="856" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlCmTnH_WDS87yZcrVijRg9TYYXhX_SrGaSRtQuAkVXTZYMSG5WTSNJmCd8h-HAF7SeyqlzSLm43lzimvUCE3VGApJGSHYgqJqB30k7HUtUZBzQGN2SZy7GY34USTeaVdVqc4GY0euD9c2-ocETUbjdWbL_YennI7qB0gM3USpuO0Sq3N3a6JlRTNc/w400-h225/white%20bear.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Charlie Brooker’s <b>Black Mirror</b> was much given over to dystopian futures, but this one hits us with a sneaky double-bluff, its bedraggled heroine staggering through a protracted but corny succession of sci-fi/horror twists and turns, only for it to turn out that she’s the main actor in a popular but horrific game-show. A slick comment on our modern habit of filming torture rather than trying to stop it. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>2. BABY – BEASTS</b> (1976)</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQ2f63mYkD2glIDOplsMnXY8PjHuBiMjBBUYbeaTwziwWainZbuqkXC3NRv8Qy32YuYGtpf7drN-l2wvCA_mUETS0yoC7_fD3EO6k_tYFxwLYjwXQ10fKMSmX2wH9HMhQkSMsOaurY6KYrAmb6tqUSO0ro5uvO07nWIAY2OLBxhqnVlr0r2842jZW/s640/baby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQ2f63mYkD2glIDOplsMnXY8PjHuBiMjBBUYbeaTwziwWainZbuqkXC3NRv8Qy32YuYGtpf7drN-l2wvCA_mUETS0yoC7_fD3EO6k_tYFxwLYjwXQ10fKMSmX2wH9HMhQkSMsOaurY6KYrAmb6tqUSO0ro5uvO07nWIAY2OLBxhqnVlr0r2842jZW/w400-h320/baby.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Nigel Kneale’s first appearance on this list but far from his last. Perhaps it seems a little talkie by modern standards, but not a word is really wasted as the doomed young couple at the heart of it eagerly renovate their olde worlde country cottage, only to find something very nasty embedded in the wall. At this stage, of course, they don’t know the real meaning of ‘nasty’, but they soon will.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>3. THE WOMAN IN BLACK</b> (1989)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4En5tMQDumN4MKrSRRnTpWxAg1FRpd4cBeLvtfXiw6NF-lHSlbrZhOrxryPMIQhUUE15llN-eEF4TrQtx44MOOIgzcwlIIP8-MjRlwb4ZoNcBWpt3u0IvbOpuHQHapEviDJ3c9RU_ZGyj0gDMJgWsPB5E5PxZbCoDvJej8l8lUcz87Z-1Au5C1DAM/s1000/woman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="1000" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4En5tMQDumN4MKrSRRnTpWxAg1FRpd4cBeLvtfXiw6NF-lHSlbrZhOrxryPMIQhUUE15llN-eEF4TrQtx44MOOIgzcwlIIP8-MjRlwb4ZoNcBWpt3u0IvbOpuHQHapEviDJ3c9RU_ZGyj0gDMJgWsPB5E5PxZbCoDvJej8l8lUcz87Z-1Au5C1DAM/w400-h299/woman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div>An amazingly atmospheric adaptation of Susan Hill’s ghost story masterclass. The directing, the acting, the writing (of course Mr Kneale again!), everything is pitch-perfect. The location is dreariness personified, and yet possesses an atmosphere of strangeness and dread that owes nothing to cinematic trickery. It also contains one of the scariest spectres in TV history.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>4. SCHALCKEN THE PAINTER – </b></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>GHOST STORY FOR CHRISTMAS</b> (1979)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3aOROBJvDnFGwJm4wQ7NtO__1nW-IO-CqdGtLM1kL1kD3q493n5m45MqSITeG4RU7O5MMssDFVwnNnDiT0ldhyRui0qLNNCArOBFfrn0RRT83wrrOqG10RNuc5aEO0fWDnqMtp5184VRW5yL2ip7ZNssQ7o2x_yljUDjjc2PGfcFzh2WDuNYFkNQ/s540/painter%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="540" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ3aOROBJvDnFGwJm4wQ7NtO__1nW-IO-CqdGtLM1kL1kD3q493n5m45MqSITeG4RU7O5MMssDFVwnNnDiT0ldhyRui0qLNNCArOBFfrn0RRT83wrrOqG10RNuc5aEO0fWDnqMtp5184VRW5yL2ip7ZNssQ7o2x_yljUDjjc2PGfcFzh2WDuNYFkNQ/w400-h299/painter%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Something of an arthouse effort for the BBC <b>Ghost Stories for Christmas</b> slot, perhaps because it was part of the Omnibus series. It amounts to a very faithful recreation of one of Sheridan Le Fanu’s most frightening short stories. Beautifully dressed, impressively underplayed, directed as though it’s actually a succession of Flemish School paintings, and boasting a truly terrifying denouement.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>5. MEN AGAINST FIRE – BLACK MIRROR</b> (2016)</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivgbCH-wKbmEonb5bBoJw-bmioGjwHXBIlNK428JMIQwZcIwBBNAZxUHLKh8SkA6BZXGxARH5w2x1hmR8yz3fj3qjEod3hhacFrlnAn6NMXOeVl33uKfTNWNa1jaKiROQW3DK93K0KCx-2iox-5IwAyFA1L_YHFNVzg-cdIGYdNHeGzF9-FuUU_Uj_/s792/men%20against%20fire.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="792" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivgbCH-wKbmEonb5bBoJw-bmioGjwHXBIlNK428JMIQwZcIwBBNAZxUHLKh8SkA6BZXGxARH5w2x1hmR8yz3fj3qjEod3hhacFrlnAn6NMXOeVl33uKfTNWNa1jaKiROQW3DK93K0KCx-2iox-5IwAyFA1L_YHFNVzg-cdIGYdNHeGzF9-FuUU_Uj_/w400-h199/men%20against%20fire.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Another of <b>Black Mirror’s</b> dystopian parables, as penned by Charlie Brooker, this time following the fortunes of a military unit, and one soldier in particular, as they track down and wipe out nests of so-called ‘roaches’, savage humanoid insurgents who are ruining the land. The real horror, of course, is the mind control by which the troopers are persuaded to view these innocent intruders as a threat.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>6. QUIET AS A NUN – ARMCHAIR THRILLER</b> (1978)</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP50Ufuu11Uj8J2ah6qoef4MQRCifcdTcGVTqrCkJYa4lTwHzaDuY8XzPnqlynAovr7xereN5QPOcuG-53xsC2TCsJviSKZsSqDOCgPyRcKzCi-rxAFgWCojD141ABWotxQ_lHOxD7qF46OBKrDYZpAhtukFLOtteX1rUfPEfEoXc_aABm-gPg1az/s1000/quiet%20as%20a%20nun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="1000" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP50Ufuu11Uj8J2ah6qoef4MQRCifcdTcGVTqrCkJYa4lTwHzaDuY8XzPnqlynAovr7xereN5QPOcuG-53xsC2TCsJviSKZsSqDOCgPyRcKzCi-rxAFgWCojD141ABWotxQ_lHOxD7qF46OBKrDYZpAhtukFLOtteX1rUfPEfEoXc_aABm-gPg1az/w400-h259/quiet%20as%20a%20nun.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Cosy crime meets full-on horror in a TV series that simply refused to pull its punches when it came to scaring its audience. Antonia Fraser wrote the original novel as part of her Jemima Shore series, in which there was much to do with big inheritances, country houses and murder, but this one is worth including simply for episode 3 and the bone-chilling appearance of the infamous Black Nun.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>7. SOMEONE AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS – </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THRILLER</b> (1973)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWh3WU6IrYCPGNbJe7wrIqs9eGcHKMGuG6bvmWjX0RjZvD41nxtDzBPeHDLJdQ_xDN1bREDg5sOlINPXjFJ1Z_CducnOFdQXmJyijuGcxAlRi5x3CVsCAf0oz-g62_-DlLKQxvDUjcbl2hWduwWucWS_nEpQJMiOk-6Sfr2dhdjCp3fkwHPxSE8SsF/s740/top%20of%20stairs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="740" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWh3WU6IrYCPGNbJe7wrIqs9eGcHKMGuG6bvmWjX0RjZvD41nxtDzBPeHDLJdQ_xDN1bREDg5sOlINPXjFJ1Z_CducnOFdQXmJyijuGcxAlRi5x3CVsCAf0oz-g62_-DlLKQxvDUjcbl2hWduwWucWS_nEpQJMiOk-6Sfr2dhdjCp3fkwHPxSE8SsF/w400-h297/top%20of%20stairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />One of the earliest episodes of <b>Thriller</b>, number three in the first series, and one that would cut deeply with anyone who’s ever stayed in a low-rent bedsit. The rickety stairs, the dingy passages, the strange sounds from the other rooms, the increasingly weird fellow occupants, and the occasional moments of 1970s sleaze all place this one firmly in <b>Pan Book of Horror Stories</b> country. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>8. THE SIGNALMAN – </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>GHOST STORY FOR CHRISTMAS</b> (1976)</div></div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3A9dMP6DHjSt3z7gzGxjTNMzgGvao5Hb3TID4eSPbZyYIRRHZxWnnAvuQ5AoLASJ-q7uHy3jKF5BnOKieG6jtyBPt5QVMsdPVJHdDlj4YL-btk9yNaqkkqszQJJ5V-cn62Dxx6eQ5obAFNd-2B8VoG65Z-YZi10kvQ4FIqONt_fdyYpZXkZEiGy7/s420/signalman%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="420" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-3A9dMP6DHjSt3z7gzGxjTNMzgGvao5Hb3TID4eSPbZyYIRRHZxWnnAvuQ5AoLASJ-q7uHy3jKF5BnOKieG6jtyBPt5QVMsdPVJHdDlj4YL-btk9yNaqkkqszQJJ5V-cn62Dxx6eQ5obAFNd-2B8VoG65Z-YZi10kvQ4FIqONt_fdyYpZXkZEiGy7/w400-h300/signalman%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />One of the most memorable of the BBC’s <b>Ghost Story for Christmas</b> series, and the first to be adapted from non-MR James source material. The eerie tunnel mouth location, the enshrouding fog, the constant bleakness of the moors and, of course, Denholm Elliot’s performance as the harrowed and haunted hero of the title all last long in the festive memory. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>9. THE HOUSE THAT BLED TO DEATH – </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>HAMMER HOUSE OF HORROR</b> (1980)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUhh54RQ56ImSrXK5peBXAGu77WH_J82-pO0QEivJmpqiDDg4p90eUpA2D-nTD0KmFODUeIj2ARWaIrU8sawCivvrKj4ZtWpUm5mp5G2fE9yDf57Qfny1hYnwO7tgI0L2JmneOJ8JmF-UalIhjNTKz7VFXbzhXxXUUhbk-uQ2cEm3FMXlqZSdbg71/s1000/house%20that%20bled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUhh54RQ56ImSrXK5peBXAGu77WH_J82-pO0QEivJmpqiDDg4p90eUpA2D-nTD0KmFODUeIj2ARWaIrU8sawCivvrKj4ZtWpUm5mp5G2fE9yDf57Qfny1hYnwO7tgI0L2JmneOJ8JmF-UalIhjNTKz7VFXbzhXxXUUhbk-uQ2cEm3FMXlqZSdbg71/w400-h225/house%20that%20bled.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>The one episode of this hit and miss series that everyone remembers. With the case of the Amityville Horror still a talking-point, this tale of an innocent family hounded in their new home by a demonic force that either created or was caused by an act of pure evil, was timely indeed, and incorporated some spectacularly horrible moments. Remember the children’s party that became a bloodbath?</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>10. HATED IN THE NATION – BLACK MIRROR </b>(2016)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfGlQZjDXK4fbHVT4TjTJ2tVqrhey4fK5N62A93vEqAqvEBBc6QQZ_UMqjP6JfaTVf68rPmu2yJUFMQjgGbFiXypEE7pZBekRsHOB1zFIQUjOujtz1kpukZnTuAQkVbfFJk0wWEVMe-5qlcZR84JMKSLnOzUDRZOfhlfbtaxdAm8hgRBxUG7SPB7L/s2048/Hated%20in%20the%20nation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCfGlQZjDXK4fbHVT4TjTJ2tVqrhey4fK5N62A93vEqAqvEBBc6QQZ_UMqjP6JfaTVf68rPmu2yJUFMQjgGbFiXypEE7pZBekRsHOB1zFIQUjOujtz1kpukZnTuAQkVbfFJk0wWEVMe-5qlcZR84JMKSLnOzUDRZOfhlfbtaxdAm8hgRBxUG7SPB7L/w400-h266/Hated%20in%20the%20nation.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Another ingenious idea from Charlie Brooker, and a concept that could grace either <b>Quatermass</b> or <b>Dr Who</b>, a swarm of bee-bots, developed to help pollinate crops, being hacked and unleashed against a daily target of choice, as chosen by social media users. Not just an ominous vision of things to come, but a nightmare that might become reality even sooner than Brooker realised.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>11. NIGHT OF THE MARIONETTES – SUPERNATURAL</b> (1977)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnCj325Puk3g_6g-FP8E1iSIExshcyOsslVFc32NuPjwVMashdAENBsouGD-PsgKNQy-NcAYBZBgivcNXkSIP9jCv_blGuPzVC34izIZ3e3cLGOgOqW-K8YPJSCTuSmyPVgCZ0I7NGwYLbvNBDpPuy04B6_EIfk-K0ZIixashuCACOnG5PgiC-ahLE/s1000/Night%20of%20the%20Marionettes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="1000" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnCj325Puk3g_6g-FP8E1iSIExshcyOsslVFc32NuPjwVMashdAENBsouGD-PsgKNQy-NcAYBZBgivcNXkSIP9jCv_blGuPzVC34izIZ3e3cLGOgOqW-K8YPJSCTuSmyPVgCZ0I7NGwYLbvNBDpPuy04B6_EIfk-K0ZIixashuCACOnG5PgiC-ahLE/w400-h324/Night%20of%20the%20Marionettes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><b>Supernatural</b> was bedevilled by low budget production, sometimes playing the <b>Blue Peter</b> trick of offering simple line-drawings as excuses for exotic landscapes, but though all the stories trod familiar Gothic horror footpaths, this very different spin on <b>Frankenstein</b> added much, much more. Again, it’s too talkie, but the actual festival of the marionettes is a genuine eye-popper.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>12. LEAVING LILY</b> (1975)</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasqDVritwr5ZF_2T3oA03aCijhgDmIrKavfDFk-sCMOArvxZTtUHgooOF7lN0fcI1RFt6P8xVVpYo5PJ8v1QgujO0z_q8oOAfsAoFAKQR9zX8zRCVPA5_VxL07IfUInvZFOfXCFjwAU73JwpnpT0jwZ7Oo0pWLeve7v7lXe5xfP-ZS20p4mrOxGvX/s600/ottodix.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="600" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasqDVritwr5ZF_2T3oA03aCijhgDmIrKavfDFk-sCMOArvxZTtUHgooOF7lN0fcI1RFt6P8xVVpYo5PJ8v1QgujO0z_q8oOAfsAoFAKQR9zX8zRCVPA5_VxL07IfUInvZFOfXCFjwAU73JwpnpT0jwZ7Oo0pWLeve7v7lXe5xfP-ZS20p4mrOxGvX/w400-h269/ottodix.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>A little-seen half-hour gem from the pen and director’s chair of Graham Baker. It concerns a young Norfolk farmhand determined to do his bit at the height of World War One, but while he spends his last day before enlistment with his village sweetheart, Lily, a menacing khaki-clad figure is slowly crossing the fens towards them, and with it, a terrible revelation.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>13. DURING BARTY’S PARTY – BEASTS</b> (1976)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEXERtxG7nY2crhyRXEw1xkrTgQgu_3brqLYrISHoyiTIKaOnlIBqHNLnmkHSVVAf9lOQAbHYY8-hpmo-txhfpNPkUuKw6mr49tWRkz-mv4Jp-1_3p5JZ4javdYv5vO8l7nGI5sdidoatzdZhT9z-56NIM80ORE5w81s_VStXXURXtjrcrOpJ0hzn/s1000/during%20barty's%20party.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEXERtxG7nY2crhyRXEw1xkrTgQgu_3brqLYrISHoyiTIKaOnlIBqHNLnmkHSVVAf9lOQAbHYY8-hpmo-txhfpNPkUuKw6mr49tWRkz-mv4Jp-1_3p5JZ4javdYv5vO8l7nGI5sdidoatzdZhT9z-56NIM80ORE5w81s_VStXXURXtjrcrOpJ0hzn/w400-h300/during%20barty's%20party.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>The near total studio-bound production somehow fails to reduce the nightmarish quality of this episode from Hell. You never see the verminous antagonists, but the noise they make is mind-numbing, the screams of the dying appallingly real, while the cast give it everything they’ve got, slipping from suburban normality into childlike terror and despair with total conviction.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>14. DORABELLA – SUPERNATURAL</b> (1977)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0C2rZLYsrlp-FRJrA-K0RDHVqm9uiQVhe3S9sdIZ2IakFlAc1MHxIFjUhZVks25_3lBIx5FdlUgKkGhtzVoZkz0waU-SwDkSTo23xoztkCMyGJJOqX-tO0XYkWUW6HAYwCod6a-SzzFr7VZ8y03QI9DQRgujkkzA3oBXCOYBVwyxpfkjWbUWGo1b/s1200/dorabella.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0C2rZLYsrlp-FRJrA-K0RDHVqm9uiQVhe3S9sdIZ2IakFlAc1MHxIFjUhZVks25_3lBIx5FdlUgKkGhtzVoZkz0waU-SwDkSTo23xoztkCMyGJJOqX-tO0XYkWUW6HAYwCod6a-SzzFr7VZ8y03QI9DQRgujkkzA3oBXCOYBVwyxpfkjWbUWGo1b/w400-h300/dorabella.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>A vampire tale makes the cut. It’s not perfect, but all the tropes are there: the Grand Tour setting, the journey into the heart of a nameless land, the Gothic castle, the mysterious beauty who only appears at night, and the gleefully demonic nature of the undead, particularly in the guise of TV horror veteran John Justin, who is truly terrifying as the titular anti-heroine’s monstrous father.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>15. THE BOYS’ CLUB – URBAN GOTHIC</b> (2000)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGRxKFwI_ZDH-Vf2C0GyibPFMyE-yN8954N9v-kq1lTs15mEgKagy183sA88s5We-0Dti5JLX1lXF3FzSR9WfRlZrCh_--kvGnIEvyXWSIGdYGNyRvR6OFGP-0i-f2Ap-HbplMnAE_y6e0PolORdEQLQ-rz82ckw21Au6kOsr-jSRPB08yqHtvqhm/s600/The%20Boys'%20Club.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="600" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGRxKFwI_ZDH-Vf2C0GyibPFMyE-yN8954N9v-kq1lTs15mEgKagy183sA88s5We-0Dti5JLX1lXF3FzSR9WfRlZrCh_--kvGnIEvyXWSIGdYGNyRvR6OFGP-0i-f2Ap-HbplMnAE_y6e0PolORdEQLQ-rz82ckw21Au6kOsr-jSRPB08yqHtvqhm/w400-h241/The%20Boys'%20Club.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>An ultra-violent tale of the inner city to contrast sharply with the others on this list. The marvellous East End nightclub where it was mostly filmed, the fun that ‘old lag’ actors Leslie Grantham, Nicholas Ball, Ray Burdis and John Bowler all have in familiar underworld roles, and the story itself – a study of youthful arrogance taken to lethal levels – all conspire to make this a distinct cut above the rest of the series.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>16. GHOSTWATCH</b> (1992)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMkJsvoAw6Kxh0e8IjL8QqppadFT0iiYDEU7eZcLSjRlaJqIoo_bu6PNGCwjWFpEtVZHejCU25lzmOZF43AljwoN9eieDpmchUuiwF2DESmckgY89RijFrKRjk_dwB_0ncBhPso_Pos1SZN6IxmB3JQoOtNw9ntVI-uo8bqEwTQgUSinvdfyuw5prI/s976/ghostwatch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="976" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMkJsvoAw6Kxh0e8IjL8QqppadFT0iiYDEU7eZcLSjRlaJqIoo_bu6PNGCwjWFpEtVZHejCU25lzmOZF43AljwoN9eieDpmchUuiwF2DESmckgY89RijFrKRjk_dwB_0ncBhPso_Pos1SZN6IxmB3JQoOtNw9ntVI-uo8bqEwTQgUSinvdfyuw5prI/w400-h225/ghostwatch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Stephen Volk’s ingenious foray into paranormal mockumentary long before anyone else thought of it. Based on the infamous Enfield haunting, Volk placed TV presenters Michael Parkinson and Sarah Greene in a fabricated outside broadcast allegedly coming by live transmission from a suburban cul-de-sac, where a young family are in the grip of supernatural evil. It literally terrified the nation.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>17. MR LOVEDAY’S LITTLE OUTING</b> (2006)</div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKaYblNxB8WsyQb8QAAk2DlAcKojKZPgeqbNspSEK5tFQWXAomSDnTG-I-iEWKmhRZS4HDARBhpTPwPRoLYulwvZB1X4SHGD5HnemA34KQaJsFd1Z2M8g-qVdNAj-msHYy8vIC9Unz71d775ZLpSVvFzGLIS0BLvnxLK7Q94MEFmyAaSapkXipHrJ/s1200/loveday.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKaYblNxB8WsyQb8QAAk2DlAcKojKZPgeqbNspSEK5tFQWXAomSDnTG-I-iEWKmhRZS4HDARBhpTPwPRoLYulwvZB1X4SHGD5HnemA34KQaJsFd1Z2M8g-qVdNAj-msHYy8vIC9Unz71d775ZLpSVvFzGLIS0BLvnxLK7Q94MEFmyAaSapkXipHrJ/w400-h225/loveday.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>An ensemble cast partly perform and partly narrate this neat adaptation of one of Evelyn Waugh’s few horror stories. The genteel author originally intended this as a slice of dark, satirical humour, but it’s actually pretty grim. It tells the tale of an insane murderer and the ghastly thing he does when a naive socialite engineers his release from the asylum where he’s been held for 35 years.</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>18. THE LANDLADY – TALES OF THE UNEXPECTED</b> (1979)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRg8G9wwg3YESn_4EPGDFP1zlnAn4bQHtGFlPIrLdRA3nJSomo7EH1Vp2VVjIeEbZU25mncv8oa27sxdBP6Q4naB82VfImxprn7ldz3aWTsrWnRi6iMXtLxH9zc2a3JxsMf5Ma_B2LkJpjwEKnKQoW-nZkdt46-b5jk0DiQ02rMUpW8EjgscPw9sTC/s857/landlady.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="857" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRg8G9wwg3YESn_4EPGDFP1zlnAn4bQHtGFlPIrLdRA3nJSomo7EH1Vp2VVjIeEbZU25mncv8oa27sxdBP6Q4naB82VfImxprn7ldz3aWTsrWnRi6iMXtLxH9zc2a3JxsMf5Ma_B2LkJpjwEKnKQoW-nZkdt46-b5jk0DiQ02rMUpW8EjgscPw9sTC/w400-h274/landlady.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>By far one of Roald Dahl’s nastiest and most unnerving horror stories. It’s little wonder that, before it was adapted for TV, it was a mainstay of <b>Pan Horror</b> type anthologies. It concerns a travelling man, who arrives at a small guest house, which initially seems ideal, but from where no guest has ever re-emerged alive. A bit of a one-trick idea, but genuinely horrible.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>19. THE TWO FACES OF EVIL – </b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>HAMMER HOUSE OF HORROR</b> (1980)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHovTOZ0A2-MnOYEBm0H6vxn9cMjQ4xS6DBQDoeXUx4gUiUhLmEJ2vs9KK4VrWAyRyFGrvWgBhrBlDFDqiiM-gV04JfiphB7sD2aLYvZE0fW1jGvoD8ifdpu_2wo52sObrIGCzUWGzFohdvDgIqYptw99hAbPdZVRONw7fb8xS5nCLFh1E9704rix1/s800/two%20faces%20of%20evil.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHovTOZ0A2-MnOYEBm0H6vxn9cMjQ4xS6DBQDoeXUx4gUiUhLmEJ2vs9KK4VrWAyRyFGrvWgBhrBlDFDqiiM-gV04JfiphB7sD2aLYvZE0fW1jGvoD8ifdpu_2wo52sObrIGCzUWGzFohdvDgIqYptw99hAbPdZVRONw7fb8xS5nCLFh1E9704rix1/w400-h300/two%20faces%20of%20evil.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Another high point in the unfortunately uneven <b>Hammer House of Horror</b> series. In this one, a nice family out on a road trip offer a lift to a mysterious hooded hitchhiker, only to find themselves at the mercy of an evil doppelganger. Ultimately, it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’s bone-chilling all the same, and it ends with a truly memorable denouement.</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>20. COUNT DRACULA</b> (1977)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRFMRd-2SciLNBwlYhVT532f53z9QyJjF3fb-dwoEKzHkN75kX6FEg43hLOgooqnMNA6ht-B94iaLT984wbyviIZz6WQMxjLD5w-m_orovdQYJ9BHX8krbRY4Aiirwk8SSM1ezq8wDQjKam2Cm4NcKJ5_VWD7Z4cTz3bTCD_AWd1CTh45A3hF1gdO/s480/count%20dracula%202.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRFMRd-2SciLNBwlYhVT532f53z9QyJjF3fb-dwoEKzHkN75kX6FEg43hLOgooqnMNA6ht-B94iaLT984wbyviIZz6WQMxjLD5w-m_orovdQYJ9BHX8krbRY4Aiirwk8SSM1ezq8wDQjKam2Cm4NcKJ5_VWD7Z4cTz3bTCD_AWd1CTh45A3hF1gdO/w400-h320/count%20dracula%202.webp" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>Louis Jourdan and Frank Finlay as the Count and Van Helsing respectively are the heart and soul of this very faithful adaptation of the novel, which is probably more of an heir to the Hammer style than anything committed to celluloid since. Lots of blood, but also lots of sex. Dracula is a lover as well as a monster in this version, which makes him a far more interesting character in his own right.</div><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devil-Takes-You-Home-unforgettable/dp/1472291077/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1678631425&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devil-Takes-You-Home-unforgettable/dp/1472291077/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1678631425&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUBJ9LgPuBE947lprlx7chJpLUpcpoDOIgEiaTWQuQR17IwKbUpIKim38h0dwvmaf3CVxyOlnEGaXJH-Z5Fmfv-Y-lnpkjnQ4_fSXDaYhxe7TBwrADBbBKBjs5nILoT-6RgsWpdecGDI8ZTgs3cM4WbnRRy1VkkX6b3DOlfl6e13IgnpOrIqojuAI/s500/gabino.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="326" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUBJ9LgPuBE947lprlx7chJpLUpcpoDOIgEiaTWQuQR17IwKbUpIKim38h0dwvmaf3CVxyOlnEGaXJH-Z5Fmfv-Y-lnpkjnQ4_fSXDaYhxe7TBwrADBbBKBjs5nILoT-6RgsWpdecGDI8ZTgs3cM4WbnRRy1VkkX6b3DOlfl6e13IgnpOrIqojuAI/w261-h400/gabino.jpg" width="261" /></a></div></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Devil-Takes-You-Home-unforgettable/dp/1472291077/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1678631425&sr=1-1">THE DEVIL TAKES YOU HOME</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Gabino Iglesias (2022)<br /></i></b><br /><b>Outline </b><br />Life is a massive struggle for Mario, a native Texan of Puerto Rican descent. After a tough upbringing at the skirts of a drug addict mother, he started out with huge disadvantages, but never had much luck as an adult either, or much cash. But then the two true lights in his life are put out. When his beautiful young daughter, Anita, dies from an unusually deadly strain of leukaemia, his wife, Melisa, whom he loves dearly, goes into her shell, turning hostile to Mario, openly calling him a loser and a waste of space, and basically blaming him for all their misfortune, before abruptly leaving him. <br /><br />Mario is plunged to horrendous depths by this, because in truth he’s already gone out of his way for his family. Having lost his minimal wage job through his constant attendance at the hospital, he eventually resorted to crime to pay Anita’s medical bills, his old mate, a methhead-turned-dealer called Brian securing him work as a small-time hitman. Mario, who’s essentially a moral guy, didn’t want to do it at first, but eventually convinced himself that the people he was killing were also underworld figures, who didn’t really deserve to live. <br /><br />Ultimately of course, it was all for nothing, because he never earned enough to help his ailing daughter, and now it’s too late. Mario is thus a husk of a man when Brian comes calling again, this time with the offer of a high-paying job. It seems that just over the border, in Mexico, a certain Don Vasquez, a lesser crime lord overall but someone of great ambition, is looking to hire three freelance gunmen to hit a cash delivery for the Sinaloa Cartel. If it’s pulled off successfully, there’ll be huge rewards for all involved. <br /><br />Brian is certainly taking the deal, along with Juanca, a superstitious ex-Cartel member with a long history of violence. At first, Mario is indifferent, unconcerned what happens to him. But then he begins to figure that with 200 large in his pocket, he might be able to entice Melisa back. Of course, they’ll be taking a staggeringly high risk. The Sinaloans are the kings of crime and vengeance in Mexico, and even beyond those borders. So, the robbers are told they’re going to need ‘special protection’. Again, Mario is okay with this, even if a bit baffled by what it actually means. He just wants to get the job done, reunite with Melisa and disappear. <br /><br />But he has no comprehension of the Hell he is descending into. <br /><br />To start with, Don Vasquez has well-earned his sinister reputation. His business partner, maybe his actual partner, is Gloria, a <i>bruja</i>, or witch, and it’s through her auspices that they will be ‘protected’, but they first must endure a series of diabolical, blood-soaked rituals, during which both the innocent and the not so innocent are horrifically tortured and mutilated. <br /><br />Again, Mario seeks to excuse his presence in this company. The Cartel are the bad guys, so they deserve to be punished. He’s only doing this because he has no choice. All his life, he and his fellow brown-skinned folk have got the short end of the stick, so why should they worry about breaking a few rules themselves? But in truth, he’s starting to have doubts. Not just about himself, but about his co-bandits. <br /><br />Juanca, it seems, is capable of murderous acts at the drop of a hat, and is mainly in this to get even with his former employers, on whose orders his brother was chopped to pieces while still alive (photographs of which atrocity, Juanca keeps in his car). Even Brian, most of the time a happy-go-lucky junky, continues to give away clues that he’s planning to acquire Mario’s wedge of the pay-off as well as his own. And all this time, they’re in possession of an eviscerated corpse, which they’re under orders to use in some way as a kind of weapon. Even Brian is bemused by this, continually asking what they’ve got it for, Juanca becoming increasingly irate the more often the subject is raised. <br /><br />And of course, at the end of all this, if they even make it to the proposed ambush site, they’ve got to take on the Sinaloa Cartel, some of whose most experienced <i>sicarios</i> will be guarding the cash truck … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />The first thing to say about <b><i>The Devil Takes You Home</i></b> is that it’s not your regular crime thriller. It’s not even your regular dope wars actioner. It is full of action, and it is set within the milieu of the dope wars. But it cuts much deeper than any of that. <br /><br />One of the key subtexts Gabino Iglesias analyses here is evil. Evil as the utter absence of human morality, a vacuum of destructive chaos, and evil as an actual sentient force complete with demons and otherworldly monstrosities. And maybe evil as a combination of both, the pair of them cross-fertilising each other. <br /><br />All through this book, our hero, Mario, who has been driven to the absolute end of his emotional tether, internalises and attempts to rationalise the acts of evil that he himself is either committing or standing by and allowing to happen. We hear much about the racism and prejudice that his people have been subjected to for so many generations. We are thoroughly persuaded that even by the standard of other modern day slums, life in the barrio is unlike any other form of existence. It’s cheap, it’s anonymous, no one on the outside cares about it. Mario is an American citizen, but he hails from a forgotten world where even basic necessities are hard to come by, and which most of the rest of the US does not want to know about, if it’s even aware that it exists. <br /><br />All of these realities are given to us again and again as reasons for the unfolding nightmare in <i><b>The Devil Takes You Home</b></i>, and they are viable in that context. It’s no surprise that in Mario’s world, where there are so few indications that ‘the system’ accepted by the rest of western civilisation actually works, the gun rules and the gang member is king. But, you know, I’m not convinced that even Mario believes it 100%. This is a guy who was raised in the Christian tradition. Even now, he has much to do with saints and prayer. He is severely damaged, that much is evident, his constant failures often wrought on him by powers beyond his control, and then the untimely death of his daughter have all helped reduce him to a shadow of the man he could have been. But he still has a moral core, and he knows that all this is wrong, and deep down, he is shocked at how far he has somehow strayed from the path of the righteous. <br /><br />In addition to all this, as I’ve already hinted, Gabino Iglesias contemplates evil as the work of an actual dark power, and this is the part that really separates <b><i>The Devil Takes You Home</i></b> from other crime thrillers of its ilk, because not only is it filled with scenes of horrific violence, it also contains visions, phantasms, witches, satanic practises and yes, even demons. <br /><br />Whether that proves to be a problem for the reader is really up to them. It certainly breaks from crime fiction tradition, overlapping very comfortably into the world of horror. Personally, I like both, and combinations thereof are even better, so it worked excellently for me. But prospective buyers should be warned: much horror is also to be found in the graphic descriptions of underworld brutality. And this goes way past the average shoot-’em-up. We’re talking Don Winslow and <i><b>The Cartel</b></i> territory here: children systematically dismembered, adults disembowelled by crocodiles, merciless beatings that seem to go on for ages. And all the way through, the terrible looming menace of the Cartel, who are infamous for exercising vengeance the way a child would if granted absolute power, inflicting as much pain, fear and horror on their foes as they possibly can. <br /><br />This is a real devil’s brew of a book (pun intended) in that regard, and again, it’s up to the individual reader how much he or she can take. Put it this way: I can take a lot, but I squirmed with discomfort on certain occasions. <br /><br />But, how does it hold together as a novel? Is it more than the sum of all these grotesque parts? <br /><br />Of all the books I’ve read, the one <i><b>The Devil Takes You Home </b></i>reminded me of most was Cormac McCarthy’s <i><b>Blood Meridian</b></i>, which is also set along the US/Mexico border, and involves a band of desperadoes embarking on an odyssey of crime across the sun-baked badlands at the behest of a villain of such towering evil that he must surely be devilish, none of them able to trust each other let alone their actual enemies. Of course, <i><b>Blood Meridian</b></i> didn’t have the fantastical elements (aside from the landscapes), but <b><i>The Devil Takes You Home</i></b> is very similar in that it’s a personalised journey into the ultimate heart of human darkness, and a weary attempt to understand why bad men do the things they do. <br /><br />In equal similarity to that time-honoured classic, Iglesias’s novel is beautifully and concisely written. The sense of place and character are all but tangible. Your skin burns to the touch of the Texas sun. You shudder at the presence of deranged and deformed individuals who scare you just by being on the page. And if at least one purpose of this story is to contrast the visceral, in-yer-face evils of this hellish place with maybe the wider-spread, more subtle evils of the ‘civilised world’, then it succeeds on that level too. <br /><br />Maybe it’s not the great American novel that <i><b>Blood Meridian</b></i> is proclaimed to be, but <i><b>The Devil Takes You Home</b></i> lives long in the memory. It’s an ideal read for horror fans, and for thriller fans too if they can accept that certain cruel acts can indeed summon the darkness, but its appeal should go way beyond that, because there is much, much more to it. <br /><br /><i>And now, as usual, here’s my attempt to pre-empt the cast of this baby, should it end up on the silver screen at some point, which it surely must do. Only a bit of fun, of course. <br /><br />Mario – Pedro Pascal (who else but the man of the moment?) <br />Brian – Bill Skarsgård <br />Juanca – Eugenio Derbez</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b>(I have a little confession to make. The image accompanying the entry for LEAVING LILY in the 20 Top TV Horror Moments section is obviously not a screen-grab from British television. It is a reproduction of STORMTROOPERS ADVANCING UNDER GAS by Otto Dix, a German painter and WW1 veteran who specialised in creating horrific portrayals of that ghastly conflict, so I felt it was a reasonable replacement. LEAVING LILY has almost no footprint on the internet at present, though I understand that a video copy of it still exists in the archive, so it might at some point be re-released). </b></i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-83382219083034125062023-02-10T06:11:00.001-08:002023-02-10T06:34:33.989-08:00A TV slot, Heck latest and bloody battles<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GwXfrYKEHSkCJ0VpZl19a3KSdfKUY1L-5CD9I6hS4cmZ7Yc0PQ-YD21ePZSjAMtvauw2Ql8enSUslY6XRYEAPSTMwO3O8dCwBAwE4HiYro1cdpvSy-0FxtjnXgLgbLMcgi9eI0WN2L_ejzfv_53jQpqp38uAp0-dpTwLHQWWpfCus5U6HfBS72rH/s1707/me%20and%20mike.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1707" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GwXfrYKEHSkCJ0VpZl19a3KSdfKUY1L-5CD9I6hS4cmZ7Yc0PQ-YD21ePZSjAMtvauw2Ql8enSUslY6XRYEAPSTMwO3O8dCwBAwE4HiYro1cdpvSy-0FxtjnXgLgbLMcgi9eI0WN2L_ejzfv_53jQpqp38uAp0-dpTwLHQWWpfCus5U6HfBS72rH/w400-h225/me%20and%20mike.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b><br /></b></div><b><div><b>Something pretty exciting will be happening this evening, so I’m going to be parping on about that today, giving you all the details available. I’ll also be talking about my Heck series, and will be discussing <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=sr_1_1?crid=QSDGX76EOT9&keywords=Usurper+pw+finch&qid=1676025469&s=books&sprefix=usurper+pw+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1">USURPER</a>, my first historical novel, due out in April. And to round all that off, to ensure that I’ve covered the entire spectrum of my literary interests – crime thrillers and historical adventures thus far – I’m also going to dive into the world of supernatural horror, by offering my usual detailed review of Steve Duffy’s latest collection, <a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2023/01/new-title-news-faces-at-your-shoulder.html">THE FACES AT YOUR SHOULDER</a>.</b></div><br />As usual, you’ll find that review in the Thrillers, Chillers section at the lower end of today’s post. So, don’t hesitate to get down there straight away, if that’s all you’re here for. <br /></b><br />On the other hand, if you’re interested in my work too, perhaps you might first want to check out … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Local TV</b></div><br />Those who follow this blog, or read my books, will already know that my most recent crime novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Never-Seen-Again-Pre-order-bestselling/dp/1409184048/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1676025585&sr=1-1"><b>NEVER SEEN AGAIN</b></a>, was recently made the subject of a high-profile arts competition in the West Midlands, when the challenge was issued by the much-lauded Birmingham Art Zone to a group of local painters, requiring them each to condense and convert that 130,000-word crime thriller into a single canvas. <br /><br />It was my suggestion originally, but it was still an enormous thing to ask of them. <br /><br />How do you convey an entire book in one painting? <br /><br />However, three of them undertook the challenge; they each creating their own interpretation of <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Never-Seen-Again-Pre-order-bestselling/dp/1409184048/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1676025585&sr=1-1"><b>NEVER SEEN AGAIN</b></a>, and last November, I, as the original author, was asked to attend a special ceremony at the Velvet Music Rooms on Broad Street, Birmingham, to select the winner. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_K1RsLC_B5mN_7shYwNk82qnASICLjEu8Hcf4D-WG6pYBleyVs6yrGR_04gIyP941z5PeGwz3ZpKe_7M3rx_ukKUZQOp1hzBdCldBY6h1CQuLJxB9REecAODnOsCHinHx7eTW__dWZ-uVeWEKIoo75s8mi06z3vGzk3B62q_8ovs3nP9ssn5oCf-/s4032/poss%205.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_K1RsLC_B5mN_7shYwNk82qnASICLjEu8Hcf4D-WG6pYBleyVs6yrGR_04gIyP941z5PeGwz3ZpKe_7M3rx_ukKUZQOp1hzBdCldBY6h1CQuLJxB9REecAODnOsCHinHx7eTW__dWZ-uVeWEKIoo75s8mi06z3vGzk3B62q_8ovs3nP9ssn5oCf-/w225-h400/poss%205.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>It was a high pressure situation, as I’m sure you can appreciate, especially given that the three artists – Helen Owen, Helen Roberts and Paula Gabb – were standing there smiling at me at the time. But it had to be done, and it was. <br /><br />The picture topside depicts myself and Mike Olley, Westside Bid boss, who organised this whole thing, standing with three finalist paintings, while on the right here, Lorraine Olley, Birmingham singer and media personality, presents me with the difficult choice.<div><br /></div><div>For the full skinny on this story, just scroll back through these blogposts to last November, and you’ll find it all there. I do need to add though, that what even those who are regulars on here may not know is that the entire process, more or less from conception of the idea to the unveiling and judging ceremony several months later, was filmed by West Midlands TV journalist, Nick Duffy. Multiple interviews were also held, all captured on Nick’s trusty camera, and trips were even made to our home towns, to assess the inspirations behind our various artistic endeavours. The final result, a 20-minute-long documentary, called <b><i>Paul Finch - Never Seen Again: A Novel Imagined Through Art</i></b>, which I’ve already had the privilege of viewing, and which frankly amazed me with how well shot and edited it was, not to mention the way it managed to catch the whole of this quite dramatic event (in my life, at least) in such a brief time without leaving out a moment of tension or suspense, is a remarkable piece of TV art in its own right from Nick. <br /><br />That’s the good news.</div><div> <br />The really good news is that everyone else will now get a chance to see it too. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>This evening</b>, Friday Feb 10, at <b>6.15pm</b>, a three minute and 25 second highlight programme will air on the Local TV Network with repeats across Saturday and Sunday. You will find it on <b>Freeview 7 and Virgin 159 (Leeds TV, Yorkshire TV, North Wales TV, South Wales TV, Tees TV, Tyne TV, North East TV, Birmingham TV, West Midlands TV, Bristol TV, Cardiff TV, Liverpool TV)</b>. I’m assuming, though it seems a safe bet, that these highlights will also carry links to wherever online you can view the whole thing, should you be so inclined.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Heck latest</b></div><br />On a not unrelated subject, I now want to talk about some of my earlier crime novels. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChySYDjm3K6sEl44IuTVlujaTCdPuZp-l3kBi7F--0OhL94ofuMiTRgN4shmF7tV7YHauK0VqpzMi_aTkXC6AybJwg4LvFXAyQRhmke9HTAA-cypUYW660jdYf89TGnK6QZ_pG7wkYxK7alDaqyDkUFF6COgjuNlhYoezZvUobLVsl48Q0sdv58Hv/s400/KISS%20OF%20DEATH%20BOOK.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="261" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhChySYDjm3K6sEl44IuTVlujaTCdPuZp-l3kBi7F--0OhL94ofuMiTRgN4shmF7tV7YHauK0VqpzMi_aTkXC6AybJwg4LvFXAyQRhmke9HTAA-cypUYW660jdYf89TGnK6QZ_pG7wkYxK7alDaqyDkUFF6COgjuNlhYoezZvUobLVsl48Q0sdv58Hv/s320/KISS%20OF%20DEATH%20BOOK.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>The Heck series is pretty well what put me on the thriller-writing map. I commenced penning these novels around 2012, having, prior to that, spread myself a little more widely, covering horror, sci-fi, Dr Who and so on. But the Heck novels, published by Avon at HarperCollins, which in some ways, I suppose, took the hardboiled thriller about as far as it could go in terms of gritty realism, brutal violence and uber-dark subject matter (if I do say so myself), became a big success for me. <br /><br />I’m continually asked by fans whether or not the series will continue, as with the seventh Heck book, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kiss-Death-Detective-Mark-Heckenburg/dp/0008243980/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1676025651&sr=1-1"><b>KISS OF DEATH</b></a>, I left them all on something of a cliff-hanger. <br /><br />Well, in answer to that, I firstly should apologise. It wasn’t my intention to let this huge period of time intervene in the series, but the end of Heck 7 coincided with a change of publisher and with the Covid outbreak, both of which contrived to send my writing schedule haywire. Even at the time, I didn’t just write Heck; I had many other fictional irons in the fire, which I wanted to get out there. So, it all ended up being a bit of a muddle. <br /><br /> But I can guarantee for any fans reading this that Heck is very far from finished. Since the last book was published in 2018, I’ve written two more Mark Heckenburg novels, picking up directly from where the last one ended. When people ask – and that seems to happen, even now, at a rate of about three and four times a day, I can only reply that publishing these novels is not within my control (unless I opt to publish them myself, of course); it’s down to whoever my publisher happens to be at the time, and many of them have their own schedule chaos to contend with, even now, a couple of years after Covid ‘ended’. <br /><br />So, it’s not at all straightforward, but I reiterate to all the Heck readers that, whatever happens, however beyond my control it may seem to be at present, I absolutely and firmly assure you that the Heck series has NOT finished. More Heck novels are already written and just waiting to be published, and more are forthcoming. I just beg you all to be patient a little bit longer. <br /><br />And now let’s go way back into the … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLs98sMk6PEBXlHFH_1A3mQAVE9QBUVEene2iGIF7AHaJvifMGbE5reHwF5wtZ6AQTxW3-39wfm2_4M7Wp_fhN2RG9dTVNuwWVJv_Ws5wBAdhvlC6tH2-mwKM3gJy8skMD7WePtAH_2aLW2pBGYJfHxyCAmzViNCHaUIUi5X0lWu7UsumVyp8wmXN/s346/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="226" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLs98sMk6PEBXlHFH_1A3mQAVE9QBUVEene2iGIF7AHaJvifMGbE5reHwF5wtZ6AQTxW3-39wfm2_4M7Wp_fhN2RG9dTVNuwWVJv_Ws5wBAdhvlC6tH2-mwKM3gJy8skMD7WePtAH_2aLW2pBGYJfHxyCAmzViNCHaUIUi5X0lWu7UsumVyp8wmXN/w261-h400/new%20blog%20-%20usurper.jpg" width="261" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Mists of time</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It’s been both a fascinating and a harrowing experience writing my new historical adventure novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=sr_1_1?crid=QSDGX76EOT9&keywords=Usurper+pw+finch&qid=1676025469&s=books&sprefix=usurper+pw+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=sr_1_1?crid=QSDGX76EOT9&keywords=Usurper+pw+finch&qid=1676025469&s=books&sprefix=usurper+pw+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1"><b>BOOK ONE OF THE WULFBURY CHRONICLES</b></a>, which will be published by Canelo on April 27 this year.</div></div><br />I can say this safely now, because I’ve put the final touches to it, and it’s left my desk never to return. <br /><br />The reason I say ‘harrowing’ is because it’s very much new territory for me. I like to think that I know the Middle Ages, particularly the early Middle Ages, very well. I studied it at degree level, and I’ve been obsessed with historical adventure literature all my life. But finally put pen to paper and writing one of my own was a very new experience and a challenge. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03PemtNbHm7BNBlTP9SaC6r1_KQGwP-D40aI8M4uPfL9edZnuGlcK6oM-RCmm0gMmGJTGWm2Rv6Mnrte5WnIb_MjkIQEUetALTZE-TXRLbLJ1M4sIqNjnhO2mYWNH6vq-wJfjKHQLONsbEHMoBaHwLW76kdzBvRIct3GkxdLhrDq-HxsuW9LtqHjF/s419/new%20blog%20-%20stronghold.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="267" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03PemtNbHm7BNBlTP9SaC6r1_KQGwP-D40aI8M4uPfL9edZnuGlcK6oM-RCmm0gMmGJTGWm2Rv6Mnrte5WnIb_MjkIQEUetALTZE-TXRLbLJ1M4sIqNjnhO2mYWNH6vq-wJfjKHQLONsbEHMoBaHwLW76kdzBvRIct3GkxdLhrDq-HxsuW9LtqHjF/s320/new%20blog%20-%20stronghold.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>(I have written in the pre-mechanised era before, long ago now, when I wrote <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tomes-Dead-Stronghold-Paul-Finch/dp/1907519106/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3DI94SFD09SFW&keywords=stronghold+-+paul+finch&qid=1676025899&s=books&sprefix=stronghold+-+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1"><b>STRONGHOLD</b></a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/North-Malorys-Knights-Albion-2012-03-15/dp/B01HC9EXOK/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1RIHH62YBT2CV&keywords=dark+north+paul+finch&qid=1676025780&s=books&sprefix=dark+north+paul+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C67&sr=1-1"><b>DARK NORTH</b></a>, but if you follow those links, you’ll see that they were fantasy novels rather than actual history). <br /><br />With <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=sr_1_1?crid=QSDGX76EOT9&keywords=Usurper+pw+finch&qid=1676025469&s=books&sprefix=usurper+pw+finch%2Cstripbooks%2C69&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, there were so many more details I had to take care of than I was used to, so much more research to carry out. And when it came to the actual writing, it was vital, I felt, to pace it correctly. Now, you may think that for a professional author, that ability ought to be baked in, and or course, whether you’re writing about the 21st century or the 11th, it shouldn’t make a lot of difference. You don’t want to bog your readers down with extraneous material. You want to keep them hooked. You want the narrative to keep bouncing along. But there are things you simply must take into account, if for no other reason than authenticity. The pace of life was slower then, long-range communications were almost nonexistent, educated folk were few and far between, it was an age of unquestioning faith and acceptance of status (or lack of it). What did all this mean for the progress of the plot, for the dialogue, for intellectual discourse between characters, even for the way individuals thought when going about their everyday business? <br /><br />As I say, a challenge. And only you guys, the readers, will be able to judge whether I rose to it or not. <br /><br />In the meantime, I’m happy to report that the final proof-read is done – again, it’s something very new in my writing experience, having to deal, not just with Latin, but with Ancient Greek as well! – and the book has now gone into production, complete with its snazzy new cover and some amazing quotes from some very esteemed historical fiction writers, all of whom have been fulsome in their praise. <br /><br />The next time we see it, it will be for sale, which is not a nerve-wracking thought at all, is it? <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2023/01/new-title-news-faces-at-your-shoulder.html"><br /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2023/01/new-title-news-faces-at-your-shoulder.html"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXfQcNWN4o2e_xupE1LCij8HJfeHGG5UwMUu_JiaJzWbL508prwoOqjlwXtAnTqGW-HgKJy4hV9nJ1qu-FecgU6B-GV4Hw6MO6wGweXgCvFnqNpAytbS3wCUHwH5BLOUaeMiS8EgmEdGFeZQrXhQGsk785IGK0ISyENm9RPDDbtJGkENc85yjwSr5N/s1844/faces%20at%20your%20shoulder.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1844" data-original-width="1318" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXfQcNWN4o2e_xupE1LCij8HJfeHGG5UwMUu_JiaJzWbL508prwoOqjlwXtAnTqGW-HgKJy4hV9nJ1qu-FecgU6B-GV4Hw6MO6wGweXgCvFnqNpAytbS3wCUHwH5BLOUaeMiS8EgmEdGFeZQrXhQGsk785IGK0ISyENm9RPDDbtJGkENc85yjwSr5N/w286-h400/faces%20at%20your%20shoulder.jpg" width="286" /></a></div></b><b><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2023/01/new-title-news-faces-at-your-shoulder.html">THE FACES AT YOUR SHOULDER</a></b><b><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/2023/01/new-title-news-faces-at-your-shoulder.html"><br /></a></b><div><b><i>by Steve Duffy (2023) </i></b><br /><br />Okay, I’m going to say it out loud: Steve Duffy is one of the very best purveyors of ghost and horror fiction working in the English language today. The fact that he is criminally under-published in the wider mass-market is the mass-market’s own fault, and it’s a big one. Those who specialise in reading supernatural fiction will of course know about him already, as his short stories and novellas have appeared prolifically in numerous magazines and anthologies for the best part of the last 30 years, but the wider reading public don’t and that is definitely their loss. <br /><br />It may be partly through Duffy’s own choice that he hasn’t yet conquered the literary world. He clearly prefers to work in the short form, and we all know the disdain that so many of the big publishing houses hold for that. But I still consider it a tragedy that works as exquisitely penned as these are denied to so many readers of spooky (or even wider mainstream) fiction, not least because in some of even his shortest stories, the ideas behind then are mind-blowingly massive. At least Duffy now seems to have found a reliable and high-quality home at Sarob Press, who to date have published two of his six short story collections, this one, <i><b>The Faces at Your Shoulder </b></i>being the second. <br /><br />Before I say anything else, I’ll let Sarob introduce this one themselves, with their own promotional blurb: <br /><br /><br /><i>Where are the monsters? Sometimes they’re right behind you.<br /> <br /> In this new collection of six novelettes – three are wholly original to this volume – Steve Duffy invites us to look over our shoulders, and asks us whether we recognise the faces that we see. Some of them are all too human, some are animals, and some are like nothing we’ve ever seen – yet.<br /> <br /> In the snowy wastes of the Yukon and the mining country of Appalachia an age-old terror is unwittingly unleashed…<br /> <br /> After-hours at the Pacific View diner, meet a glamorous, mysterious film star and uncover a monstrous bargain…<br /> <br /> In Streatham or in Ethiopia, you must be careful what you wish for – very careful – or anything might happen…<br /> <br /> Christmas is a time for family, and that means dark secrets, desperate desires and occult constructs…<br /> <br /> Down at the zoo something is stirring: the animals know, but the warders won’t realise until it’s already too late…<br /> <br /> Young love blossoms at the New York World’s Fair, but the future has its own agenda… </i><br /><br /> <br />Steve Duffy’s subject-matter of choice is eclectic to say the least. He writes accessibly and entertainingly in almost any environment, the backgrounds in this collection alone ranging from a drab suburban zoo in present-day Britain to Hollywood in the age of the casting couch and gangland moll. In days gone by, he was a master of the Jamesian school of ghost story, both in terms of period and place, though at the same time he produced socially cutting tales of modern-day anguish and urban society gone mad, many of our contemporary ills wrapped up as unique kinds of monsters or revenants. Quite often, he likes to invoke a prosaic atmosphere, but this is invariably to lull his readers into a false sense of security, because one thing you also always get with Mr Duffy is a big supernatural twist, though it will never be something obvious. <br /><br /><i><b>The Faces at Your Shoulder</b></i>, which contains three original pieces alongside three cherry-picked reprints, is a perfect case in point. If anything, this book has a distinctly 20th century American flavour, but the menace flowing through it, which, though it’s always so clever that you never see it coming (even if it several times hints at Armageddon!), arrives in a wide variety of shapes and forms, few of which you’ll have encountered before. <br /><br />Anyway, enough of my hyperbole. As <i><b>The Faces at Your Shoulder</b></i> contains only six stories (all fairly lengthy), I won’t do what I usually do with collections, which is select the tales I liked the best and talk about them in extra detail. Instead, I’ll run through them all in chronological order. And as I always enjoy doing some fantasy casting at the end, I’ll do the same here, only will invent a TV series adaptation and pick out a few actors for each episode (all in the spirit of having a laugh of course – I only wish it wasn’t, though with the casts I choose, I’d be pushing my luck even at mega-budget). <br /><br />Now, time to let the stories do the talking: <br /><br /><b>The Oram County Whoosit </b><br /><br /><div>Virginia of the 1920s. When two journalists are assigned to write about a strange and frightening creature found in a coal mine, they think it just another hoax. After all, this is the golden age of huckster sideshow folk. However, this may be different. The older guy in particular is a little concerned, wondering why the find reminds him of a terrifying experience he had back during the days of the Gold Rush … <br /><br />A much anthologised slice of ‘HP Lovecraft meets Jack London’, strong characters, an atmospheric backdrop and the author having great fun in a geographic realm where he’s rarely ventured before. <br /><br />In our imaginary TV show: <br /><i>Fenwick – Nicholas Hoult </i><br /><i>Keith – Tommy Lee Jones </i><br /><br /><b>The Soul is a Bird </b><br /><br />A dying pensioner relates an incredible tale to his nephew, how, way back in 1933, he offered sanctuary to a famous and beautiful movie star seemingly in trouble with the mob, only to hear that it wasn’t money she owed, but her soul, and that after seven years of fame and fortune, a very dark power was calling in the debt … <br /><br />The first of the trio of original stories, a 20th century Faustian pact at the heart of the Hollywood dream, some convincingly devilish villains and a grand finale straight out of <i><b>Weird Tales</b></i> … <br /><br />In our imaginary TV show: <br /><i>Norm – Miles Teller </i><br /><i>Alice – DeWanda Wise </i><br /><i>Eira Lure – Margot Robbie </i><br /><br /><b>In the Days Before the Monsters </b><br /><br />When a mystical stone falls from the prehistoric sky, it grants free wishes to all those who come in contact with it. In due course, venerated as something celestial, it is kept in an ark in deepest Abyssinia, only to pass eventually into the hands of bandits, then to an international thief, and finally to London, where a youngster who thinks only of dinosaurs gets his hands upon it … <br /><br />Probably the first ever Steve Duffy tale in which monsters literally abound. Strong hints of Indiana Jones and even <i><b>Dr Who</b></i> of the 1970s, and even though it’s done partly with tongue in cheek, the cosmic concept at the heart of it is so convincingly presented, and the setting so ‘everyday’, that it’s really quite unnerving. <br /><br />In our imaginary TV show: <br /><i>Ajani – Alexander Siddig </i><br /><i>Henry – Djimon Honsou </i><br /><br /><b>The Psychomenteum </b><br /><br />The Christmas of 1944 is ruined when Baltimore kids, Grayson and Chuck, and their henpecked dad are forced by their strong-willed mom to take a road-trip to Alabama, specifically to visit the remnants of her once aristocratic southern family in their faded palatial home. The reason: mom is convinced something bad has happened to her brother in the Pacific, and for reasons she won’t explain, feels certain that only back home can they make contact with him … <br /><br />The most Gothic story in the novel, but also the most psychologically twisted in terms of several of its characters. For all the intensity of the genuinely bone-chilling supernatural undercurrent, it’s the level of human corruption on show here that makes the lasting impact. <br /><br />In our imaginary TV show: <br /><i>Mom – Jessica Biel </i><br /><br /><b>The Lion’s Den </b><br /><br />A zookeeper relates the baffling events leading up to the closure of the zoo where he worked, and how it all started with a visitor, behaving like a madman as he climbed into the lions’ enclosure, stripped naked and lectured the angry beasts in a language no one understood, and then vanished. And how afterwards, the animals, seemingly now with minds of their own, set about dismantling of all the park’s safety and security procedures … <br /><br />Probably the most startling concept in the entire collection, again superbly grafted onto a deceptively mundane scenario. It’s a slow-burn idea, but as it unfolds you’ll literally be gobsmacked at its potential ramifications. <br /><br />In our imaginary TV show: <br /><i>The Keeper – Kris Marshall </i><br /><br /><b>Futureboro </b><br /><br />New York, the late 1930s. Young Zack lands a job at the World’s Fair as a spotter at ‘Futureboro’, the city of the future. However, bizarre acts of vandalism, violence and political extremism start marring the miniaturised cityscape, seemingly reflecting events in Europe. Henny, a Jewish engineer on the project, is concerned that it’s linked to Yoyodyne, who built Futureboro, but who are also developing a hi-tech bomb-delivery system, which they shortly expect to make them very rich … <br /><br />The most cerebral tale in the book closes out proceedings. The main horror here stems from the hindsight we all now share about the outcome of political zealotry in the first half of the 20th century, but it’s such a well-told tale, so subtle and sophisticated in terms of its conception and execution, that its appeal reaches far beyond the world of the scary story. <br /><br />In our imaginary TV show: <br /><i>Zack – Alex Wolff </i><br /><i>Henny – Michael Shannon </i><br /><br />Okay, that’s <b><i>The Faces at Your Shoulder</i></b>, the sixth collection to date from an author whose appeal lies not just in his writing style, which, despite being tight as a corkscrew, nearly always feels fulsome in the best sort of way, but in his concepts, which – and this is especially on show here – travel far beyond the normal conventions of horror fiction, even though they <i>are</i> horrific and scary in every sense of those terms! <br /><br /> Why not check his work out and see for yourself?</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-67878451904857853772023-01-15T05:52:00.004-08:002023-01-17T01:33:51.750-08:00Darkness till June: books to chill your hide<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjpIU_T6sLCJZap6L8l-cfa8eZR_UtBTVcI5XaPRybr8nakSkR8khXUhEevEqncdlCwrdDTFlIkY-_Z3QaaCAljQeoDOKmx40Dpvotpzm6E8saXkGqSRpXPsJHc2yD17i7bbuh9-wHgi-z3aT1AZ0vVEme9OOhvkQK6jJOWM0OSJwEc3k-vcTBjgJj/s294/images.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="294" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjpIU_T6sLCJZap6L8l-cfa8eZR_UtBTVcI5XaPRybr8nakSkR8khXUhEevEqncdlCwrdDTFlIkY-_Z3QaaCAljQeoDOKmx40Dpvotpzm6E8saXkGqSRpXPsJHc2yD17i7bbuh9-wHgi-z3aT1AZ0vVEme9OOhvkQK6jJOWM0OSJwEc3k-vcTBjgJj/w400-h233/images.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>Well, it’s that time of year again. Yes, bleak, dull, cold, wet (or frozen), the sky permanently grey, the landscape desolate, and absolutely zilch to look forward to until Easter in about three months.</b></div><b><br />It can only be that worst page of the calendar, January. But if nothing else, at least in January we get to look ahead bookwise, to see what treats 2023 might have in store for us. So, that will take up the bulk of today’s post: as I always do at this time of year, I’m going to preview the 10 crime novels, the 10 thriller novels and the 10 horror novels (and anthologies) due to be released between now and the end of June that I am most looking forward to. </b><br /><br />However, as always in these blogposts, there are other treats too. For instance, in celebration of the new Amazon supernatural horror series, <b><i>The Rig</i></b> (well, not really in celebration of it, but it’s a link of sorts, even if tenuous), I shall be reviewing another ocean-bound oil-platform horror, Paul E Cooley’s <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Paul-Cooley/dp/1942137087/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673453077&sr=1-1"><b>THE BLACK</b></a>. <br /><br />As usual, you will find that in my <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section at the lower end of today’s column. Before any of that though, how’s about, we go … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Way back</b></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmscM1ZgUE8eNqDlXSpqQ5qv8N1nTTe9UkVni9o7xlpK9kjcyhMkXunpizVcYdkXp16u6RRAXBSj559lsBxh0r3jeosnTIKIJJMOin9G7CzePRrb-boqJR0K_8Q_MYIkz1CAgw56KlSbyStPjzgSJZ_8m_qSN6QkIK0mM_9wrQcU9HYyss2BIrtwsU/s598/bookseller%20clipping.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="598" data-original-width="286" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmscM1ZgUE8eNqDlXSpqQ5qv8N1nTTe9UkVni9o7xlpK9kjcyhMkXunpizVcYdkXp16u6RRAXBSj559lsBxh0r3jeosnTIKIJJMOin9G7CzePRrb-boqJR0K_8Q_MYIkz1CAgw56KlSbyStPjzgSJZ_8m_qSN6QkIK0mM_9wrQcU9HYyss2BIrtwsU/w191-h400/bookseller%20clipping.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>Here’s a quick reminder, courtesy of <i><b>The Bookseller</b></i>, that my first novel of the serious historical epic variety, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-medieval-adventure-Wulfbury-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B0BPLLLZVL/ref=sr_1_1?crid=J20DP1RFVE6M&keywords=usurper+-+pw+finch&qid=1673453159&s=books&sprefix=usurper%2Cstripbooks%2C86&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>: Book One of the <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-medieval-adventure-Wulfbury-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B0BPLLLZVL/ref=sr_1_1?crid=J20DP1RFVE6M&keywords=usurper+-+pw+finch&qid=1673453159&s=books&sprefix=usurper%2Cstripbooks%2C86&sr=1-1">WULFBURY CHRONICLES</a></b>, tells the tale of a young Saxon noble, Cerdic Aelfricsson of Wulfbury, who, during the chaos and violence of the Norman Conquest, loses everything that matters to him, his family, his friends, his home, but who is determined that this will not be the end of his line, and that no matter how brutal and terrifying the odds, he will fight back to the last ounce of strength he possesses. <br /><br />As a huge fan all my life of historical action writers like <b>Ben Kane</b>, <b>Mark Chadbourn</b>/<b>James Wilde</b>, <b>Matthew Harffy</b>, <b>Anthony Riches</b>, <b>David Gilman</b> and <b>Bernard Cornwell</b>, even going back to such long-distant exponents of the art as <b>Henry Treece</b> and <b>Alfred Duggan</b>, it’s long been my ambition to venture back to the Dark Ages myself and pen a few sword-wielding adventures of my own. <br /><br />Well, as you’re soon going to get bored of seeing me say it on here, my first one, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-medieval-adventure-Wulfbury-Chronicles-ebook/dp/B0BPLLLZVL/ref=sr_1_1?crid=J20DP1RFVE6M&keywords=usurper+-+pw+finch&qid=1673453159&s=books&sprefix=usurper%2Cstripbooks%2C86&sr=1-1"><b>USURPER</b></a>, can be pre-ordered right now. It will be published electronically and in paperback on April 27. <br /><br />And now, for something somewhat different. As promised … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">DARKNESS TILL JUNE</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Thirty new books I’ll need to read with the light on</b></div><br />I’ve already mentioned this in today’s intro, so I won’t go on too much about it. Suffice to say that I’ve been looking online and getting very excited about certain books due for publication between now and the end of June this year. So, I’m going to share with you my picks for the 10 most intriguing forthcoming titles in the following three categories of dark fiction: Crime, Thriller, Horror. <br /><br />Hope you enjoy (and agree, or, if you disagree, you can always put me right in the comments section). If there’s any book or author I’ve missed out who you really think should be included, I offer humble apologies in advance. It might be an oversight on my part, or it might be that this particular publication hasn’t caught my imagination. If I spent a week on this, I could probably preview a 100 titles in each category, but alas, I haven’t got the time or space for that. <br /><br />Enough natter, let’s just get on with it. Not having read any of these forthcoming books yet, these obviously aren’t reviews. Instead of that, I’m going to leave it to the publishers to do the talking by featuring the back-cover blurb for each title that I choose … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">CRIME</span></b></div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9AqxjHTvChxdwyaRIOMHKIuJzXAURktZkELtR7wWQrMn94RAZIRw6zjftD2YTf8wyUwgxBFYPcDYBS6uuyIPzLxGjL-fCU_17zHqZZ-3ZI-fUYzTI0jD7sR6S3Zubly8MorePTrGBMNh1dzq1dRFFomboOzt-dMXgc_xkyUY-fnlpvFLhkINtgBy/s499/51-KednD84L._SX322_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9AqxjHTvChxdwyaRIOMHKIuJzXAURktZkELtR7wWQrMn94RAZIRw6zjftD2YTf8wyUwgxBFYPcDYBS6uuyIPzLxGjL-fCU_17zHqZZ-3ZI-fUYzTI0jD7sR6S3Zubly8MorePTrGBMNh1dzq1dRFFomboOzt-dMXgc_xkyUY-fnlpvFLhkINtgBy/s320/51-KednD84L._SX322_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Winter-chilling-thriller-bestselling-ebook/dp/B0B7NDYLTM/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673456717&sr=1-1">THE DEAD OF WINTER</a> </b><div><b><i>by Stuart MacBride </i></b><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Feb 16) </i></b><br /><br />It was supposed to be an easy job. <br /><br />All Detective Constable Edward Reekie had to do was pick up a dying prisoner from HMP Grampian and deliver him somewhere to live out his last few months in peace. <br /><br />From the outside, Glenfarach looks like a quaint, sleepy, snow-dusted village, nestled deep in the heart of Cairngorms National Park, but things aren’t what they seem. The place is thick with security cameras and there’s a strict nine o'clock curfew, because Glenfarach is the final sanctuary for people who’ve served their sentences but can’t be safely released into the general population. <br /><br />Edward’s new boss, DI Montgomery-Porter, insists they head back to Aberdeen before the approaching blizzards shut everything down, but when an ex-cop-turned-gangster is discovered tortured to death in his bungalow, someone needs to take charge. <br /><br /><b>The weather’s closing in, tensions are mounting, and time</b><b>’</b><b>s running out - something nasty has come to Glenfarach, and Edward is standing right in its way ...</b><br /><br /><br /><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Death-Ride-Henry-Christie-Mystery/dp/1448306957/ref=sr_1_1?crid=39R6G7H9HB2R2&keywords=DEATH+RIDE+by+Nick+Oldham&qid=1673457081&s=books&sprefix=death+ride+by+nick+oldham%2Cstripbooks%2C65&sr=1-1"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="187" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqAVmNJERU1vnzzB7tsaUIVxr9yRB-O4jVS-JQfAsX9_Xtq7V9IJ3HYMDVdK6aY1OQveuxyABj5p0jEKIo4c6699ZAdZvs0g65YCQQOcVEaX-B0Waor816LmgZB8NqQ5dD-NmXKZE4IZcvXoIqONgnibpsmCs5LEFE0IfvSgelbqfPOdNoZe-krXc4/s1600/41Gf4Z8jQwL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="187" /></span></div><div><b>DEATH RIDE</b></div></a></b></div><div><b><i>by Nick Oldham </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb and hb on Mar 7) </i></b><br /><br /><div>An unwelcome face from the past at a local fair leads Henry Christie on a white-knuckled race against time to find a missing girl. <br /><br />On the third day of the Kendleton Country Fair in Lancashire, thirteen-year-old Charlotte Kirkham goes missing. Retired detective superintendent Henry Christie is there as a volunteer steward, but Charlotte’s sudden disappearance isn’t the only thing troubling him. The man with the burger van looks familiar ... for all the wrong reasons.</div><div><br />Leonard Lennox was jailed for twelve years for abducting a young girl. Henry rescued her, unharmed, and helped put Leonard behind bars. Now he’s out, with his own criminal outfit, old scores to settle, and a son who was last seen talking to Charlotte at the fair. Is history about to repeat itself? Henry is soon drawn into another hair-raising, pulse-pounding race against time, and the stakes couldn’t be higher ...</div><div><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVNI1z8rTwfTCKtr3f5mnOaduEV0EjqEwcwDxfrdYqvA1-MTuzDK_fQHOMwfLAE3sugxC4SE708GGdCcBRk8JtECUs1cs3xkhAZfQj1kxT16D5IOSuTd-VRrTiDcBL5K7obAkued9XXyuOzTZpj38X3GWrMUtglD3TaOVi-ixSb84-FJQafCdpbll/s346/51KGEnSQvNL._SY346_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUVNI1z8rTwfTCKtr3f5mnOaduEV0EjqEwcwDxfrdYqvA1-MTuzDK_fQHOMwfLAE3sugxC4SE708GGdCcBRk8JtECUs1cs3xkhAZfQj1kxT16D5IOSuTd-VRrTiDcBL5K7obAkued9XXyuOzTZpj38X3GWrMUtglD3TaOVi-ixSb84-FJQafCdpbll/s320/51KGEnSQvNL._SY346_.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Force-Hate-author-bestseller-Howe/dp/074902867X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673457406&sr=1-1">FORCE OF HATE </a></b></div><div><b><i>by Graham Bartlett </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb on Feb 16, in hb on Mar 23) </i></b><br /><br />When a night-time firebomb attack at a Brighton travellers’ site kills women and children, Chief Superintendent Jo Howe has strong reason to believe the new, dubiously elected, neo-nazi council leader is behind the murders. Against the direct orders of her chief constable, Jo digs deep into the killings secretly briefing the senior investigating officer of her suspicions.</div><div><br />As she delves further, Jo uncovers an underworld of human trafficking, slavery and euthanasia all leading to a devastating plot which threatens thousands of lives and from which the murderous politician looks sure to walk scott-free. Having narrowly survived a plot to kill her, where another was not so lucky, she realises that only by facing near-certain death once more can she thwart this terrorist outrage. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFN2n5qlE5Tl37nPBvuOoDu_RH-w17MjA5kYGq_o43EY5Gs_ESrpH26LX38cgcgUB8tWiEIt9W5jUk4rjKa_-sN7G4dAKy2gXSEistJX3rgv4kTDYKIwfJw6wQxsc2KXSpKW1IK4fFVQZi5NKvTd2ivx3DJCD9Jt2Tf3U34AS8mVMWodypy8bKjK9l/s293/515Ox8cOUGL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="198" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFN2n5qlE5Tl37nPBvuOoDu_RH-w17MjA5kYGq_o43EY5Gs_ESrpH26LX38cgcgUB8tWiEIt9W5jUk4rjKa_-sN7G4dAKy2gXSEistJX3rgv4kTDYKIwfJw6wQxsc2KXSpKW1IK4fFVQZi5NKvTd2ivx3DJCD9Jt2Tf3U34AS8mVMWodypy8bKjK9l/s1600/515Ox8cOUGL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Detective-Pre-order-addictive-edge-your-seat-ebook/dp/B0BK3MMH9X/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673457637&sr=1-1">THE DETECTIVE</a> </b></div><div><b>by <i>Ajay Chowdhury </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Apr 13) </i></b><br /><br />Has someone got away with murder? <br /><br />When a tech entrepreneur from Shoreditch is found dead in a construction site, along with three skeletons which are discovered to be over a hundred years old, Detective Kamil Rahman sets out to prove himself on his first case for the Met Police. <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNkBmTOt49_lThYHWCO6M8SJ7kHsr3FJr2l18xOTOLWFQbt5CmgsBdhyMtHq_XMYsO2C6L4yLumoNTkyQVTQwGRIaAfxwcWBUMXiHSv5VrSEHiS-nMmY9MQOCB-loTG3yylkejcX-CQLO9pjivI-Dxj5--sx3s1VspL1Bkzg6CNv4vuR56W1LvqPz/s293/51ZAy0DslNL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="192" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNkBmTOt49_lThYHWCO6M8SJ7kHsr3FJr2l18xOTOLWFQbt5CmgsBdhyMtHq_XMYsO2C6L4yLumoNTkyQVTQwGRIaAfxwcWBUMXiHSv5VrSEHiS-nMmY9MQOCB-loTG3yylkejcX-CQLO9pjivI-Dxj5--sx3s1VspL1Bkzg6CNv4vuR56W1LvqPz/s1600/51ZAy0DslNL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blackstone-Rachel-Savernake-Martin-Edwards/dp/1801100225/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673470551&sr=1-1">BLACKSTONE FELL</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Martin Edwards </i></b></div><div><b><i>(out now, pub in pb on Apr 13) </i><br /></b><br /><b>1930</b>. Nell Fagan is a journalist on the trail of a intriguing and bizarre mystery: in 1606, a man vanished from a locked gatehouse in a remote Yorkshire village, and 300 years later, it happened again. Nell confides in the best sleuth she knows, judge’s daughter Rachel Savernake. Thank goodness she did, because barely a week later Nell disappears, and Rachel is left to put together the pieces of the puzzle.</div><div><br />Looking for answers, Rachel travels to lonely Blackstone Fell in Yorkshire, with its eerie moor and sinister tower. With help from her friend Jacob Flint - who’s determined to expose a fraudulent clairvoyant - Rachel will risk her life to bring an end to the disappearances and bring the truth to light.</div><div><br />A dazzling mystery peopled by clerics and medics; journalists and judges, Blackstone Fell explores the shadowy borderlands between spiritual and scientific; between sanity and madness; and between virtue and deadly sin. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKuOUK62uiHBpXGDv3HrlhR_yWzu6XiU9oqBSxPD-Db8CMzIKL8jZ45ZYqrm_YtxCWx8pK9F35vujM2uvvG6WP73LaP5t2Ix-v8CEjkN5O_whu8MbFy-iuIHyFf6NHBeRRAHdCymJggUeNEXuNWs6Vk_9E4LW9c7mILPuKm1vm2pYf-Nyh8CTL1NS/s500/514KGd2GltL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKuOUK62uiHBpXGDv3HrlhR_yWzu6XiU9oqBSxPD-Db8CMzIKL8jZ45ZYqrm_YtxCWx8pK9F35vujM2uvvG6WP73LaP5t2Ix-v8CEjkN5O_whu8MbFy-iuIHyFf6NHBeRRAHdCymJggUeNEXuNWs6Vk_9E4LW9c7mILPuKm1vm2pYf-Nyh8CTL1NS/s320/514KGd2GltL.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blood-Runs-Cold-unputdownable-procedural-ebook/dp/B0BF76PZV8/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673471012&sr=1-1">BLOOD RUNS COLD</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Neil Lancaster </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb and hb on Apr 13) </i></b><br /><br /><b>She was taken against her will. </b><br /><br />On her fifteenth birthday, trafficking victim Affi Smith goes for a run and never returns. With a new identity and secure home in the Scottish Highlands, she was supposed to be safe ...<br /><br /><b>She escaped once. </b><br /><br />With personal ties to Affi’s case, DS Max Craigie joins the investigation. When he discovers other trafficking victims have disappeared in exactly the same circumstances, he knows one thing for certain – there’s a leak somewhere within law-enforcement. <br /><br /><b>She won’t outrun them again. </b><br /><br />The clock is ticking ... Max must catch Affi’s kidnappers and expose the mole before anyone else goes missing. Even it if means turning suspicions onto his own team… <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIU_ioavnFPs-p1F1zMGk6DTfLnGnwfbI53LMwd_h5zxFn6qiCWosdspF7579oWYfQSF8fmOwr5P5gJIQjVxdjOi4TA0lGJwllTwGgf_1EETeE-7RtKy3x105BcERihp9kWs_u9c6_oDrnwWS6IbM2zBphaEUKdCsO_SqlzKmzaQx-xbaTRjCFrKpn/s499/51zz-Uoj5JL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIU_ioavnFPs-p1F1zMGk6DTfLnGnwfbI53LMwd_h5zxFn6qiCWosdspF7579oWYfQSF8fmOwr5P5gJIQjVxdjOi4TA0lGJwllTwGgf_1EETeE-7RtKy3x105BcERihp9kWs_u9c6_oDrnwWS6IbM2zBphaEUKdCsO_SqlzKmzaQx-xbaTRjCFrKpn/s320/51zz-Uoj5JL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_%20(1).jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Simply-Lies-David-Baldacci/dp/1529062012/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673471288&sr=1-1">SIMPLY LIES</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by David Baldacci </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb, ab and hb on Apr 13) </i></b><br /><br /><b>No truth </b><br /><br />Former Jersey City detective and single mother of two, Mickey Gibson, now works for global investigation company, ProEye, to track down assets of the wealthy who have tried to avoid their creditors. One day she gets a call from a colleague, Arlene Robinson, asking her to visit the home of a notorious arms dealer who has cheated some of ProEye’s clients in the past. Mickey arrives at the mansion to discover the body of a man hidden in a secret room. <br /><br /><b>No limits </b><br /><br />It turns out that nothing is at it seems. The arms dealer did not exist, and nobody at ProEye knew of Arlene Robinson. Mickey had been tricked and now the cops were involved. The body was that of Thomas Lancaster who’d been in Witness Protection having had links with the mob. <br /><br /><b>No fear </b><br /><br />Now begins a cat-and-mouse showdown between hardened ex-cop, Mickey, and a woman with sociopathic tendencies who has no name and a mysterious past. She intends to get what she wants and people who get in her way will die. For Mickey to stop her, she must first discover her true identity and what damaged her all those years ago. And the truth behind why she selected Micky to become her nemesis ... <br /><br /><b><br /><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzEPPSDnrBdQmaIVterddoFYUNJyLkeX_eKUL1VAqe6P981pHVrAObEN-fbF6BsKpOjOBglSBdy7iEFetIxkI3qgH1uXT2cfsrufkS2XVLGS4yK5z7QbbS-jOXwU1-9vMsGEMwN-W3MFHGWRgwgHFuGfoRKwEvwj-FgMw7xmP9Rs1p7YFthI1Q6O2/s500/51Viw1MuD7L.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzEPPSDnrBdQmaIVterddoFYUNJyLkeX_eKUL1VAqe6P981pHVrAObEN-fbF6BsKpOjOBglSBdy7iEFetIxkI3qgH1uXT2cfsrufkS2XVLGS4yK5z7QbbS-jOXwU1-9vMsGEMwN-W3MFHGWRgwgHFuGfoRKwEvwj-FgMw7xmP9Rs1p7YFthI1Q6O2/s320/51Viw1MuD7L.jpg" width="208" /></a></div></i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Small-Mercies-cant-put-down-entertainment/dp/034914575X/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673471726&sr=1-1">SMALL MERCIES </a></b></div><div><b><i>by Dennis Lehane </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb and hb on Apr 25)<br /></i></b><br /><i>‘Mrs. Fennessy, please go home.’</i></div><div><i>‘And do what?’</i></div><div><i>‘Whatever you do when you're home.’</i></div><div><i>‘And then what?’</i></div><div><i>‘Get up the next day and do it again.’</i></div><div><i>She shakes her head. ‘That's not living.’</i></div><div><i>‘It is if you can find the small blessings.’<br />She smiles, but her eyes shine with agony. ‘All my small blessings are gone.’</i></div><div><br />In the summer of 1974 a heatwave blankets Boston and Mary Pat Fennessey is trying to stay one step ahead of the bill collectors. Mary Pat has lived her entire life in the housing projects of ‘Southie’, the Irish American enclave that stubbornly adheres to old tradition and stands proudly apart.</div><div><br />One night Mary Pat’s teenage daughter Jules stays out late and doesn't come home. That same evening, a young black man is found dead, struck by a subway train under mysterious circumstances.</div><div><br />The two events seem unconnected. But Mary Pat, propelled by a desperate search for her missing daughter, begins turning over stones best left untouched - asking questions that bother Marty Butler, chieftain of the Irish mob, and the men who work for him, men who don’t take kindly to any threat to their business.</div><div><br /><b>Set against the hot, tumultuous months when the city’s desegregation of its public schools exploded in violence, Small Mercies is a superb thriller, a brutal depiction of criminality and power, and an unflinching portrait of the dark heart of American racism.</b></div><div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQdyXg9P53P8j_gL2frdCoqBa3NseXZ5GXYnmKShI-Sme2IVB01kB30nnuTKkIM1CT3EFqjw_NFBdzzCrrbN4NW0iAcKvD-oEhX5yhvJtPn_J1SHfosTY6oMTTG4ohk02vu7pnrIST758uFhjpx6Hdot6NSoFRmjcXM1oTObhj5z2PSb3q0rYNByg/s499/41iyNRJHaaL._SX327_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQdyXg9P53P8j_gL2frdCoqBa3NseXZ5GXYnmKShI-Sme2IVB01kB30nnuTKkIM1CT3EFqjw_NFBdzzCrrbN4NW0iAcKvD-oEhX5yhvJtPn_J1SHfosTY6oMTTG4ohk02vu7pnrIST758uFhjpx6Hdot6NSoFRmjcXM1oTObhj5z2PSb3q0rYNByg/s320/41iyNRJHaaL._SX327_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Last-Dance-thriller-Billingham-Detective-ebook/dp/B0B2LBQY4R/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673516481&sr=1-1"><b>THE LAST DANCE </b></a></div><div><b><i>by Mark Billingham </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on May 25) </i></b><br /><br />Meet Detective Miller: unique, unconventional, and criminally underestimated... <br /><br />He’s a detective, a dancer, he has no respect for authority - and he’s the best hope Blackpool has for keeping criminals off the streets. Meet Detective Declan Miller.</div><div><br />A double murder in a seaside hotel sees a grieving Miller return to work to solve what appears to be a case of mistaken identity. Just why were two completely unconnected men taken out? <br /><br />Despite a somewhat dubious relationship with both reality and his new partner, can the eccentric, offbeat Miller find answers where his colleagues have found only an impossible puzzle? <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38taVp0EZ42JxVHUMCQMbHuS6Kx1zq6bgLcbbHw6EdgZIi-oim31bwYQdI7r7R60Lc34bk_bwi4UwQInE-0RocEw9TwVghpqvyxVorGvLZC-Y4fB1YSlu2KeTvWzSnHmyq8n4zw8b7QZO72mwqHjpXdqNx3RN560V5zeyrdOja1uF5eFZocyxIUci/s768/51u5a4MQyJL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg38taVp0EZ42JxVHUMCQMbHuS6Kx1zq6bgLcbbHw6EdgZIi-oim31bwYQdI7r7R60Lc34bk_bwi4UwQInE-0RocEw9TwVghpqvyxVorGvLZC-Y4fB1YSlu2KeTvWzSnHmyq8n4zw8b7QZO72mwqHjpXdqNx3RN560V5zeyrdOja1uF5eFZocyxIUci/s320/51u5a4MQyJL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/All-Sinners-Bleed-award-winning-RAZORBLADE/dp/1472299132/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">ALL THE SINNERS BLEED</a> </b></div><div><b>b<i>y SA Crosby </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb and hb on Jun 6) </i></b><i><br /></i><br />After years of working as an FBI agent, Titus Crown returns home to Charon County, land of moonshine and cornbread, fist fights and honeysuckle. Seeing his hometown struggling with a bigoted police force inspires him to run for sheriff. He wins, and becomes the first black sheriff in the history of the county. <br /><br />Then a year to the day after his election, a young black man is fatally shot by Titus’s deputies.</div><div><br />Titus pledges to follow the truth wherever it leads. But no one expected he would unearth a serial killer who has been hiding in plain sight, haunting the dirt lanes and woodland clearings of Charon. <br /><br />Now, Titus must pull off the impossible: stay true to his instincts, prevent outright panic, and investigate a shocking crime in a small town where everyone knows everyone yet secrets flourish. All while also breaking up backroads bar fights and being forced to protect racist Confederate pride marchers. <br /><br />For a black man wearing a police uniform in the American South, that's no easy feat. But Charon is Titus’s home and his heart, and he won’t let the darkness overtake it. Even as it threatens to consume him ...</div><div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>THRILLER</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6IMCuttP-SiXfMMgZk_wNrj9buQ-zHKWpuNiqe5EMBuRoBsTnjqG-Ts4sJBnGxbqvsaL4BQkeJ0uNyKU8MOH0v8E8_cCF2fzO17vX1XtPcmm9JfVCQCEn8b1FBkxDBO4N-Nil7lg7Golk5c8orbnmXH4lzZXtDw2SF7K7LZegqsJixqxECYiIOcc/s938/61TROE0nBKL._SX606_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="608" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6IMCuttP-SiXfMMgZk_wNrj9buQ-zHKWpuNiqe5EMBuRoBsTnjqG-Ts4sJBnGxbqvsaL4BQkeJ0uNyKU8MOH0v8E8_cCF2fzO17vX1XtPcmm9JfVCQCEn8b1FBkxDBO4N-Nil7lg7Golk5c8orbnmXH4lzZXtDw2SF7K7LZegqsJixqxECYiIOcc/s320/61TROE0nBKL._SX606_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Shards-Easton-Ellis-Buckley-College/dp/1800752296/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673784878&sr=1-1">THE SHARDS</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Bret Easton Ellis</i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in eb and hb on Jan 17, in ab on Jan 24)</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>LA, 1981. Buckley College in heat.</b> 17-year-old Bret is a senior at the exclusive Buckley prep school when a new student arrives with a mysterious past. Robert Mallory is bright, handsome, charismatic, and shielding a secret from Bret and his friends, even as he becomes a part of their tightly knit circle. Bret’s obsession with Mallory is equalled only by his increasingly unsettling preoccupation with The Trawler, a serial killer on the loose who seems to be drawing ever closer to Bret and his friends, taunting them with grotesque threats and horrific, sharply local acts of violence.</div><br />Can he trust his friends – or his own mind – to make sense of the danger they appear to be in? Thwarted by the world and by his own innate desires, buffeted by unhealthy fixations, Bret spirals into paranoia and isolation as the relationship between The Trawler and Robert Mallory hurtles inexorably toward a collision.<br /><br />Gripping, sly, suspenseful, deeply haunting and often darkly funny, The Shards is a mesmerising fusing of fact and fiction that brilliantly explores the emotional fabric of Bret’s life at 17 – sex and jealousy, obsession and murderous rage.<div><br /></div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEu9Gv8UnfWN9Ge4bf9UXUl_m1ChT3lQnIuyE_S26k_DZNX0zSmes0HU27fw99QcsucI15yYjfBe5Y0w5KtP9cmaf1cpdFBrdioToXAQX4lfDQCJnG5j0IUxPhrlLbryNOzOHGxxUqKKyRRNMLlhOqG_vou-W850oimzUTJ8HoVgpCeDyBSEyv8UGp/s293/51rvfEAyQwL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="196" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEu9Gv8UnfWN9Ge4bf9UXUl_m1ChT3lQnIuyE_S26k_DZNX0zSmes0HU27fw99QcsucI15yYjfBe5Y0w5KtP9cmaf1cpdFBrdioToXAQX4lfDQCJnG5j0IUxPhrlLbryNOzOHGxxUqKKyRRNMLlhOqG_vou-W850oimzUTJ8HoVgpCeDyBSEyv8UGp/s1600/51rvfEAyQwL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/House-at-End-World/dp/1662500440/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673516947&sr=1-1">THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE WORLD</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Dean R Koontz</i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Jan 24) </i></b><br /><br />In retreat from a devastating loss and crushing injustice, Katie lives alone in a fortresslike stone house on Jacob’s Ladder island. Once a rising star in the art world, she finds refuge in her painting. <br /><br />The neighboring island of Ringrock houses a secret: a government research facility. And now two agents have arrived on Jacob’s Ladder in search of someone―or something―they refuse to identify. Although an air of menace hangs over these men, an infinitely greater threat has arrived, one so strange even the island animals are in a state of high alarm. <br /><br />Katie soon finds herself in an epic and terrifying battle with a mysterious enemy. But Katie’s not alone after all: a brave young girl appears out of the violent squall. As Katie and her companion struggle across a dark and eerie landscape, against them is an omnipresent terror that could bring about the end of the world. <br /><br /> <br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnd9qrQUeR4GoHLZmjjr-MjmTMorNe8ykYyF6ZCUeJpb0Oj3Dgm_jii9hNe_gPvp8s3YfP5mMrNf0nbSJc7Togloy8s-BU3VkPd5CCK8_YqiyhIsqyq6b6ugDZpiwXfVvQie-0P1JlF7Jh_NzkXP1Yg_YtDtPv96LvGPh1VXawBPEAsJLnSeRJP5w/s293/51MXKImX3xL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="191" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjnd9qrQUeR4GoHLZmjjr-MjmTMorNe8ykYyF6ZCUeJpb0Oj3Dgm_jii9hNe_gPvp8s3YfP5mMrNf0nbSJc7Togloy8s-BU3VkPd5CCK8_YqiyhIsqyq6b6ugDZpiwXfVvQie-0P1JlF7Jh_NzkXP1Yg_YtDtPv96LvGPh1VXawBPEAsJLnSeRJP5w/s1600/51MXKImX3xL._SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_ML2_.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Look-Both-Ways-international-electrifying/dp/0008499543/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673517083&sr=1-1">LOOK BOTH WAYS</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Linwood Barclay </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Feb 2, pb on Jun 8) </i></b><br /><br />They think as one. They act as one. They kill as one. <br /><br />The residents of Garrett Island are part of a visionary experiment. Their cars have been sent to the mainland and for one month, they’ve got self-driving vehicles called Arrivals. With just a voice command, an Arrival will take you where you want to go, and as the cars are all aware of each other, road accidents should be a thing of the past. <br /><br />As the world’s press arrives for a glimpse of this driverless future, islander and single mom Sandra Montrose preps for the huge media event. She’s ready for this new world. Her husband died when he fell asleep at the wheel, and she’s relieved her two teens, Archie and Katie, may never need driver’s licenses. <br /><br />But as the day gets underway, there are signs all is not well. A member of the press has vanished. There are rumours of industrial sabotage. <br /><br />Before long, the sleek driverless cars are no longer taking orders. They’re starting to organize. They’re starting to hunt. And they’ve got the residents of Garrett Island in their sights. <br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></b></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqScy98AO1qPP78LN6BN_owPyMjP9twVrL4IN9PPJM-1s4bF0se1Hna7ts2p2gJHiUO0MlWyb5L-8WQxHhUx1EIhuYEf5oG-90GCEXlr6-Oc4JQ-XJKkIRiaLTlTcpGSEhnNqCOPWN08IfxK2lCR9irOTifTcaffGFwx3CB5WRx-80_X9jzWCccC_F/s499/41ua3xnvI8L._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqScy98AO1qPP78LN6BN_owPyMjP9twVrL4IN9PPJM-1s4bF0se1Hna7ts2p2gJHiUO0MlWyb5L-8WQxHhUx1EIhuYEf5oG-90GCEXlr6-Oc4JQ-XJKkIRiaLTlTcpGSEhnNqCOPWN08IfxK2lCR9irOTifTcaffGFwx3CB5WRx-80_X9jzWCccC_F/s320/41ua3xnvI8L._SX325_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mothered-Novel-Zoje-Stage-ebook/dp/B09VPH9BFN">MOTHERED</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Zoe Stage </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb, hb and pb on Mar 1) </i></b><br /><br />Grace isn’t exactly thrilled when her newly widowed mother, Jackie, asks to move in with her. They’ve never had a great relationship, and Grace likes her space―especially now that she’s stuck at home during a pandemic. Then again, she needs help with the mortgage after losing her job. And maybe it’ll be a chance for them to bond―or at least give each other a hand. <br /><br />But living with Mother isn’t for everyone. Good intentions turn bad soon after Jackie moves in. Old wounds fester; new ones open. Grace starts having nightmares about her disabled twin sister, who died when they were kids. And Jackie discovers that Grace secretly catfishes people online―a hobby Jackie thinks is unforgivable. <br /><br />When Jackie makes an earth-shattering accusation against her, Grace sees it as an act of revenge, and it sends her spiraling into a sleep-deprived madness. As the walls close in, the ghosts of Grace’s past collide with a new but familiar threat: Mom. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4igX5KAc8HtI-XvW1ARiDcrAF3UvycDAPEtT51SSJ07zbXD_MTS99ahFXRPMFAP3xeOiTL9L9DPsnvB0hd31pgVz8AryMEnv0pQmzJ9ADjtu2ZHlxyVBkdY4QeWjv3TUJdAe8rTEoA_LEV663SpZcm_lxweTYbmW-w2eQpAB1WJJ_Bpwq17arfWn8/s346/51xFlb+m4xL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="222" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4igX5KAc8HtI-XvW1ARiDcrAF3UvycDAPEtT51SSJ07zbXD_MTS99ahFXRPMFAP3xeOiTL9L9DPsnvB0hd31pgVz8AryMEnv0pQmzJ9ADjtu2ZHlxyVBkdY4QeWjv3TUJdAe8rTEoA_LEV663SpZcm_lxweTYbmW-w2eQpAB1WJJ_Bpwq17arfWn8/s320/51xFlb+m4xL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="205" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Institution-gasp-inducing-thriller-bestselling-Perfect-ebook/dp/B0B85RCGXM/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673517559&sr=1-1">THE INSTITUTION</a> </b></div><div><b>by Helen Fields </b></div><div><b>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Mar 2) </b><br /><br />They’re locked up for your safety. <br /><br />Now, you’re locked in with them. <br /><br />Dr Connie Woolwine has five days to catch a killer. <br /><br />On a locked ward in the world’s highest-security prison hospital, a scream shatters the night. The next morning, a nurse’s body is found and her daughter has been taken. A ransom must be paid, and the clock is ticking. <br /><br />Forensic profiler Dr Connie Woolwine is renowned for her ability to get inside the mind of a murderer. Now, she must go deep undercover among the most deranged and dangerous men on earth and use her unique skills to find the girl – before it’s too late. <br /><br />But as the walls close in around her, can Connie get the killer before The Institution gets her? <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYNS69B3Jq2es_3si0K8Ruy-u9ELJwYttRi6uhHkjbKRK6XJ5l4Ps51ohNhZ-G8bvK995ZONPVIw-KOu_riLzKUKd15wzeHbsNWzbGMVMTZyePxIJh2vZzNMeRlfMYldS3SfnZ3GG8l2fl6R1ovbU5copTxmABQh0DltTmJ-3iEqfA8qco3rdm0bK/s500/51TBhAOOU-L.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYNS69B3Jq2es_3si0K8Ruy-u9ELJwYttRi6uhHkjbKRK6XJ5l4Ps51ohNhZ-G8bvK995ZONPVIw-KOu_riLzKUKd15wzeHbsNWzbGMVMTZyePxIJh2vZzNMeRlfMYldS3SfnZ3GG8l2fl6R1ovbU5copTxmABQh0DltTmJ-3iEqfA8qco3rdm0bK/s320/51TBhAOOU-L.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mother-up-all-night-thriller-NETFLIX-HOLIDAY/dp/1804180831/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673517755&sr=1-2">THE MOTHER</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by TM Logan </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Mar 2) </i></b><br /><br />Framed for murder. Now she’s free ...</div><div><br />A woman attends a funeral, standing in the shadows and watching in agony as her sons grieve. But she is unable to comfort them - or reveal her secret. <br /><br />A decade earlier, Heather gets her children ready for bed and awaits the return of her husband Liam, little realising that this is the last night they will spend together as a family. Because tomorrow she will be accused of Liam’s murder.</div><div><br />Ten years ago Heather lost everything. Now she will stop at nothing to clear her name - and to get her children back ...<br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48OedrkFxBiB44n31Lmr8KiuhdzcJY0zkJsXEfPKFfWP0v-RBc7AEsNEIF3blq9eykZ5-0WnFKVt1RRYqdx9bxsk9O8wgviwZFQj7Xvp92Am69J0pJ5J8p3aMDy9koCh204IfOrCAnVZS2urYYxqSv9KgR3PYaafnAPF8J49DFoaCWRa40BVzculs/s499/51MpUev8oHL._SX322_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48OedrkFxBiB44n31Lmr8KiuhdzcJY0zkJsXEfPKFfWP0v-RBc7AEsNEIF3blq9eykZ5-0WnFKVt1RRYqdx9bxsk9O8wgviwZFQj7Xvp92Am69J0pJ5J8p3aMDy9koCh204IfOrCAnVZS2urYYxqSv9KgR3PYaafnAPF8J49DFoaCWRa40BVzculs/s320/51MpUev8oHL._SX322_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Will-Find-You-bestselling-creator/dp/1529135508/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673517969&sr=1-1">I WILL FIND YOU</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Harlan Coben </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab, eb and hb on Mar 16) </i></b><br /><br />David and Cheryl Burroughs are living the dream - married, a beautiful house in the suburbs, a three year old son named Matthew - when tragedy strikes one night in the worst possible way. <br /><br />David awakes to find himself covered in blood, but not his own - his son’s. And while he knows he did not murder his son, the overwhelming evidence against him puts him behind bars indefinitely.</div><div><br />Five years into his imprisonment, Cheryl’s sister arrives - and drops a bombshell.</div><div><br />She’s come with a photograph that a friend took on vacation at a theme park. The boy in the background seems familiar - and even though David realizes it can’t be, he knows it is.</div><div><br />It’s Matthew, and he’s still alive.</div><div><br />David plans a harrowing escape from prison, determined to do what seems impossible - save his son, clear his own name, and discover the real story of what happened that devastating night. <br /><br /><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRt2gCpKOF59rJwcnIV2ofRQR336GPfUa5p4tPzsHUj-IW2xAqiC1JEMd4noqbMMNo_1zKnMg3TXh1OecHzwVeuaSVIyBdYv5CVdsWyu9MYFm6p78rAHksIcIXQcMprp_UNYriVK-skI-_jgodnqzCotbCBFCNzrrJ_GUhYmXUOnxEptRAMjxxayhC/s499/416rSaysbML._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRt2gCpKOF59rJwcnIV2ofRQR336GPfUa5p4tPzsHUj-IW2xAqiC1JEMd4noqbMMNo_1zKnMg3TXh1OecHzwVeuaSVIyBdYv5CVdsWyu9MYFm6p78rAHksIcIXQcMprp_UNYriVK-skI-_jgodnqzCotbCBFCNzrrJ_GUhYmXUOnxEptRAMjxxayhC/s320/416rSaysbML._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Donut-Legion-Joe-R-Lansdale/dp/0316540684/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673518140&sr=1-1">THE DONUT LEGION</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Joe R Lansdale </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub in ab and eb on Mar 21, in hb on Apr 13) </i></b><br /><br />Charlie Garner has a bad feeling. His ex-wife, Meg, has been missing for over a week and one quick peek into her home shows all her possessions packed up in boxes. Neighbors claim she’s running from bill collectors, but Charlie suspects something more sinister is afoot. Meg was last seen working at the local donut shop, a business run by a shadow group most refer to as The Saucer People; a space-age, evangelist cult who believe their compound to be the site of an extraterrestrial Second Coming.</div><div><br />Along with his brother, Felix, and beautiful, randy journalist Amelia ‘Scrappy’ Moon, Charlie uncovers strange and frightening details about the compound (read: a massive, doomsday storehouse of weapons, a leashed chimpanzee!) When the body of their key informer is found dead with his arms ripped out of their sockets, Charlie knows he’s in danger but remains dogged in his quest to rescue Meg.</div><div><br />Brimming with colurful characters and Lansdale’s characteristic bounce, this rollicking crime novel examines the insidious rise of fringe groups and those under their sway with black comedy and glints of pathos.</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Bp80sCWtiRQpznpEkztP6TZrGcC6rW9UNcL3RuT1MvVq387996tELdfgVFJcGaWkn0KpGIXtkowM7r6EVnwXgfHngIZ_TALC1zFGQUQIYgSo1mrv_lLNfE0nFJvzDO-9BeG3ql0l6CEihWFNK68r-XoRx-JrzoNlHTrLB8UGfyt9ousSxjpRX7OI/s764/51kzHEGdWlL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Bp80sCWtiRQpznpEkztP6TZrGcC6rW9UNcL3RuT1MvVq387996tELdfgVFJcGaWkn0KpGIXtkowM7r6EVnwXgfHngIZ_TALC1zFGQUQIYgSo1mrv_lLNfE0nFJvzDO-9BeG3ql0l6CEihWFNK68r-XoRx-JrzoNlHTrLB8UGfyt9ousSxjpRX7OI/s320/51kzHEGdWlL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Last-Passenger-nerve-shredding-thriller-McAllister/dp/1529382823/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673518334&sr=1-1">THE LAST PASSENGER</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Will Dean </i></b></div><div><b><i>(pub on ab, eb and hb on May 11) </i></b><br /><br />My phone has no reception, something we’ve been told to expect from time to time out here, and my stomach feels uneasy. Maybe it's the motion of the waves or maybe it’s the fact that Pete didn’t leave a note or a text. He usually leaves a note with a heart.</div><div><br />I pull on jeans and a jumper and scrunch my hair on top of my head and take my key card and step out into the corridor. <br /><br />Thirty seconds later it hits me. <br /><br />All the other cabin doors are wedged open. <br /><br />Every single one is unoccupied and unlocked. <br /><br />My heart starts beating harder. I break out into a run. At the end of the long corridor I take a lift down to the Ocean Lobby. <br /><br />There’s nobody here.</div><div><br />My mouth is dry. <br /><br />It’s like I’m trapped on a runaway train.</div><div><br />No, this is worse. <br /><br />The <i>RMS Atlantica</i> is steaming out into the ocean and I am the only person on board. <br /><br /><b>This was supposed to be the holiday of a lifetime for Cas. Now she just needs to survive. </b><br /><br /><br /><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673518662&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673518662&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB31xvDijKuknsrqzru5jSwUqr4W6rHvd7sMf49QiyxkaL-UoC2NmXOj7TuHFdl90jJiNPTi-bETy_qoMuOR2DcmIoLmSbi2PcQMOs6hpFsoGBCKplFD1clKs8j76aKmPq_Bud-C2JTjapDdSHwlYad1iyI86ZUJxMZsWRH-Zl2BIi5eKgpIfYTSDw/s808/51dZrqjYYUL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB31xvDijKuknsrqzru5jSwUqr4W6rHvd7sMf49QiyxkaL-UoC2NmXOj7TuHFdl90jJiNPTi-bETy_qoMuOR2DcmIoLmSbi2PcQMOs6hpFsoGBCKplFD1clKs8j76aKmPq_Bud-C2JTjapDdSHwlYad1iyI86ZUJxMZsWRH-Zl2BIi5eKgpIfYTSDw/s320/51dZrqjYYUL._SX498_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fearless-M-W-Craven/dp/0349135606/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673518662&sr=1-1">FEARLESS</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by MW Craven </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in ab, eb and hb on Jun 29) </i></b><br /><br />Five million reasons why Ben Koenig had to disappear. Only one to bring him back ...<br /><br />Ben Koenig is a ghost. He doesn’t exist any more.</div><div><br />Six years ago it was Koenig who headed up the US Marshal’s elite Special Ops group. They were the unit who hunted the bad guys - the really bad guys. They did this so no one else had to.</div><div><br />Until the day Koenig disappeared. He told no one why and he left no forwarding address. For six years he became a grey man. Invisible. He drifted from town to town, state to state. He was untraceable. It was as if he had never been. <br /><br />But now Koenig’s face is on every television screen in the country. Someone from his past is trying to find him and they don’t care how they do it. In the burning heat of the Chihuahuan Desert lies a town called Gauntlet, and there are people in there who have a secret they’ll do anything to protect. They’ve killed before and they will kill again.</div><div><br />Only this time they’ve made a mistake. They’ve dismissed Koenig as just another drifter - but they’re wrong. Because Koenig has a condition, a unique disorder that makes it impossible for him to experience fear. And now they’re about to find out what a truly fearless man is capable of. Because Koenig’s coming for them. And hell’s coming with him ...</div><div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">HORROR</span></b></div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBNSPjLzTruOCM44OfORv6tNSxlyF1XOdg8RTlZQVf7gttJZNZepcPiLdFmCnVvGGPCIpAKWRwqeMU7gte-eECA-zOt0JP5cGNObU-GiYLmlK0EfNNd6XP-37pDMTWwDm8-5i4R9AqtEIddWwYipMwdJjqPD4EHFrjUvv1n1fCc2ein6bbfz0pmZ9/s499/510y3VVqWiL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBNSPjLzTruOCM44OfORv6tNSxlyF1XOdg8RTlZQVf7gttJZNZepcPiLdFmCnVvGGPCIpAKWRwqeMU7gte-eECA-zOt0JP5cGNObU-GiYLmlK0EfNNd6XP-37pDMTWwDm8-5i4R9AqtEIddWwYipMwdJjqPD4EHFrjUvv1n1fCc2ein6bbfz0pmZ9/s320/510y3VVqWiL._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sell-Haunted-House-Grady-Hendrix/dp/1803360534/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673523869&sr=1-1">HOW TO SELL A HAUNTED HOUSE</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Grady Hendrix </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in eb on Jan 14, in hb on Jan 17) </i></b><br /><br />When Louise finds out her parents have died, she dreads going home. She doesn’t want to leave her daughter with her ex and fly to Charleston. She doesn’t want to deal with her family home, stuffed to the rafters with the remnants of her father’s academic career and her mother’s lifelong obsession with puppets and dolls. She doesn’t want to learn how to live without the two people who knew and loved her best in the world. <br /><br />Mostly, she doesn’t want to deal with her brother, Mark, who never left their hometown, gets fired from one job after another, and resents her success. But she’ll need his help to get the house ready for sale because it’ll take more than some new paint on the walls and clearing out a lifetime of memories to get this place on the market. <br /><br />Some houses don’t want to be sold, and their home has other plans for both of them… <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJxOsQcSUbfCNHo0fJJW4PSZMTuDhg1DgY30cEdCbS4OdIuhmdetsqs4V0oG1eAFQad0oauiz8FMhIWhQIwEZpfdHE_P_apVLDs_6aNeUDSWJMKj9QilP7HaoMFaw-UA7611HrL-zW0wbELSXOjOi_TFzcdvxOI-Lo09zrZd_4F4d2w2qf1zlVW1d/s499/41lMrhUIMYL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJxOsQcSUbfCNHo0fJJW4PSZMTuDhg1DgY30cEdCbS4OdIuhmdetsqs4V0oG1eAFQad0oauiz8FMhIWhQIwEZpfdHE_P_apVLDs_6aNeUDSWJMKj9QilP7HaoMFaw-UA7611HrL-zW0wbELSXOjOi_TFzcdvxOI-Lo09zrZd_4F4d2w2qf1zlVW1d/s320/41lMrhUIMYL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Audible-Episode-Thirteen/dp/B0B84CRQXC/ref=tmm_aud_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673523993&sr=1-1">EPISODE THIRTEEN</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Craig DiLouie </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in eb, ab and pb on Jan 24) </i><br /></b><br />Fade to Black is the newest hit ghost hunting reality TV show. Led by husband and wife team Matt and Claire Kirklin, it delivers weekly hauntings investigated by a dedicated team of ghost hunting experts. <br /><br />Episode Thirteen takes them to every ghost hunter’s holy grail: the Paranormal Research Foundation. This brooding, derelict mansion holds secrets and clues about bizarre experiments that took place there in the 1970s. It’s also famously haunted, and the team hopes their scientific techniques and high tech gear will prove it. But as the house begins to reveal itself to them, proof of an afterlife might not be everything Matt dreamed of. A story told in broken pieces, in tapes, journals, and correspondence, this is the story of Episode Thirteen-and how everything went terribly, horribly wrong.</div><div><br /><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8kU2Mwc_2BnnUnawHcJLlDR5bKPs6iSwqfAF5Ai3UHT_umVtoiHXQy7AAcp4BdnFu-QAuSa4wKRd6zASAZl2-cjx4qZ8LqpewFALAthxf86CtwTQgXLuNBMNtwgahtMSElaFbU_WV5_ApSkS6vDXVLq4IpXqbaqe3sFOGhAGbESt3HlVBy87BM5u/s320/DUFFY%202%20BLOG.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="229" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo8kU2Mwc_2BnnUnawHcJLlDR5bKPs6iSwqfAF5Ai3UHT_umVtoiHXQy7AAcp4BdnFu-QAuSa4wKRd6zASAZl2-cjx4qZ8LqpewFALAthxf86CtwTQgXLuNBMNtwgahtMSElaFbU_WV5_ApSkS6vDXVLq4IpXqbaqe3sFOGhAGbESt3HlVBy87BM5u/s1600/DUFFY%202%20BLOG.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><a href="https://sarobpress.blogspot.com/">THE FACES AT YOUR SHOULDER</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Steve Duffy </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Available Jan, in hb) </i></b><br /><br />Where are the monsters? Sometimes they’re right behind you.<br /><br />In this new collection of six novelettes – three are wholly original to this volume – Steve Duffy invites us to look over our shoulders, and asks us whether we recognise the faces that we see. Some of them are all too human, some are animals, and some are like nothing we’ve ever seen – yet. <br /><br />In the snowy wastes of the Yukon and the mining country of Appalachia an age-old terror is unwittingly unleashed…<br /><br />After-hours at the Pacific View diner, meet a glamorous, mysterious film star and uncover a monstrous bargain…<br /><br />In Streatham or in Ethiopia, you must be careful what you wish for – very careful – or anything might happen…<br /><br />Christmas is a time for family, and that means dark secrets, desperate desires and occult constructs…<br /><br />Down at the zoo something is stirring: the animals know, but the warders won’t realise until it’s already too late…<br /><br />Young love blossoms at the New York World’s Fair, but the future has its own agenda…</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The latest collection of stories and novellas from ghost and horror story maestro, Steve Duffy.</b><br /><br /><br /><div><b><a href="http://tartaruspress.com/index.html"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://tartaruspress.com/index.html"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7Xgper1jcW4Na2Hqo106Y7nhGh3lnjCWiyDmXrfvzZInQJrBMjv0AtC0_AH-cwK6OwSO_ptjmUEd9j_DFVzXVW0ZsBrtWM_MTjk2btCRWJxcQw6kVgwq8TlHxTCvwnPjFylboiMREa158gyng694pte3-Ihw3GqbhrwsYShElu1LOHGDFAoYO74E/s605/thumbnail.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7Xgper1jcW4Na2Hqo106Y7nhGh3lnjCWiyDmXrfvzZInQJrBMjv0AtC0_AH-cwK6OwSO_ptjmUEd9j_DFVzXVW0ZsBrtWM_MTjk2btCRWJxcQw6kVgwq8TlHxTCvwnPjFylboiMREa158gyng694pte3-Ihw3GqbhrwsYShElu1LOHGDFAoYO74E/s320/thumbnail.jpg" width="212" /></a></div></b></div><div><b><a href="http://tartaruspress.com/index.html">DREAM FOX AND OTHER STRANGE STORIES</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Rosalie Parker</i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub Jan/Feb in hb)</i></b><br /><br />The humans who inhabit <i>Dream Fox and Other Strange Stories</i> seem destined to test the limitations of rational existence. Some have accidentally strayed into no-man’s land, such as the narrator of <i>Bipolarity</i> who must decide how to learn to live (or not) with her mental illness; or the protagonist of <i>Beguiled</i> who may be forced by family attitudes into social obscurity; or, in <i>School Trip</i>, unpromising June’s unexpected discovery of her own ‘special powers’. Other stories, such as <i>Home Comforts</i>, are more playful, although the uncanny is never far away.<br /><br /><i>Dream Fox</i> also includes ‘a book within a book’: Mary Belgrove’s <i>Book of Unusual Experiences</i>—containing nine diverse accounts of weird and paranormal happenings written by those who experienced them, compiled and commented upon by the eponymous Ms Belgrove, whose dying wish is to publish evidence of such events for scientists to study. Who can resist accounts of indestructible mushrooms, a country house party that goes disastrously wrong, prehistoric wish-fulfilment magic, or the dream-fuelled psychedelic love story that is <i>View from a Tower</i>?<br /><br /><b><i>Dream Fox and Other Strange Stories</i> is Rosalie Parker’s fifth collection of strange tales.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd1-Sq_9sXETycwmwIfP0f5aoJzQKgBjB-4g8e3jXTnvBgz20HLsekcu1tEqr3PkDW4G_9Bw8Yo1cRBmsXHmmRdzlzlbuLE5F_HMDYFhMYWfhare2sXJHwWrPeW3VvRLlB3vJ9K3dvdyN3jrV9cKIrT73QBz8q1PPCgcC5Yf-wALK9uZTcuW4Afr0/s499/51jDv50+kWL._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpd1-Sq_9sXETycwmwIfP0f5aoJzQKgBjB-4g8e3jXTnvBgz20HLsekcu1tEqr3PkDW4G_9Bw8Yo1cRBmsXHmmRdzlzlbuLE5F_HMDYFhMYWfhare2sXJHwWrPeW3VvRLlB3vJ9K3dvdyN3jrV9cKIrT73QBz8q1PPCgcC5Yf-wALK9uZTcuW4Afr0/s320/51jDv50+kWL._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Spite-House-Johnny-Compton/dp/1250841410/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673524461&sr=1-1">THE SPITE HOUSE</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Johnny Compton </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in eb and ab on Feb 7, in hb on Mar 21)</i></b><br /><br />Eric Ross is on the run from a mysterious past with his two daughters in tow. Having left his wife, his house, his whole life behind in Maryland, he’s desperate for money - it’s not easy to find steady, safe work when you can’t provide references, you can’t stay in one place for long, and you’re paranoid that your past is creeping back up on you. </div><div><br /></div><div>When he comes across the strange ad for the Masson House in Degener, Texas, Eric thinks they may have finally caught a lucky break. The Masson property, notorious for being one of the most haunted places in Texas, needs a caretaker of sorts. The owner is looking for proof of paranormal activity. All they need to do is stay in the house and keep a detailed record of everything that happens there. Provided the house’s horrors don’t drive them all mad, like the caretakers before them. </div><div><br /></div><div>The job calls to Eric, not just because there’s a huge payout if they can make it through, but because he wants to explore the secrets of the spite house. If it is indeed haunted, maybe it’ll help him understand the uncanny power that clings to his family, driving them from town to town, making them afraid to stop running.</div><div><br /></div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1rJ1pbJeLPeF1YqzO1Fke2vrER9p2b5E3Hj12NYqhpadJyb1-nntyO0gAlByal46hKV8kDNrM79AlmUwap4plx62yPnRN09lvpRrRBFofJmmsctSKkTCUclU5hmOtLuyhdYsX7Jk_ISw6_QuUn0G7Ap8x0B-z20YPMbztjuChatX0CBTl6bxk3SR/s500/41MWWd+6l+L.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1rJ1pbJeLPeF1YqzO1Fke2vrER9p2b5E3Hj12NYqhpadJyb1-nntyO0gAlByal46hKV8kDNrM79AlmUwap4plx62yPnRN09lvpRrRBFofJmmsctSKkTCUclU5hmOtLuyhdYsX7Jk_ISw6_QuUn0G7Ap8x0B-z20YPMbztjuChatX0CBTl6bxk3SR/s320/41MWWd+6l+L.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Best-Horror-Year-Fourteen/dp/194910267X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">BEST HORROR OF THE YEAR 14 </a></b></div><div><b><i>edited by Ellen Datlow </i></b></div><div><i><b>(Out now, pub in pb on Feb 16) </b><br /></i><br />For more than four decades, Ellen Datlow has been at the centre of horror. Bringing you the most frightening and terrifying stories, Datlow always has her finger on the pulse of what horror readers crave. Now, with the fourteenth volume of the series, Datlow is back again to bring you the stories that will keep you up at night. Encompassed in the pages of The Best Horror of the Year have been such illustrious writers as: Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Stephen Graham Jones, Joyce Carol Oates, Laird Barron, Mira Grant, and many others. <br /><br />With each passing year, science, technology, and the march of time shine light into the craggy corners of the universe, making the fears of an earlier generation seem quaint. But this light creates its own shadows. The Best Horror of the Year chronicles these shifting shadows. It is a catalogue of terror, fear, and unpleasantness as articulated by today’s most challenging and exciting writers. <br /><br /></div><div><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvq1lKLHPbvB9iu3C6tFPiebZS3349HiQQhW5pb7ifOAAQP_W2IlkdhAyosljHLBJfl1xIGCgtLQZHeqt6wmwEtVD6MKZVf8Tu4ywZKGDG4aKMiLmYx3YvofEN3s8BE_vc2TzJUz5Jij_b9O0C2R5scVvQrbdc4SQUEqjicB50-lPBvoCYWboRfqaR/s499/51Ds39dBzyL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvq1lKLHPbvB9iu3C6tFPiebZS3349HiQQhW5pb7ifOAAQP_W2IlkdhAyosljHLBJfl1xIGCgtLQZHeqt6wmwEtVD6MKZVf8Tu4ywZKGDG4aKMiLmYx3YvofEN3s8BE_vc2TzJUz5Jij_b9O0C2R5scVvQrbdc4SQUEqjicB50-lPBvoCYWboRfqaR/s320/51Ds39dBzyL._SX326_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Strange-Nathan-Ballingrud/dp/1803362693/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673534377&sr=1-1">THE STRANGE</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Nathan Ballingrud </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in eb and pb on Mar 21) </i></b><br /><br /></div><div>Anabelle Crisp is fourteen when the Silence arrives, severing all communication between Earth and her new home on Mars. One evening, while she and her father are closing the diner they run in the colony of New Galveston, they are robbed at gunpoint. <br /><br />Among the stolen items is a recording of her mother’s voice, taped on the eve of a trip back to Earth, just before the Silence descended. Driven by righteous fury and desperation to lift her father’s broken spirits, Anabelle sets out to confront the thieves and bring back the sole vestige of her mother. Accompanied by her loyal robotic companion, Watson, an outcast spaceship pilot named Joe Reilly, and the hardened outlaw Sally Milkwood, Anabelle must first pass through Dig Town, a derelict mining community where a mineral called the Strange has warped the residents in frightening ways, and then brave the Martian desert. <br /><br />As she nears the shadowy Peabody Crater––the epicentre of bizarre goings-on in the colonies––Mars is revealed as a vast haunted house, infested with ghosts, alive with malignant intent―and New Galveston, once a safe haven, nothing more than a guttering candle in a dark world. <br /><br /><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKcWuImXXe1u-b7QImZ9bp77lmdj-U5rWjKkSOusL0Pl_jg4Addw3C9q17K79OoHKRL8I3VAnytC5lXWz_Vp3ePsWmksGuNjxn4oe1y8hrQ32gd_KTpT2KTUujVmDh6DamKc0r2tteN4Fyo03pae8GOF3n2qqiOlPFk_oOzXp1AIEfHJwDPgOGB0Mk/s499/51IiiFXwYgL._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="331" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKcWuImXXe1u-b7QImZ9bp77lmdj-U5rWjKkSOusL0Pl_jg4Addw3C9q17K79OoHKRL8I3VAnytC5lXWz_Vp3ePsWmksGuNjxn4oe1y8hrQ32gd_KTpT2KTUujVmDh6DamKc0r2tteN4Fyo03pae8GOF3n2qqiOlPFk_oOzXp1AIEfHJwDPgOGB0Mk/s320/51IiiFXwYgL._SX329_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Alejandra-Novel-V-Castro/dp/0593499697/ref=tmm_hrd_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673534530&sr=1-1">THE HAUNTING OF ALEJANDRA</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by V. Castro </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in hb on Apr 18) </i></b><br /><br />Alejandra no longer knows who she is. To her husband, she is a wife, and to her children, a mother. But they cannot see who Alejandra has become: a woman struggling with a darkness that threatens to consume her. Nor can they see what Alejandra sees. In times of despair, a ghostly vision appears to her, the apparition of a crying woman in a ragged white gown. <br /><br />When Alejandra visits a therapist, she begins exploring her family’s history, starting with the biological mother she only recently rediscovered. As she goes deeper into the lives of the women in her family, she learns that heartbreak and tragedy are not the only things she has in common with her ancestors. <br /><br />Because the crying woman was with them, too. She is La Llorona, the vengeful and murderous mother of Mexican legend. And she will not leave until Alejandra follows her grandmother, and all the women who came before her into the darkness. <br /><br />But Alejandra has inherited more than just pain. She has inherited the strength and the courage of her foremothers―and she will have to summon everything they have given her to banish La Llorona forever. <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wxu-Ih3o0eVzfry77TCeVfJQYyFbdQjoh8f9Fh3rNOX9X3sq_r73LBlLIf0GgLMfNhyYOxyqRex0QjV0q7gX60RGL_f2woELIHNYwnB5bH3YhYsNwcRVFiXWSBwU2UwuxejnhQGlyIlq3SdiIxQ0qDyYNtGA23tVsIbaJX9qXF9rbJFD5Fu3Q8dF/s346/51vDR55Cq4L._SY346_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wxu-Ih3o0eVzfry77TCeVfJQYyFbdQjoh8f9Fh3rNOX9X3sq_r73LBlLIf0GgLMfNhyYOxyqRex0QjV0q7gX60RGL_f2woELIHNYwnB5bH3YhYsNwcRVFiXWSBwU2UwuxejnhQGlyIlq3SdiIxQ0qDyYNtGA23tVsIbaJX9qXF9rbJFD5Fu3Q8dF/s320/51vDR55Cq4L._SY346_.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Looking-Glass-Sound-bestselling-Needless-ebook/dp/B0B6WWK5T6/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673534606&sr=1-1">LOOKING GLASS SOUND</a> </b></div><div><b><i>by Catriona Ward </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in eb and hb on Apr 20) </i></b><br /><br />In a windswept cottage overlooking the sea, Wilder Harlow begins the last book he will ever write. It is the story of his childhood companions and the killer that stalked their small New England town. Of the body they found, the horror of that discovery echoing down the decades. And of Sky, Wilder’s one-time friend, who stole his unfinished memoir and turned it into a lurid bestselling novel, The Sound and the Dagger.</div><div><br />This book will be Wilder’s revenge on Sky, a man who betrayed his trust and died without ever telling him why. But as he writes, Wilder begins to find notes written in Sky’s signature green ink and events in his manuscript start to chime eerily with the present. Is Sky haunting him? Did Wilder have more to do with Sky’s death than he admits? And who is the woman drowning in the cove, whom no-one else can see?</div><div><br />No longer able to trust his own eyes, Wilder begins to wonder: is he writing the book, or is the book writing him? <br /><br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFIkSqUXXTDtJCSHaeoqxgDSAyf59W5OitKvbzjUaBPLitPkbE0A7uUq84dXAAPoSrfkNpCOo151auzuzI77BVMJA7ayzTmIXyZOWVlVP0Djq_pojQGbpkSfkpfhKEZLtW4gZegixAZ-3dzZp-8priAg1K4rtXiqlnQ1Kjp-wV2U0TNSvfb7qNoNj/s500/51esruzZkbL.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFIkSqUXXTDtJCSHaeoqxgDSAyf59W5OitKvbzjUaBPLitPkbE0A7uUq84dXAAPoSrfkNpCOo151auzuzI77BVMJA7ayzTmIXyZOWVlVP0Djq_pojQGbpkSfkpfhKEZLtW4gZegixAZ-3dzZp-8priAg1K4rtXiqlnQ1Kjp-wV2U0TNSvfb7qNoNj/s320/51esruzZkbL.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Other-Side-Never-Tales-World-ebook/dp/B0B23W4SVZ/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673534702&sr=1-5-97393047-c4ae-401f-b3b7-1d6343f6998a">THE OTHER SIDE OF NEVER</a> </b></div><div><b><i>edited by Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan </i></b></div><div><b><i>(Pub in eb and pb on May 9) </i></b><br /><br />Come with me where dreams are born and time is never planned … <br /><br />A wide range of stories inspired by J.M. Barrie’s classic tale, the faraway Neverland and its beloved characters – such as Wendy, Captain Hook, The Lost Boys, Tinkerbell and of course Peter Pan himself! Masters of fantasy, science-fiction and horror come together to give their unique takes and twists on the mythos. <br /><br /><i>Featuring stories from: Alison Littlewood, Priya Sharma, Muriel Gray, Rio Youers, Cavan Scott, Guy Adams, Edward Cox, Anna Smith Spark, Paul Finch, Robert Shearman, A.K. Benedict, Premee Mohamed, Lavie Tidhar, Laura Mauro, Seanan McGuire, Kirsty Logan, Claire North, A.C. Wise, Gama Ray Martinez. </i><br /><br /> <br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Paul-Cooley/dp/1942137087/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673454503&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Paul-Cooley/dp/1942137087/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673454503&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw3g-9t6NHlHwyc2p7zcclSjxntH5lz899Yo_gv0l7Epkd9Rx3vdSdHjbvdBLsMEKi4AlcEQvg_M00dKGm3yZj_cCIi-jKfB7QRFVHSocbtEteZYo0h0g7pXhf03VrcuVRsfjOvvZl6XDLpj0UizxKCRtvTPfGT_Pk7h5oemQ_6G2bItYeLJVCGSE/s499/41ycrx6BuoL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw3g-9t6NHlHwyc2p7zcclSjxntH5lz899Yo_gv0l7Epkd9Rx3vdSdHjbvdBLsMEKi4AlcEQvg_M00dKGm3yZj_cCIi-jKfB7QRFVHSocbtEteZYo0h0g7pXhf03VrcuVRsfjOvvZl6XDLpj0UizxKCRtvTPfGT_Pk7h5oemQ_6G2bItYeLJVCGSE/w268-h400/41ycrx6BuoL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Black-Paul-Cooley/dp/1942137087/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1673786454&sr=1-1">THE BLACK</a> </b><div><b><i>by Paul E. Cooley (2014) </i></b><br /><br /><b>Outline </b><br />When veteran freelance marine engineer, Tom Calhoun, and his team arrive at the exploratory oil platform, Leaguer, far out in the middle of the ocean (the actual location is never specified, but we presume the Pacific because of the depths involved), he expects that they’re about to make a find so colossal they’ll all be able to retire on it. <br /><br />The rig, under the control of hardnosed rig-chief Martin Vraebel and a team of experienced roughnecks headed up by ace fixer, Steve Gomez, is prepping to drill down into the floor of a hitherto unknown ocean trench lying beneath 30,000 feet of water but which recent geophysical survey suggests contains a reservoir of crude oil larger than all the reserves of Saudi Arabia put together. <br /><br />It is a fantastical prospect, almost unimaginable, but there are problems from the outset. <br /><br />Vraebel and his crew don’t take particularly kindly to Calhoun’s team, who they consider to be opportunist outsiders with no interest in the rig’s protocols, and to an extent this is true, the worst offender being Calhoun’s lead-techie, a self-confident but irritatingly proficient nerd called Craig ‘Catfish’ Standlee, who cares mostly for his underwater robots and little for anyone or anything else. Calhoun’s other lieutenant, Shawna Sigler, is more than the usual pretty face: she’s a top geologist, who is here to assess the quality of the crude when samples are finally brought up from the deep, and whose findings will determine whether or not the exploratory platform will shortly be transformed into a full-on excavation rig, but the roughnecks are still unimpressed by what they perceive to be a little girl who looks fresh out of college. <br /><br />Despite these earlier tensions, the operation goes ahead, and the drill finally strikes the bottom of the trench, a region so previously unknown to the world that it has no official name aside from the code-number M2. And it is now that the team’s problems really begin. Below a thin layer of rock at the sea floor, there is indeed a gargantuan supply of oil, the purest that Shawna Sigler has ever seen, but this is no ordinary oil, or at least what lurks within it isn’t ordinary; it’s very far from being ordinary – and very, very far from being inert. <br /><br />That it lives and breathes is one baffling fact; that mere contact between this living liquid and any non-metallic substance will sizzle said substance down to foul, reeking vapour is another; but perhaps most frightening of all, the material is sentient. It doesn’t just lie there, it senses its prey and hunts it relentlessly, and with every new organism it absorbs, it grows exponentially in size and aggression. <br /><br />Almost inevitably, Calhoun and the rest of the crew only come to learn about this horror after samples of the hostile material have already been brought aboard, and by then it’s too late … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />If you like good old-fashioned monster movies, then <i><b>The Black</b></i> is definitely for you. <br /><br />I wouldn’t say it’s the most original idea. The author himself, in his afterword, mentions taking inspiration from such cinematic classics as <i><b>The Blob</b></i> and <i><b>The Thing</b></i>. I would add to that list: <b><i>Alien</i></b>, <i><b>Leviathan</b></i>, and <i><b>Fury from the Deep</b></i>, a famous early story in the <i><b>Dr Who</b></i> canon, but most of all the Korean oil rig-based horror movie, <i><b>Sector 7</b></i>. But none of that really detracted from my enjoyment as a reader. It’s often been said that there have only ever been seven original stories ever written, and that everything else is a derivation of one or the other … so similarity to something else is hardly an issue. <br /><br />The main thing about <i><b>The Black</b></i> is that, for the most part, it’s carried off with real conviction. I don’t know if Paul E. Cooley has ever actually worked or been resident on an oil platform, but you could certainly be forgiven for thinking that he must have, given the standard of authenticity here. Some reviewers have complained that there is too much technical writing on show, and that our nonstop immersion in convincing engineer-speak and petro-science terminology either lost them on entry or could only mean that an author who has done a lot of detailed research is determined to show off. But for me, while it’s certainly present, it’s non-intrusive and it makes the whole thing seem a lot more real, which only added to my pleasure. In fact, I’m quite jealous of Cooley’s abilities here; he completely and comfortably recreates the world of an exploration rig, bouncing around its many complex, multi-levelled interiors and its harsher exteriors in easy-to-follow fashion, laying out the rules and processes in a clear, straightforward way which underpins the entire narrative. <br /><br />Okay, there is some roughneck jargon which perhaps bewilders, but this is a world I have never visited in real life, and at no stage did I feel confused or frustrated, so full credit to Paul E. Cooley for that. <br /><br />Unfortunately, I have one or two minor complaints with regard to the author’s general style. <br /><br />Characters are frequently called by different names. So, on one page, Calhoun may be referred to as ‘Calhoun’ and on the next it may be ‘Thomas’, and this happens across the roster, with almost every character. It’s a moot-point, but personally, I regard it as an error. For me, there is nothing noticeably repetitive about using the same name again and again; it ensures that the reader knows exactly who you are talking about, and it causes no momentary interruption to the general flow of narrative as time is wasted trying to work out who is who. <br /><br />I also took issue with some of Cooley’s back-and-forthing between time zones. What I mean is, in a moment of high excitement, Catfish may encounter someone we’ve just been following as they fought their way up to the bridge, but we then roll back in time a few minutes to see how Catfish also fought his way there. This interrupts the momentum of the book, and again, is a device the author uses several times through the narrative. It’s clunky writing for me, which again risks leaving the reader scratching his/her head in bemusement. <br /><br />But these are really the only problems I had with <i><b>The Black</b></i>. <br /><br />Tom Calhoun makes for a good strong lead despite his old and crusty nature, and is ably supported by his protégés, the petite and level-headed Shawna and the geeky Catfish. None of these characters are whiter than white; all have flaws and can cause annoyance in their own way – which again makes for a realistic read. <br /><br />The roughneck community on the rig is perhaps a little more thinly drawn. We meet a few of the rig-workers in greater detail near the very end of the book, which I suppose is a bit of a weakness, but they’re pretty much as you’d expect them to be: tough, bluff, blue-collar guys with a no-nonsense attitude. Of those we already know, Martin Vraebel, the permanently stressed rig-chief, is less likeable than Calhoun: no friendlier than he needs to be, narrow-mindedly ambitious, mistrusting of strangers in his domain even when they’re here to help; a fairly typical senior management klutz of the sort we’ve all encountered in real life, so he works well. Less clear-cut is his number two, Steve Gomez, the guy who really makes the Leaguer tick. He’s reliable and ultra-efficient, but we only get to hear about this; we don’t actually see him doing anything notable aside from sneering at Calhoun’s team. <br /><br />But again, I can forgive that; we have our main leads, and we have our situation, and of course, we have our chthonic monster, which, when it finally attacks, does so with irresistible force and terror, which is another nicely realistic touch. This is one elemental entity that won’t be contained, one primordial being that no amount of science, weaponry or technology can destroy. <br /><br />I daren’t say more because I don’t want to risk giving away too many spoilers. The minor issues I’ve mentioned aside, <b><i>The Black</i></b> is a great romp in that fine old tradition of B-movie creature features. And if that’s your thing, you’re in for a real fun ride. <br /><br /><i>As you’re no doubt aware, at the end of these book reviews, I like to make a few suggestions about casting, and who I would pick were the novel in question ever to make it to the screen. Today is no exception, and so here – as always, just for the fun of it – are my picks for who should play the lead characters in The Black: <br /><br />Tom Calhoun – Ed O’Neill <br />Shawna Sigler – Felicia Day<br /> Craig ‘Catfish’ Standlee – Grey Damon <br />Martin Vraebel – Lance Reddick <br />Steve Gomez – Rafael Amaya</i></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-73008110079662371182022-12-20T05:11:00.000-08:002022-12-20T05:11:45.057-08:00Check in for my annual festive bone-chiller<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuh_gKQGk6c8JEx7klVpzqvZ1QuHGQaShzv_xsjfbJBi-2m9aW0UJdzUNHPBn-CTKEFeFI9OQRtKAOlag-z4NQd2sGmpTPmGJFf1Q4Gy7wQtYfMSontms8VLLU6-B9b4FWSoVkmiQNZSPCCP5BWzmD1ktfK8R9Lx360G4F6pAnFpzXyQvLrpylMls/s600/spooky%20christmas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuh_gKQGk6c8JEx7klVpzqvZ1QuHGQaShzv_xsjfbJBi-2m9aW0UJdzUNHPBn-CTKEFeFI9OQRtKAOlag-z4NQd2sGmpTPmGJFf1Q4Gy7wQtYfMSontms8VLLU6-B9b4FWSoVkmiQNZSPCCP5BWzmD1ktfK8R9Lx360G4F6pAnFpzXyQvLrpylMls/w400-h300/spooky%20christmas.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>We’re very close to Christmas now, which means that it’s time for me to post my annual Christmas spook story. I won’t bore you with the usual intro about how I’m only following in an age-old tradition by doing this. We all know that Charles Dickens and MR James used to regale their friends and colleagues with ghost stories at Christmas, and that even Shakespeare referenced this as a custom in force long before his own time.</b></div></div><b><br />Most scholars conclude that it actually dates back to the earliest days of agrarian society, when the harvest had been gathered and stored, and with the land seemingly dead and frozen, people had nothing to do for a couple of months but sit by the roundhouse fire and tell tall tales. I’ll also take a punt and say that the apparent death of Nature – for that was how it must have appeared in those primitive days – would neatly correspond with notions of dark spirits, the evil doings of elves, goblins and other mysterious woodland sprites, and the arrival of heralds from beyond, here to warn us that the deities were taking a dim view of our antics on Earth. <br /><br />Anyway, that’s that bit done. As promised, a curtailed preamble this year (hope you appreciate that). Today, I’m going to hit you with a relatively new story of mine, WHAT DID YOU SEE?. It was first published in 2020 in the <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Alchemy-Press-Book-Horrors-Strange/dp/1911034073/ref=sr_1_1?crid=358JL8X10P1KA&keywords=ALCHEMY+PRESS+BOOK+OF+HORROR+2&qid=1670165474&s=books&sprefix=alchemy+press+book+of+horror+2%2Cstripbooks%2C85&sr=1-1">ALCHEMY PRESS BOOK OF HORRORS 2</a>, edited by Peter Coleborn and Jan Edwards. <br /><br />Here it is again, for your delectation. Hope you approve ...</b><p style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">WHAT DID YOU SEE?</span></b></span></b></p><p>“Excuse me,” the old woman said, leaning across the table, “I hope you ladies don’t think I’m intruding, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re on your way to Norwood Lee?” <br /> Kay and Marsha were a little surprised. Not least because they’d been speaking together quietly while the old woman had apparently been asleep, but also because, while it might be impossible <i>not</i> to eavesdrop in the close confines of a crowed train compartment, it wasn’t the sort of thing you’d readily admit to. <br /> As if reading their thoughts, the old woman gave an apologetic smile and raised a shrivelled, jewel-encrusted hand. “It’s just that I live close to Norwood Lee. I know it well, and…” Her words tailed off as she pondered the best way to continue. <br /> She was in her late seventies and though wizened, with a mop of unruly white hair and far too much make-up, some degree of feminine allure remained. She’d once been a beauty, that much was evident, though as time had taken her looks, perhaps it had taken her wits also. It was warm and cosy inside the carriage, but an overlarge fur coat, a woolly hat and a many-times wrapped-around muffler engulfed the old dear in dramatic and preposterous fashion. <br /> “Forgive me … you must think me a silly meddlesome old thing. But, and I’m sorry to ask you this … you ladies weren’t by any chance thinking about going to the parish church tonight?” <br /> The two young women glanced at each other. <br /> “No … erm.” Kay shrugged. “We … we don’t go to church.” <br /> “Oh…”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFLoe7nxYlePLppKQnonYFeIzpBTo1qaHFxtR4ClOZrKp92RVH7KdvKE3fLf96zt-RQu7sNm9E6E13FRLFgNk1WfTd7Gq2mjG4JH87B2qz3rG50fUt3IVsoqt7vBc7pDZpSeBN9M1WvpInY76eJA9CSc9MC_uVPIX5rdUywyHmqufjMYMyRoKTKE-/s809/train%20in%20snow%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFLoe7nxYlePLppKQnonYFeIzpBTo1qaHFxtR4ClOZrKp92RVH7KdvKE3fLf96zt-RQu7sNm9E6E13FRLFgNk1WfTd7Gq2mjG4JH87B2qz3rG50fUt3IVsoqt7vBc7pDZpSeBN9M1WvpInY76eJA9CSc9MC_uVPIX5rdUywyHmqufjMYMyRoKTKE-/s320/train%20in%20snow%20(2).jpg" width="239" /></a></div> The old woman seemed a little bemused by that, which perhaps was understandable. By her accent she was local to this region, the Cotswolds, which was largely rural – as the snow-clad landscape rolling by outside, shimmering with moonlight, attested – while, from her age, she belonged to a generation for whom church-going, especially on Christmas Eve, was more or less obligatory. But what she said next surprised them. <br /> “I fear we misunderstand each other. Looking to attend the Nine Lessons at Norwood Lee tonight would be futile. It’s only a hamlet really, and the church reflects this. We call it a ‘parish church’ but it’s actually rather small, with an even smaller congregation these days, I’m sad to admit. The vicar, Reverend Donaldson, has four other village churches in his care … so tonight the Christmas service will be held at St Margaret’s in Long Hanborough. But that wasn’t what I was referring to anyway.” <br /> Kay, who, with her honey-blonde hair, schoolgirl looks and petite frame, was always the more approachable of the twosome, leaned forward. “I’m sorry,” she said in her soft Manchester accent, “but you’ve <i>really</i> lost us.” <br /> “Ah, well … yes.” The old woman sighed. “That will certainly be the case shortly, I fear…” <br /> “Hey, I hope you don’t mind,” Marsha interrupted, her puzzlement finally giving way to aggravation. “But we’re making our plans for Christmas and we’re kind of busy…” <br /> The old woman gave her a strange strained look, as if something about this particularly concerned her. “Just so long as those plans don’t involve the Wilcote crypt, my dear.” <br /> Marsha pulled a face. “I’m sorry?” <br /> The woman dug under her fur, producing a pair of glasses on a chain, placed them on the end of her nose, and drew a sleeve back to glance at a delicate little watch. “We are ten minutes from Bladon, which is my stop. I may just have enough time to tell you a story…” She arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “If you’ll permit me?” <br /> Marsha was a tall Brummie, older than Kay by two years, and much more athletic thanks to her hockey and netball. She had a shock of dark hair and attractive feline features, which made her a striking individual to look at, but she was also inclined to surliness when denied her own way. She now looked increasingly disgruntled, only a covert squeeze of the thigh from Kay, which translated into “let’s not make a scene” preventing her giving voice to this. <br /> “It’s just that you remind me of me and my friend, Miriam,” the old woman said. “We made this exact same journey to Norwood Lee on Christmas Eve some sixty years ago…” <br /> “I don’t think you quite understand,” Marsha replied tersely. “We’re not going to this parish church of yours. We don’t believe in God.” <br /> That arched eyebrow again. “And yet you’re making plans for His birthday?” <br /> Marsha looked flustered at that. “It’s a holiday, okay? We’re going to Norwood Lee for a break … to get away from it all.” <br /> The woman sat back, her lips pressed together in a curious half-smile. Kay thought she looked sad rather than offended and couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by Marsha’s abruptness. At the same time there’d been something about the urgency with which the old dear had suddenly tried to speak to them that left her uneasy. She and her friend had come this same way sixty years ago? It would have been nice to know what the exact circumstances of that long-ago trip were that made her feel it necessary to pass on a warning. <br /> On top of that, it could be awkward travelling for the next ten minutes in total silence, face-to-face with someone they’d just reprimanded. <br /> “What happened sixty years ago?” Kay asked. <br /> Marsha tensed, sucking in a tight breath. <br /> “It can’t hurt to know,” Kay said quickly. “After all, we’re strangers in Norwood Lee. We don’t know anything about the place.” <br /> “Whatever it is, I’ve just made it quite clear that we won’t be going near the parish church,” Marsha retorted. <br /> “My dear, my dear…” The old woman shook her head gently as if chiding a recalcitrant child. “Norwood Lee is a speck on a map. You can’t go anywhere in the village without being close to the parish church.” <br /> “And is there a problem with that?” Kay asked. “You mentioned a crypt. Is it dangerous?” <br /> The woman leaned forward, gazing birdlike from one to the other. Irritably, Marsha scrunched up the plastic cellophane from the packet of sandwiches she’d eaten earlier but couldn’t throw it anywhere and so had to keep it screwed into her fist. <br /> “The crypt houses the tomb of a knight, Sir Henry Wilcote, and his wife, the Lady Abigail,” the woman said. “It’s fifteenth century but safe enough to visit as it’s been well maintained – at least, that’s my understanding. Personally, I haven’t been down there since December 24, 1958.” <br /> If nothing else, <i>that </i>impressed Kay. <br /> The old woman remembered the exact date and had clearly crossed off all the days that had passed since. Whatever had happened, it had obviously been significant. <br /> “The crypt is easily accessible … or it was,” the woman said. “There are two doors on the church’s south side. The one on the left leads to the vestry, but that one is kept locked when the church is closed as there are some items of value inside. But the one on the right, the old one … that leads down to the crypt. That one is not locked, or it never was in our day. No one went down there, you see. During the Wars of the Roses, Sir Henry fought for the House of Lancaster. It was a bitter struggle, and when it was over he was fortunate to return to his wife, who he was very much in love with. They remained together for the rest of their lives, but later on developed a reputation for dabbling in the dark arts.” <br /> Marsha muttered under her breath, “For Heaven’s sake…” <br /> “It was a dangerous time, and this, it was said, was the only thing that spared them the vengeance of Richard III.” <br /> Kay continued to listen, intrigued despite herself. <br /> “I’m not saying that people believed it, of course,” the woman added. “Most likely, the dark arts story was untrue, a fable that grew up in later centuries. Otherwise, how could the Wilcotes have been laid to rest on hallowed ground?” <br /> Marsha muttered again, something about her not being able to care less. Anything relating to religion was of zero interest to her. She tried not to consciously hate it. Hating stuff was no good for you. She just considered it silly and irrelevant. <br /> “That rumour alone created a sinister atmosphere in the crypt,” the woman said. “The effigies of the knight and his lady were badly eroded. Little more than lumpen monstrosities back in 1958, so Heaven knows what they look like now. After nightfall, no one, not even the most rational man, would wish to go down there.” <br /> “So how come <i>you</i> went down?” Marsha asked. “I’m assuming that’s what you’re going to tell us? That you and this Miriam went down into the crypt that Christmas Eve.” <br /> “Yes, it’s true.” The old woman removed her glasses, digging a tissue from her sleeve to clean the lenses. “We both lived in Oxford then. But we’d heard all about the church at Norwood Lee, and the Wilcote crypt. We were children. Grammar schoolgirls. We didn’t believe there was anything particularly ominous about the place but one particular superstition had … well, it’d rather captivated us.” <br /> She carefully replaced her glasses. They awaited her explanation. <br /> “It was claimed,” she finally said, “that if one visited the crypt on Christmas Eve one might perform a love divination.” <br /> “A what?” Marsha said. <br /> “A simple ritual.” The old woman considered. “These old country ways … they were always simple at heart. I suppose so that simple folk could practice them.” <br /> “A love divination?” Kay said. “I don’t understand?” <br /> “On the stroke of midnight, at the very moment of Christmas, one stood at the foot of the slab on which the knight and his lady rested, threw a handful of hemp-seeds over one’s left shoulder, and uttered these words: <i>Hemp-seed I scatter, hemp-seed I sew, He that’s my true love, come after me and mow.</i>” She paused briefly, looking breathless, as if mere recollection of the rhyme had taken something out of her. “The belief was that on completion of this ritual one glanced over one’s shoulder and one would see the image of one’s future spouse. <i>Ahhh</i>…” She registered their bemused expressions. “You look at me as if I’m mad. I can’t blame you. Even <i>we</i> didn’t think it would work. We scoffed at the folly of it, but it would be a lie to say that we weren’t intrigued and … maybe a little hopeful. You must understand, being the era it was, we girls were first and foremost raised to seek out solid dependable husbands…” <br /> “And you seriously thought <i>we</i> were going to Norwood Lee to do this?” Marsha interrupted, almost openly scornful. <br /> “In truth, my dear, no.” The old woman removed her glasses again, staring from the train window. “I can see, having spoken to you, that you are spirited, intelligent and independent-minded ladies, who no doubt will make marvellous futures for yourselves without the assistance of any men.” <br /> <i>You don’t know the half of it,</i> Kay thought, but she kept this to herself. <br /> The old woman now seemed embarrassed by the story she’d told. “Doubtless, you have no truck with folk tales or other such childish beliefs.” <br /> “As I say,” Marsha said, “we’re not religious.” <br /> But then the old woman turned again, unexpectedly, and reaching sharply across the table, seized Kay’s wrists in both her hands. <br /> “Hey!” Marsha protested, reaching out, herself, to intervene. However, the woman released Kay almost as quickly as she’d grabbed her. <br /> “Please understand…” The rheumy gaze roved frantically from one to the other. “I made no assumptions about your character or intellect. But when I heard you were headed for Norwood Lee, old memories were stirred. And I couldn’t … well, I couldn’t allow it. Not without warning you first.” <br /> “Well, so far you haven’t warned us about anything,” Kay said, a little shaken. “What happened in the crypt, Mrs…?” <br /> “<i>Miss</i> Jenkins. Gertrude Jenkins.” <br /> “What happened in the crypt, Miss Jenkins?” <br /> The woman fidgeted with her tissue, shrugging. “We performed the ritual. Obviously we did. When we actually got there it was almost midnight and terribly cold. I wasn’t so sure about it but Miriam was adamant. And very excited. Even as a youngster at school her head had been in the clouds about men and boys. From earliest girlhood she’d dreamed that somewhere a handsome beau was awaiting her. So … after we’d performed the divination, which as I say was very simple, she was the first to look over her shoulder. She was so eager, her eyes bright with candle-fire, cheeks flushed, mouth wide open…” <br /> She paused, as though struggling to remember, or at least to understand. <br /> All around them the swaying carriage was crowded with noisier-than-usual folk heading home, having finally finished their last day’s work before Christmas commenced. That good-natured uproar now dwindled to a dull distant monotony as Kay and Marsha waited. <br /> “And then she screamed,” Gertrude Jenkins said in a distant voice. “Just that. Gave a short, rather terrible scream.” <br /> “Okay,” Kay said, vaguely alarmed. “So … what did she see?” <br /> The woman’s expression remained blank as if she’d mulled this matter over many times and had never yet found a satisfactory answer. “A wraith-like figure, apparently. Of a much older heavier-set man than she’d hoped for. A man with a sour face, and an air about of him of violence and cruelty.” <br /> Kay’s skin prickled. “And did she go on to marry such a person?” <br /> “I honestly don’t know.” The woman sniffled into her tissue. “I lost contact with Miriam after we left school. And in the half-year before that happened she never spoke about the incident again. Or about very much in fact. All the life seemed to have been sucked out of her, all the gaiety, the hopes, the dreams…” <br /> “Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Marsha cut in. “Total nonsense. Your friend could have married anyone she wanted. She didn’t have to fall in with a brutish idiot just because of some stupid spell in a church cellar…” <br /> The woman eyed her with something akin to pity. “My dear, if only it were that simple. I’m sure that, even at your tender years, the pair of you already know many a poor girl who’d never have entertained the man in her life had she known his true nature.” <br /> “And what did <i>you</i> see?” Kay asked, sensing that there was more to come. <br /> “Me, my dear?” The woman gave a wintry smile. “Why … I didn’t look. When I saw Miriam’s reaction, I couldn’t bring myself to. And I’ve never looked over my shoulder since. For any reason at all.” <br /> “Sorry?” Marsha sounded even more sceptical. “You’ve never glanced over your shoulder once in the last sixty years?” <br /> “I can’t afford to take the chance.” <br /> The train decelerated as they slid into a station. There was a stirring and shuffling as passengers collected baggage and fastened coats. <br /> “Ah … this is me,” Gertrude Jenkins said. “Bladon.” <br /> She pulled a pair of woollen gloves over her thin beringed hands and produced two bags, a shopping bag and a handbag from the small space on the seat beside her. <br /> The younger women watched her askance. She noted this. <br /> “I hope I haven’t unduly frightened you?” she said. <br /> “You’ve never once looked over your shoulder?” Kay was fascinated by the mere thought. <br /> The train came to a standstill and there was noisy movement all along the carriage. The woman stood up, making to join the slow-moving queue forming in the aisle. <br /> “It’s not as difficult as it may sound,” she said. “I <i>hear</i> him, you see. From time to time. When it’s quiet. Always close behind, just waiting for me to look.” She regarded them dully. “It’s a terrible sound. Quite horrific. I know just from that noise that I’d be appalled at what I’d behold—” <br /> Kay couldn’t help herself. “Wait, Miss Jenkins. I mean … not looking? That keeps this <i>thing</i> at bay?” <br /> “I’ve no idea, child. It has so far, but I’m only seventy-seven next February, and some would say there is still time.” With a weak smile directed at no one in particular she stepped into the aisle and edged towards the doors. “Just heed my advice, ladies. I beg you.” <br /> Several seconds passed before either of the twosome could speak. Inevitably, it was Marsha. <br /> “My dad always says that one advantage of rail travel being so expensive these days is that you don’t get as many loonies on trains. Wait till I tell him about this one.” <br /> Kay stared out onto the platform, which was crowded with people heading for the exits. Gertrude Jenkins was among them, her short distinctive figure still buried in that overlarge fur coat. More by instinct than design, Kay glanced down at the old woman’s booted feet and the tracks they left in the snow, and then at the snow behind her, to see if any other tracks were appearing there. But there were too many other people and it was already churned to slush. So there was no way to tell. <br /><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><br />Kay Letwin and Marsha Finnegan had met on the very first day of Freshers’ Week at Balliol College, Oxford, when by happy fortune they casually chatted in the Student Bar only to find that they’d both enrolled on the same course to study geography. It was well into that first year of study, during a very drunken Christmas party, when they learned that they’d come to be more to each other than mere friends. But it was almost twelve months after that before their lives and emotions had become so interwoven that they’d begun tentatively to discuss tying some kind of knot. <br /> Initially, both were hesitant, Marsha wondering if they were getting their priorities wrong and if it would distract from their coursework and interfere with their exams; Kay suspecting that they’d allowed themselves to be seduced by the relative novelty of gay marriage and that they might be rushing into something they hadn’t thought about sufficiently. In addition, neither of their families, with the sole exception of Tom, Kay’s older brother, were aware of their daughters’ sexual orientation, and while neither bunch were especially conservative in their views it would likely come as a shock if the first they heard of it was the day they were invited to a wedding. In light of all this the two friends had taken what they considered to be the very adult decision of isolating themselves for a few days, over the next Christmas period in fact, in a relatively luxurious environment – Tom’s weekend cottage – where they would discuss every aspect of their relationship, weighing up the pros and cons and hopefully reaching the most sensible decision possible. <br /> Even so, despite the seriousness of this – it was a weighty matter which could impinge on both their lives for decades to come – when they disembarked from the GWR train at Norwood Halt that very chilly Christmas Eve, with backpacks hoisted, scarves, gloves and hats in place, and unbroken snow crunching underfoot, it was impossible not to feel a tingle of holiday excitement. <br /> Unlike at Bladon, where plenty of people had got off the train, Kay and Marsha were the only ones at Norwood Halt, and it was eerily beautiful. After descending the staircase alone (hanging onto each other for dear life) and passing out through the unmanned entrance hall, they found themselves on high ground overlooking the silent village. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8cY_l-N3MuZfBIVewFXhTzjgr0aUuKltQ3XoTxnfEj2fPwViGtGCpylhVdxJBpU24KUwVyiIkRazS3LYU46E2v4KJFqSbPnngihaEo14SOk6QuW-M2OVQ5QrNky0D39-xx6aazE5DMy03gDB7cxU4fhIbd_PuljpYtTZ_lJWf3Ul84Ep9bjHVIPj/s800/sparrow%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8cY_l-N3MuZfBIVewFXhTzjgr0aUuKltQ3XoTxnfEj2fPwViGtGCpylhVdxJBpU24KUwVyiIkRazS3LYU46E2v4KJFqSbPnngihaEo14SOk6QuW-M2OVQ5QrNky0D39-xx6aazE5DMy03gDB7cxU4fhIbd_PuljpYtTZ_lJWf3Ul84Ep9bjHVIPj/w400-h266/sparrow%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div> As Miss Jenkins had said, it was no more than a hamlet, the narrow lane from the station descending amid wintry trees to a small green, now completely white of course, with what remained of a Saxon cross in the centre and a clutter of thatch-roofed buildings around the edges. For the most part, these were cottages built from Cotswold stone, though there was also a pub, The Countryman, with a black-and-white Jacobean exterior, and a post office/corner shop. Under pristine snow, with warm lamplight leaking from a scatter of curtained windows, and yet all of it cast in a silver hue by a sky now cleared of cloud and ablaze with moon and stars, it looked fantastically festive but also snug and peaceful.</div><div><div> In most British towns and cities, nine o’clock on Christmas Eve would be riotous, the streets chaotic with drunken revellers. There’d be shouting and fighting, and copious amounts of vomiting. Even Marsha, though she didn’t consider Christmas a holy feast, held the whole irreverent display with total distaste. This place, however, Norwood Lee, was entirely the opposite. As the women came down to the bottom of the lane, again keeping a tight grip on each other’s arms because of the treacherous surface, there were none of those garish outdoor decorations that turned so many suburbs into neon nightmares, though fairy lights and the occasional Christmas tree did sparkle from behind half-drawn curtains. Likewise, there was no rowdy caterwaul from overcrowded bars, their windows fogged with sweat. Music and laughter <i>could</i> be heard from inside The Countryman but it was harmonious and low-key. <br /> “This is perfect,” Kay said, delighted. “Wouldn’t surprise me if a horse came clopping through, pulling a sleigh.” <br /> “Yeah, it’s also damn cold,” Marsha replied. “Let’s get indoors, eh? See if your lovely brother’s come through for us.” <br /> Tom Letwin, who was ten years older than Kay, was an investment banker in the City, but all their lives he’d been her closest buddy and confidante. His cottage in Norwood Lee, “a crash-pad in the sticks”, as he referred to it, was only one of several properties he owned. His pride and joy was a villa in the foothills of the Gascon Pyrenees, which he used in summer for the sun and in winter for the skiing. Kay and Marsha had been invited to join him there now with his wife, Tamara, and their two children, but when she’d said that she wanted some privacy he’d happily handed over the keys to the crash-pad. <br /> They found it in a narrow mews just behind the post office, one of a row of three. Tom had already warned them that it was small, comprising a single room downstairs with a kitchenette, and a single bedroom upstairs. But they had a real fire, for which there was lots of firewood and kindling stored in the outhouse, and once they lit that, he’d promised that it would be very comfortable. It also boasted a plethora of <i>olde worlde</i> fixtures, including a large stone hearth carved with ancient characters, exposed wooden beams on both floors, and a staircase so steep that it was more like a loft-ladder ascending through a hatch. <br /> They built up the fire until it was roaring, and when they checked in the kitchenette and the ice-box of a scullery attached to it, they found all the consumables they’d need, from six-packs of lager to boxes of wine, from packets of biscuits and cereal, bread, butter, milk, sugar and eggs, all the basics, to sacks of potatoes, carrots, onions and the like. There were also a few extras, provided generously and unexpectedly by Tom, such as an oven-ready prize turkey, several strings of sausages, a box of mince pies and a tinned Christmas pudding. <br /> “Good as it gets,” Marsha said a couple of hours later, when they were unpacked and settled. She wriggled her sock-clad toes in front of the fire while using the remote for the big hi-def telly to channel-hop through a procession of atmospheric but for the most part empty-headed festive entertainments. <br /> Kay muttered a vague response as she wandered – for the third time now – to the window overlooking the back garden. There wasn’t much out there. Again, it was small and blanketed with snow, but beyond the frosty hedge, wooded hills rose into view against the hanging orb of the moon. Silhouetted on its bluish lunar face, amid black tangles of leafless boughs, was the castellated tower of a country church. <br /> “You really want to go up there, don’t you?” Marsha said, joining her. <br /> Kay, who’d first spotted the religious edifice outside and had immediately been entranced by it, was taken aback by the question. <br /> “No,” she said, rather too quickly. “Well … look, I know it’s silly. It’s just … I keep thinking … you know, we’re here to make a big decision. And if we go up there and perform this crazy ritual and when we look over our shoulders, we see each other … well, then we’ll know, won’t we?” She gave a sheepish shrug. “It’ll make everything a lot easier. We can relax and enjoy Christmas without any heavy conversation.” <br /> “Are you actually serious, babes?” Marsha looked astounded. “It’s an old wife’s tale.” <br /> “In which case it can’t hurt, can it?” <br /> Marsha had never been relaxed with that argument: if you didn’t believe in something, where was the harm in indulging it? So often it had been used by religious types in conflict with irreligious types. “If you don’t believe in God you’ve no problem with me going to church, have you, because it doesn’t mean anything anyway?” What that point of view didn’t allow for was the fact you were still being asked to give credibility to something that simply wasn’t real, which was basically asking you to be dishonest. But then again, you also had to consider the give-and-take so essential to successful relationships, and in their particular case, the fact that Kay had long been interested in the odd, the unusual and the uncanny. She had a pile of ghost books back in her room at college, was fascinated by folklore and the occult, and even posted about stuff like that on her blog from time to time. <br /> “I just thought it would be cool to check it out.” Kay shrugged. “Don’t you think that was an interesting story about the crypt?” <br /> “I think it was a horrible story, and a load of guff as well, no disrespect to batty old Miss Jenkins. But … as I don’t believe it’ll do anything at all, let alone do any harm, I don’t suppose I mind a late-evening walk. Should be quite invigorating.” <br /> Kay beamed. “And on a clear night we can see all the Christmas stars.” <br /> “They’re the same stars as usual, Kay.” <br /> “Don’t be boring.” <br /> “I’ll try not to be.” However, as she sat on the sofa pulling her walking-boots back on, Marsha had a thought. “There is one thing. If you genuinely want to perform this ritual, or something similar to it – and frankly, I can’t believe we’re even contemplating such a nonsensical game – you’ve not got everything you need.” <br /> Kay looked puzzled. “We don’t really need anything.” <br /> “Hemp-seed,” Marsha said. “Whatever that actually is.” <br /> “Oh, dear.” Kay looked worried. Before a sly smile crept over her face and she produced from behind her back a sack of “healthy option” granola. “Would you believe, there’s hemp-seed in this?” <br /> Marsha tried not to laugh. “So … we’re going up that hill to chuck a handful of breakfast cereal over our shoulders and that will confirm the hopes and fears of all our years?” <br /> Kay’s impish smile faded, as if such mockery was hurtful but perhaps not entirely unjustified. “Like you said, it’s game. We don’t <i>have</i> to do it. I just wanted to check out this spooky crypt at a time when it’s supposed to be at its spookiest.” <br /> Marsha sighed obligingly. “Well, it’s not far off midnight. If we’re going, we should go now.” <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*</div><br />They couldn’t initially find the way. There were no signs to it and no one was around to ask. But fortunately the parish church was visible from just about everywhere thanks to its lofty perch, and after circling the green a couple of times they chanced on a narrow passage between two cottages, which initially they’d thought a private entry, and this led to a road on the village outskirts. Evidently the road was used very little because only one or two pairs of runnels from passing vehicles marked the carpet of snow lying across it, but they followed it for thirty yards to a finger-posted junction, and from here another minor road lead uphill in roughly the right direction. <br /> Breath smoking and backs bent, they trudged up the slippery incline, following a pavement that was all but indistinguishable from the road itself. To either side, thickets of frozen trees crowded against the low, stone walls. <br /> “Getting spooky,” Marsha observed. <br /> “Thought you didn’t believe in that stuff,” Kay said. <br /> “I don’t. And neither do you, remember. It’s just a bit of fun.” <br /> <i>Some fun,</i> Kay thought, squeezing her gloved hands into fists to prevent the fingers turning numb, grunting as she struggled to keep her footing. <br /> A short time later, a lychgate appeared on the left. No doubt it would normally stand as an icon of elaborate rusticity, a simple latched gate hung between two wooden posts wound with rose bushes and supporting a tiled roof, the lintel of which was inscribed with Latin lettering. But now that roof was buried under snow and the lintel dangling with icicles. <br /> “With any luck this’ll be locked, and we can go back to the cottage,” Marsha said. <br /> But the gate wasn’t locked. They had to force it open, the hinges stiff with frost, but a sufficient gap had soon been made and they sidled quickly through, hoping to avoid precipitating an avalanche from overhead. <br /> Beyond the lychgate a path that was just about visible meandered through the trees towards a dark distant structure. When they passed a large noticeboard on the right, it was so plastered with flakes that they couldn’t read it. <br /> “Everyone loves a white Christmas,” Marsha said. “Until one comes along and the sheer impracticality of it kicks in … like, when you can’t even find out what time you’re supposed to go to church.” <br /> Kay didn’t comment, her eyes fixed on the gaunt building looming ahead. <br /> The truth was, and she’d only partially admitted this to herself, she really wasn’t sure the route they were currently contemplating was one she wanted; okay, they were both uncertain about it but her fears, she suspected, went much deeper than Marsha’s. She’d never had any partner before coming to university, girl or boy. Oh, there’d been the usual kissing and fumbling at school parties, but none of that had carried an emotional price-tag. In contrast, it had been very different with Marsha. Kay had been strongly attracted to the older student from the moment she’d met her, and now felt deeply connected to her. If there was such a thing as spiritual love then perhaps this was how Kay felt. But increasingly she had reservations. Marsha was taller and sturdier than she was, which gave her a protective aura. Kay couldn’t help wondering if she’d fallen for someone like this because she’d been unconsciously seeking a parent-type ally during those difficult early days at university, when fear and loneliness were issues. <br /> She wasn’t saying there was anything false about her feelings, but on reflection it still seemed very early – she’d only recently turned twenty – for a commitment like marriage. By modern standards that was astonishingly young. <br /> <i>And will the parish church of Norwood Lee really help with any of this? </i><br /> It now stood directly in front of her and didn’t look much different from other rural churches, except for being older and more weathered than most, and for the snow overhanging its roofs and the spears of ice descending from its eaves. As the leafless trees parted, and they emerged onto flat ground where ancient headstones jutted from the snow like black badly-angled teeth, Kay forcibly reminded herself that this was just a silly old tradition, that her curiosity about it sprang from her interests in the odd and esoteric, that she wasn’t taking it seriously. <br /> Marsha gazed at the leaning gravestones and then up the towering edifice, its tall stained-glass windows blacked out by the icy darkness behind them. “Where’s a Hammer Horror film crew when you need one?”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4y5YLJhgTF8EDiSZvqr_MPJR3W7TOJhOBbhvWTIcS7Vldn73ys9KjCIaN_3WhknOjigkB8l_oZmQwj-6yYjJBq88ulUlpafqBh0VgHYBCyf-F5RrzJhtGkFlCSDsDNMd6jt8sDbhjQMS923kyBgEQma6_RGYiKXnvY2Dtp6ah3jIGzTpeuL6DVr9/s1000/spooky%20church.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE4y5YLJhgTF8EDiSZvqr_MPJR3W7TOJhOBbhvWTIcS7Vldn73ys9KjCIaN_3WhknOjigkB8l_oZmQwj-6yYjJBq88ulUlpafqBh0VgHYBCyf-F5RrzJhtGkFlCSDsDNMd6jt8sDbhjQMS923kyBgEQma6_RGYiKXnvY2Dtp6ah3jIGzTpeuL6DVr9/s320/spooky%20church.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> “Didn’t think it was going to be this big,” Kay admitted. “Didn’t Miss Jennings say it was small.” <br /> “I think she meant it was small by parish church standards, which it probably is.” <br /> “Why have something like this in a village the size of Norwood Lee?” <br /> “It was probably paid for by that character who’s lying in the vault … what’s his name?” <br /> “Henry Wilcote.” <br /> “Yeah. Speaking of which—” Marsha looked at her phone “—it’s ten to midnight, so if we’re going to do this daft thing we’d better get on with it.” <br /> A small part of Kay felt a twinge of unease. Perhaps, now that they were actually here, she’d been subconsciously hoping they’d have run out of time, but she nodded all the same. <br /> They didn’t have a compass but circumnavigated the building on the basis it would have been built facing east, which meant that the main entry doors would be at the western end. From there, it was easy to deduce which side was south, and indeed when they crunched their way around there along a side-path shin-deep in banked-up snow they encountered two doors standing ten yards apart. The one on the left looked like a relatively recent addition, but the one on the right was made from older semi-perished wood filled with flattened nail-heads. What was more, that one stood ajar by a couple of inches. <br /> “There’s an invitation if ever I’ve seen one,” Marsha said in a voice that was more cheerful than Kay thought the circumstances warranted. <br /> For some reason, a dead chill now ran through Kay that had nothing to do with the temperature. <br /> “Five minutes left,” Marsha said. “Are we going down?” <br /> “Erm, yeah … sure.” <br /> “Before we do, there is, perhaps … <i>something</i>.” <br /> Kay glanced up, surprised at the querulous note in Marsha’s voice, and even more surprised to see the moonlight reflecting from a face suddenly taut with foreboding. <br /> “Supposing,” Marsha said. “Just supposing … well, imagine that this ritual works. And we look round, and each of us … we see someone else? I mean not each other?” <br /> “Oh.” Kay didn’t want to give away that this was precisely her own fear, but at the same time she didn’t want to dismiss it either, because maybe if they both felt this way it would be easier now to just turn around and walk in the other direction. <br /> “I’m joking, you dipstick!” Marsha cackled. <br /> “Oh, right. Yeah … sure.” Kay tried to smile. “What a shock it’d be.” <br /> Marsha pushed at the door which swung open on silent hinges. Beyond it, when she turned her phone-light on, they saw a stone stairway falling into blackness. “After you,” she said. <br /> “You know…” Unavoidably, Kay hesitated. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” <br /> Marsha frowned. “You marched me all the way up here and now you want to march me all the way back without us at least setting eyes on this mysterious medieval warlock?” <br /> “If you just want to look at his tomb we can come back tomorrow.” <br /> “We’re here <i>now</i>. And it’s nothing to do with what <i>I</i> want. So, after you.” <br /> Teeth gritted, Kay commenced a slow cautious descent. It was a narrow stairway, very much something she’d have expected from the Middle Ages, the rugged ceiling arching just above her head, the stone walls to either side crumbling and covered with moss. Her vaporous breath filled the tight space, white phantasms curling in the bright glow of her phone-light. When they reached the bottom, Kay at the front, Marsha behind, a gate stood in front of them set with corroded iron bars. And it appeared to be closed. <br /> “Looks like we can’t go any further,” Kay said. <br /> Marsha leaned past her, gripped one of the bars and pushed. With a grating and groaning, the gate opened. “That old biddy was right about one thing. This place is completely insecure.” <br /> With no option, Kay ventured forward, phone held rigidly in front. The floor was paved and dry, but the actual dimensions of the place difficult to judge. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBcNG7IeIhArqpDHueRULdlcWGyzbGdnPp0ZGt1k2dkarCNiJRAshtN8lwre-R3SbDBGoi8ja_TUETSbQ4DTEa4vPhAqetbj3cCEgTvY8luXjZ46FmtYvMV795BOJ1jk3RmG3f9HbfmR4sbQYBQLTt_iHWF5zarujTE73XK8mGZFt2CGKkrFNjk3R/s340/crypt%203%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="219" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBcNG7IeIhArqpDHueRULdlcWGyzbGdnPp0ZGt1k2dkarCNiJRAshtN8lwre-R3SbDBGoi8ja_TUETSbQ4DTEa4vPhAqetbj3cCEgTvY8luXjZ46FmtYvMV795BOJ1jk3RmG3f9HbfmR4sbQYBQLTt_iHWF5zarujTE73XK8mGZFt2CGKkrFNjk3R/s320/crypt%203%20(2).jpg" width="206" /></a></div></div><div> Her light didn’t travel far, just sufficiently to show pillars and vaulted arches, but also, some ten yards ahead, a flat slab elevated to about three feet, with two colourless figures lying side-by-side on top of it. <br /> Kay slithered to a halt. And flinched when Marsha’s hand landed on her shoulder. <br /> “Bloody hell,” Marsha chuckled. “You’re really jumpy.” <br /> “I’m just cold…” <br /> “It’s only another of those crusader tomb-type things. You’ve probably seen one in every cathedral you’ve ever visited.” <br /> “Yes, but Marsha … we were told not to come here.” <br /> “By someone who’s three sheets to the wind. Look, babe, <i>you’re</i> the one who wanted…” <br /> “I know, but isn’t it…?” <br /> “Hey, we don’t have to do it.” Somewhat belatedly, Marsha had latched onto the fact that Kay was quite nervous. She held up to two flat palms to indicate that they didn’t need to proceed, though the gesture was underscored with amusement implying that she still thought it a load of hogwash. “Won’t it give you a great blogpost, though? Your very own Christmas ghost experience?” <br /> As if to illustrate, she strode along the left side of the tomb, phone clicking as she took photographs. Encouraged a little by this, and agreeing that yes, it would be an excellent post for her blog on Christmas morning, Kay shuffled closer, though even that slight movement echoed eerily, the mobile-light sources playing visual tricks in the deeper recesses of the undercroft. <br /> Now that she was right up to him, Sir Henry Wilcote and his wife, Abigail, were much as Miss Jenkins had described them: smooth, featureless travesties of the detailed sculptures they’d once been. <br /> “Wonder if their actual bones are lying under here?” Kay said, peering at the timeworn faces, only vaguely definable bumps and contours hinting at the eyes, mouths and noses. <br /> “Presume so,” Marsha replied. “Otherwise, why would this place have any alleged magical power? They kind of lucked in, don’t you think?” She walked around the stone effigies until she was back where she’d started. “They weren’t just together all their lives, they’ve been together ever since. What was it … the Wars of the Roses? That’s nearly five-hundred years, yeah? These two were right for each other at least, even if they mucked about in the black arts to ensure it lasted. Anyway—” she checked the time “—we’ve got one minute, babe. Are we doing this thing, or what?” <br /> “Suppose so.” Kay tugged off her left glove and stuck her hand into her anorak pocket where she’d stored a fistful of the high-health granola. <br /> The Wilcotes’ long-lasting fidelity was surely some kind of indication that it was possible for people to remain loyal life-partners from an early age. Even in turbulent times. How old would Abigail Wilcote have been? Back in the Middle Ages didn’t girls get married as young as twelve or thirteen? And yet here she was in 2018, still lying alongside her husband. <br /> “Let’s just do it,” she said, suddenly feeling energized by that. “After all, it’s better to know than not to know.” <br /> Marsha held out her gloved palm so that Kay could sprinkle some grains into it, but arched a curious eyebrow. “You’re not really buying into this, are you? I mean, not <i>seriously</i>?” <br /> “Like you say, let’s just do it.” Kay positioned herself so that they faced each other directly. “Now, do as I do…” And she threw the handful of grain over her left shoulder. <br /> “Babe, whoa.” If you’re … look, maybe this isn’t such a good…” <br /> “Please, Marsha!” Now that they’d started Kay was eager to see it through. <br /> Defeated but bemused, Marsha tossed her own seeds backward. <br /> Kay remained focussed. “Now repeat after me…” <br /> “Whoa, you’ve memorised those lines? The old bat only said them once.” <br /> “I only remember vaguely but I’m sure it’s the thought that counts…” <br /> “Kay, listen…” <br /> “‘Hemp-seed I scatter’ – come on, Marsha, you’ve got to say it.” <br /> Reluctantly, Marsha said, “‘Hemp-seed I scatter.’” <br /> “‘Hemp-seed I sew’—” <br /> “Kay, this is—” <br /> “Come on, please!” <br /> Marsha shrugged exasperatedly. “‘Hemp-seed I sew.’” <br /> “‘Let my true love come after me and mow.’” <br /> “For Christ’s sake!” <br /> “Marsha!” <br /> “‘Let my true love come after me and mow.’” <br /> Kay nodded, compressing her lips into a tight tense smile. Briefly, the silence in the crypt seemed to thunder in their ears. The friends regarded each other fixedly. And then Marsha jolted, her head jerking part-way around as though in surprise. <br /> “What is it?” Kay asked, her pulse immediately racing. Almost as an afterthought she turned to glance over her own shoulder. <br /> Marsha had heard something: a hollow wooden <i>thud</i>. Initially it had sounded like a door closing. As she’d glanced around she’d expected to see a priest or vicar, or some other custodian of the church who’d just emerged from another part of the cellar. That would have been difficult enough. <br /> But <i>this</i>… <br /> Her mouth slackened open, her eyes bugging in a face rapidly draining white. <br /> “This … it’s a trick…” she said hoarsely, backing away until she collided with Kay, half-knocking her sideways. Kay turned and tried to grapple with her to prevent them both falling over but Marsha was rigid, a virtual stone. “It’s a damn trick!” she hissed again, staring at what to Kay looked like empty darkness. <br /> “What is it?” Kay attempted to put arms around her. “What did you see?” <br /> Marsha tore loose and backed frothy-lipped towards the iron gate. She pointed a shaking finger. “You … <i>you</i> had something to do with this. You <i>must</i> have. No one else could’ve—” <br /> Kay held her hands out. “What is it? Just tell me.” <br /> “It’s a damn trick! That’s all it can be! And a bloody nasty one!” <br /> Marsha turned and blundered up the stairway. <br /> “Wait!” Kay yelled, more confused than frightened, though that confusion lent wings to her heels as she stumbled up the steps in pursuit. <br /> Marsha was the athlete, of course. When Kay reached the surface world there was already no sign of her friend, but there was only one way she could have run. Increasingly bewildered, Kay hastened along the side of the church. When she reached the end of the building she halted, lungs heaving, sweat chilling on her brow. From the chopped-up snow it appeared that Marsha had descended the hill the same way they’d come up here: down through the graveyard and along the lychgate path. <br /> As Kay went that way too she spotted her partner’s lurching shape some fifty yards ahead. <br /> “What in God’s name?” she stuttered as she ran. “Marsha! <i>Marsha, wait!</i>” <br /> She finally got to the sloping road, sliding out through the gate and falling full-length on the pavement. The snow cushioned the impact but from here it was much more difficult: downhill and a smoother surface, her feet repeatedly skating from under her. Marsha was having similar problems and was now only thirty yards ahead. She too fell repeatedly and heavily until by the time she was at the bottom of the hill she was limping. <br /> “Marsha!” Kay called again. “Wait, please!” <br /> Marsha at last came down to the little-used road on the outskirts of the village. This area was street-lit, and perhaps feeling she’d returned to some version of civilisation and sanity, she turned around, her face flushed and soaked with sweat, though perhaps soaked with something else too – tears? <br /> Kay was incredulous, never having once known Marsha to cry. <br /> “What happened?” she asked, approaching with arms outspread. “For Heaven’s sake!” <br /> “Don’t come near me, Kay.” Marsha retreated steadily. “If you didn’t know about that … well, it doesn’t matter because I <i>know</i> you didn’t. It know it couldn’t have been you. And if that’s the case I don’t like to think … I can’t even imagine…” <br /> She stumbled off a kerb that was hidden in snow but continued to backtrack. <br /> “So, you <i>did</i> see something?” Involuntarily, Kay’s own advance faltered. <br /> Marsha shook her head, perplexed, baffled, tormented. “I just … I can’t believe it. I turned my head … and it was there. Right behind me. Only for a second, but—” <br /> “<i>What</i> was there?” <br /> “It was standing upright. Like a joke, like someone had put it there…” Fresh tears brimmed from Marsha’s eyes. “But I know that nobody did.” <br /> “What? What was it?” <br /> “For God’s sake, Kay … I saw a coffin.” <br /> Kay’s blood iced over as she stopped in her tracks. She was still on the pavement, of course. But Marsha, unwittingly, had retreated into the very middle of that little-used road. <br /> Little-used, but not <i>unused</i> – as a sudden screech of brakes and squealing of tyres attested. The van, which had come around the corner at reckless speed, went careering out of control, its wheels locking on the frozen surface. <br /> Kay shouted hysterically but it was too late. <br /> The impact was shattering, the detonation reverberating across the sleeping village. <br /> Within a couple of minutes people were emerging from the nearest houses, wearing coats over their pyjamas and wellingtons instead of slippers. A short time later an ambulance arrived, followed almost immediately by a Thames Valley police car. Questions were fired around as people stood dumbfounded in the cold. <br /> Kay watched it all from a sitting position on the kerbstone, through a bur of tears and clawed fingers. She barely spoke, scarcely aware of the hot tea and blankets offered by concerned villagers. She voiced no opinion, as the van driver, who was incoherent – whether that was through shock or drink or both was unclear – was taken away in handcuffs. She literally lost track of time as the haze of spinning blue lights slowly mesmerised her. <br /> “Excuse me but I must ask you this … what happened?” <br /> Kay could barely respond though she was aware the question had come from a police officer, a sergeant by the stripes on the epaulettes on her hi-vis, waterproof overcoat. <br /> “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are yet,” the policewoman persisted. “But perhaps you can tell me … did you <i>see</i> anything?” <br /> Kay looked up at that, the policewoman blanching at the depths of horror and misery etched into her face. <br /> “I’m sorry,” the officer said. “But I need to know … what did you see?” <br /> Kay directed her gaze back across the road, thoughts straying to that frigid pit beneath the church – but her eyes fixed on the large black bag, heavy and cumbersome and zipped securely up one side, that the undertakers were manhandling into the back of their hearse. <br /> “Nothing,” she said in a voice of utter bleakness. “I saw <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;">nothing at all.”</span><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKGXIYkVBnZpGaDynZCjWRSXJPsink4gM9mQ3-JXZ13u1mE882_u4njsdCh4hDcfkzgRdHeOtAqIxYoCjy2P3g56oxBm-2Nux6A1G_u22cupAcc6fLHasx7E70L41s17QEWkBc46raer93AUtTYKIE8j-1oKzLhALa6wkQhSc9qkq1jmcJkRtml1j/s1348/christmas%20scary%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1348" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKGXIYkVBnZpGaDynZCjWRSXJPsink4gM9mQ3-JXZ13u1mE882_u4njsdCh4hDcfkzgRdHeOtAqIxYoCjy2P3g56oxBm-2Nux6A1G_u22cupAcc6fLHasx7E70L41s17QEWkBc46raer93AUtTYKIE8j-1oKzLhALa6wkQhSc9qkq1jmcJkRtml1j/w320-h400/christmas%20scary%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;"><br /></span></div></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;"><i>If you enjoyed this spooky little tale, perhaps you might be interested in two collections of Christmas-themed ghost and horror stories of mine, published over the last few years: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Christmas-You-Deserve-festive-terror/dp/1916205739/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1670083236&sr=1-1">THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deep-Dark-December-festive-chillers/dp/1916205720/ref=pd_bxgy_img_sccl_1/257-6433603-1950107?pd_rd_w=9cipP&content-id=amzn1.sym.79b812bf-5c8b-4c0c-851c-784423adaff5&pf_rd_p=79b812bf-5c8b-4c0c-851c-784423adaff5&pf_rd_r=J521TDSJ0Z8GKMJWWFA6&pd_rd_wg=Yv0Y5&pd_rd_r=33a8a9ed-89cd-476b-a7fc-36b15102d4f1&pd_rd_i=1916205720&psc=1">IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER</a>.</i></b></div></div></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;"><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 14.4pt;"><i>In the meantime, whatever you choose to do, have a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year.</i></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-7983605906496892542022-12-12T06:56:00.001-08:002022-12-12T06:58:35.437-08:00The one who got away returns with steel<b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHKvB4rfUmTI0Z-E5xyyQHH2vW5YiMC8YWjb7w0r6j52Y4LK9UngfFTShOLo3rS1QQYc-czXA_fXG0pBQ4bNhAMowkLJF7vcZbcW1Hi0WY4pmlWFVF6MglyYjlgB6n8GW6D3pXiXJWfhqoClIBq6I4EIaUcUbyhleIj8nIZIlXZYh8osiT2b752AI/s3200/Usurper%20final%20hi-res.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3200" data-original-width="2088" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHKvB4rfUmTI0Z-E5xyyQHH2vW5YiMC8YWjb7w0r6j52Y4LK9UngfFTShOLo3rS1QQYc-czXA_fXG0pBQ4bNhAMowkLJF7vcZbcW1Hi0WY4pmlWFVF6MglyYjlgB6n8GW6D3pXiXJWfhqoClIBq6I4EIaUcUbyhleIj8nIZIlXZYh8osiT2b752AI/w261-h400/Usurper%20final%20hi-res.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>I’m delighted today to unveil the new cover and title to my first medieval action-epic. As you can see, it’s called <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-P-Finch/dp/1804362050">USURPER,</a> and it will be the first book in a new duology, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-medieval-adventure/dp/1804362050/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1E9JODXPSI45P&keywords=usurper+-+pw+finch&qid=1670857068&s=books&sprefix=usurp%2Cstripbooks%2C71&sr=1-1">THE WULFBURY CHRONICLES</a>. More about that shortly. <br /><br />In addition today, seeing as it’s now getting really cold and dark out there, I’ll be reviewing a very wintry horror novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terminal-Freeze-Jeremy-Logan-Lincoln/dp/0307947076/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669039233&sr=1-1">TERMINAL FREEZE</a> by Lincoln Child. Bit of an eco-horror, this one, but containing elements of <i>Alien</i> and <i>The Thing</i>, and quite appropriate for our current concerns, I feel. <br /></b><br />If you’re only interested in reading the Lincoln Child review, rocket on down to the lower end of today’s post, namely the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section, where all my reviews can usually be found. Before then though, let’s roll back the clock a thousand years to … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>A darker age</b></div><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-P-Finch/dp/1804362050"><b>USURPER</b></a> will be my first novel for Canelo Books (it’s published on April 27, but already available for pre-order) and though it represents a right-turn on my normal subject-matter, I can guarantee you an all-out, full-blooded action adventure. <br /><br />The story takes place in that most infamous year in British history, 1066. It’s the late summer, and Saxon England, one of the oldest, wealthiest kingdoms in Christendom, has now been at peace for five decades. Everyone is enjoying the prosperity of these days. The earls and their thegns feast together in their great halls, while the peasants partake in a plethora of village festivals running right through the calendar. After decades of successful harvests, famine in England is unknown. The woods teem with game, the rivers and meres with fish, and there are no restrictive laws to prevent anyone helping themselves to Nature’s bounty. Even the Viking threat to England appears to have diminished dramatically.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wjP28a-WJ_eVmMIM5x7zzZ4KTDaP8D72_McJ5rrHET5oF-5jiFHwjWRgSRQkvlY3uGLEcvHeVZBUQbQfCHYDrOVFZ3gjUnjMrVtPtOdqFwo00rjB_YA6qgT2KrIDFi032ZU51y4WGxMg5LAryWvJyaKZdA_AlXpqU9dl5-pq0xDUTSWLx0lh3z89/s3072/vikings.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wjP28a-WJ_eVmMIM5x7zzZ4KTDaP8D72_McJ5rrHET5oF-5jiFHwjWRgSRQkvlY3uGLEcvHeVZBUQbQfCHYDrOVFZ3gjUnjMrVtPtOdqFwo00rjB_YA6qgT2KrIDFi032ZU51y4WGxMg5LAryWvJyaKZdA_AlXpqU9dl5-pq0xDUTSWLx0lh3z89/s320/vikings.webp" width="320" /></a></div>And then, seemingly from nowhere, all within one tumultuous month, the good times end.<div><br />The kingdom is subjected to two different but simultaneous incursions by enemies almost too terrible to imagine. In the north, a new and colossal horde of Vikings arrives under the leadership of the notoriously violent and cruel Harald ‘Hardraada’ Sigurdsson, King of Norway, while the south is invaded by William, Duke of Normandy, the bulk of whose enormous army now comprises a new and elite military force, a corps of mounted warriors who are well-armed, well-trained and whose proficiency with weapons is matched only by their loyalty to their overlord; the world will come to know them as ‘knights’, and their efficiency on the battlefield will transform the European way of making war for many centuries to come. <br /><br />In the face of these implacable foes, and during the course of three near-apocalyptic battles, Saxon England falls. <br /><br />Yes, it’s a well-known saga, but in <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-P-Finch/dp/1804362050"><b>USURPER</b></a> I don’t follow it blow-by-blow. Instead, I focus on the experience of one person, Cerdic of Wulfbury, second son of a fictional Saxon nobleman and a young scholar who, as 1066 approached, was destined for the Church, but who, once the catastrophe breaks over his people, taking away from him everything and everyone he has ever known and loved, finally starts to think that maybe the sword is mightier than the pen after all … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Time for a change</b></div><br />Readers of my crime novels don’t need to worry. I’ve not called time on them, but every so often a change is pleasant, plus it’s nice to have more than one string to your bow. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2dkx-9K3lm9VOr1TEtBiDoSr4dKycYueeq-ruwmHGLlXIoe7UAhUPlouIDJoHmDyJa5pUxqS_wQcU-AeOqMYaUWpYniZYyqMjRSLxKntNt4Bd7V2OKA5ByjMPWrxtX5kOzRXrlfa68ky_BOoHrqN4blGtdGCf7O-3a2BvEmbR0IMt-MdDvqIXQy6/s346/last%20kingdom.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="228" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx2dkx-9K3lm9VOr1TEtBiDoSr4dKycYueeq-ruwmHGLlXIoe7UAhUPlouIDJoHmDyJa5pUxqS_wQcU-AeOqMYaUWpYniZYyqMjRSLxKntNt4Bd7V2OKA5ByjMPWrxtX5kOzRXrlfa68ky_BOoHrqN4blGtdGCf7O-3a2BvEmbR0IMt-MdDvqIXQy6/s320/last%20kingdom.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>I started writing <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-P-Finch/dp/1804362050"><b>USURPER</b></a> speculatively a couple of years ago, having become a big fan of historical adventure writers like <b>Bernard Cornwell</b>, <b>Ben Kane</b>, <b>Simon Scarrow</b>, <b>Angus Donald</b>,<b> Conn Iggulden</b>, <b>David Gilman</b>, <b>Matthew Harffy</b>, <b>Giles Kristian</b> etc. I studied medieval history as part of my degree, and so I’ve been fascinated by that period all my life. An era that so many of us think we know because we’ve seen umpteen Hollywood versions of it was actually even more magical and mysterious in reality, as well as being a lot more brutal and turbulent. But for all these reasons, the scope for fictional adventures set during the pre-mechanised era of human history is limitless. <br /><br />Think of the reasons why the Western was such a successful hunting ground for so many authors and film-makers over so many decades. Consider the romantic potential of a society stripped down to its basics, where much of the land is wilderness, where men and women can only survive through a combination of ingenuity and back-breaking toil, where the forces of chaos can run riot because law-enforcement is so thinly spread, where justice can often only be served one-to-one, and only by those who are sufficiently heroic to do it. <br /><br />Well, you’ve got exactly the same scenario in Europe during the Middle Ages and Dark Ages. In addition, you have very dramatic historical events and amazing real-life characters that you can weave into your fiction to add colour, depth, context, authenticity and so on. <br /><br />It was an intoxicating prospect that I knew I’d have to chance at some point, and I can only reiterate how glad I am that the book found favour with Canelo and will now be published on April 27 next year, though let me offer another quick reminder that it is already available for pre-order (just go <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-P-Finch/dp/1804362050/ref=sr_1_1?crid=U0K6KN1IPTKL&keywords=usurper+-+pw+finch&qid=1670500399&s=books&sprefix=USURPER%2Cstripbooks%2C65&sr=1-1"><b>HERE</b></a>).<br /><br />As I say, fans of my thriller fiction needn’t fear. That side of the Finch operation hasn’t ended. Far from it (watch out for new titles in 2023). But from now on, I’ll be writing historical adventures too, commencing with this duology, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Usurper-Wulfbury-Chronicles-P-Finch/dp/1804362050">USURPER</a></b>. <br /><br /><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed (I’ll outline the plot first, and follow it with my opinions) … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. <br /><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terminal-Freeze-Jeremy-Logan-Lincoln/dp/0307947076/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669039233&sr=1-1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terminal-Freeze-Jeremy-Logan-Lincoln/dp/0307947076/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669039233&sr=1-1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uv_J2kGbhKmOmTz9Y4lF3diBp-UnFtQhhcYN88yJD3wXwtcApNz0h5FCVBY1UQby5HVwcQuTycx26buQunVjS0PnA_IsfDLR6yjxHdFkeWsriDXujukitbout8tanZcKFK6YLPPQehpBqsS7ZxTR_LmHTSZ6ttuenulUYQgzKvkRwj_HekbRkd8R/s450/terminal.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="292" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uv_J2kGbhKmOmTz9Y4lF3diBp-UnFtQhhcYN88yJD3wXwtcApNz0h5FCVBY1UQby5HVwcQuTycx26buQunVjS0PnA_IsfDLR6yjxHdFkeWsriDXujukitbout8tanZcKFK6YLPPQehpBqsS7ZxTR_LmHTSZ6ttuenulUYQgzKvkRwj_HekbRkd8R/w260-h400/terminal.jpg" width="260" /></a></div></b><div><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Terminal-Freeze-Jeremy-Logan-Lincoln/dp/0307947076/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669039233&sr=1-1"><b>TERMINAL FREEZE</b></a></div><div><b><i>by Lincoln Child (2009)</i></b><br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Outline </b><br />In the high Alaskan Arctic, the foothills to the ominously named Mount Fear play host to Fear Base, an old military installation, once a listening post during the Cold War, currently disused except for a skeleton crew of four US soldiers. That is the normal state of play, though things are a little livelier at present as a team of scientists from the University of Northern Massachusetts is staying on site while researching the effects of global warming on the nearby glaciers. <br /><br />The research team’s leader is climatologist Gerard Sully, but its strongest two personalities are paleocologist Evan Marshall and British computer scientist Penny Barbour. Despite this wealth of experience, not everyone is happy. The scientific expedition, which was bankrolled by National Geographic-type TV channel Terra Prime and their parent corporation, Blackpool Entertainment, is making slow progress in terms of discoveries, and there are disputes aplenty. And then, suddenly, while exploring a lava tube filled with ancient ice, the scientists uncover the body of a gigantic animal frozen beneath the surface. <br /><br />At first there is confusion about what exactly the creature is. From its terrible eyes and teeth, it is clearly a predator, possibly a smilodon (‘sabre-tooth tiger’ to you and me), but if so, at sixteen feet in length, it’s the largest ever known. The condition of its perfect preservation is also a source of wonder and bemusement. <br /><br />The team is delighted, feeling they might get something out of this expedition after all. However, when word is sent back to Terra Prime, the channel immediately despatches a film crew to Fear Base, where they plan to cut the discovery free and thaw it out on live television. Despite the scientists’ advice that, as they know nothing about the animal, it should be studied in situ first, the channel orders them to assist the newly-arrived crew, predicting that this will be a blockbuster event that will shoot them to the top of the ratings. <br /><br />As such, they don’t just send cameramen and roustabouts, but talented line producer Kari Ekberg, network liaison and senior channel rep,Wolff, and the obnoxious and obsessive film director, Emilio Conti, who sees ‘his cat’ as a belated opportunity to put some shine on an otherwise non-too-illustrious career. The show will be presented by the spoiled and beautiful TV anchor, Ashleigh Davis, whose luxurious trailer is brought to the base by doughty ice road trucker, Carradine. Another new-arrival is Jeremy Logan, a historian from Yale, who is keen to look the base over and investigate the mystery of why a bunch of scientists were inexplicably killed there back in 1958. <br /><br />Regular Lincoln Child readers will know Logan of old, recognising him as an intrepid investigator of dangerous paranormal phenomena. Though he isn’t close to being the lead character here, <b><i>Terminal Freeze</i></b> is his second outing to date (several others have been written since). <br /><br />If the scientists at Fear Base aren’t already worried enough that the plan to thaw out the giant cat is a bad one, the Tunits, the few survivors of an all-but-extinct Alaskan tribe, arrive at the base under the leadership of medicine-man, Usuguk, and try to explain that the ancient creature was the mountain’s demonic guardian, that it is not fully dead, and that, once unleashed, it will kill and kill until all transgressors have been destroyed. <br /><br />Meanwhile, Marshall and his team have worries of their own. From what they are able to see through the cloudy ice, they deduce that this is not a smilodon, but a prehistoric creature existing outside of science. Despite that, it was clearly an extreme predator, something dwelling at the very top of the food-chain. The animal is therefore priceless, and they are convinced it should be left where it is while more prudent research is done. <br /><br />However, Wolff pulls rank. Terra Prime will have their live TV extravaganza at any cost. While the irritating Conti takes charge, adopting a melodramatic but painfully unscientific approach, Marshall and co are forced to stand by and watch as the animal is cut free in a hefty block of ice and placed in one of the base’s refrigerated vaults. <br /><br />Perhaps inevitably, this doesn’t protect it enough. Because a short time later, long before any cameras start to roll, the vault is found to be empty, the huge block of ice clearly having melted – which is a mystery in itself – while the preserved carcass is missing, the thieves having entered through a large hole cut in the floor. <br /><br />Acrimony and accusations fly, the scientists coming under deep suspicion. Until someone points out that the damage to the vault floor was not done from the outside, but the inside. And that no power-tools were used. If anything, the metal panels were ripped apart by what appears to have been claws and teeth. <br /><br />It isn’t long after this when the horrific killings begin … <br /><br /><b>Review </b><br />There can’t be many of us who don’t enjoy a good ‘creature feature’ set at the ends of the Earth. Because that is firmly the territory we are in with <i><b>Terminal Freeze</b></i>. If you’ve read the outline, you won’t need me to liken it to several icebound monster classics of the past. From HP Lovecraft’s <i><b>At the Mountains of Madness</b></i> to John W Campbell’s <b><i>Who Goes There?</i></b>, from Dan Simmons’s <i><b>The Terror</b></i> to Robert Banks Stewart’s <i><b>Dr Who</b></i> masterpiece, <i><b>The Seeds of Doom</b></i>, all the familiar tropes are present: the isolated station deep in the polar region, manned uncomfortably by a combo of scientists and military men; the terrible thing in the ice; the unwise decision to bring it back to base; the pseudo-science about what it might be and where it might have originated; the string of brutal deaths as it somehow appears to have survived its billennia-long incarceration in the deep freeze and now embarks on a non-stop assault against the good guys, who invariably possess no weapon that seems to work on it. <br /><br />But does any of that mean I didn’t enjoy <i><b>Terminal Freeze</b></i>? <br /><br />Not at all. <br /><br />Okay, I can’t pretend that I didn’t have one or two issues, so perhaps it’s for the best if I deal with those straight away. <br /><br />It’s a pity that we never really get to know more about the creature. It’s not a sabre-tooth tiger, it’s infinitely worse, but that’s about the extent of what we learn. Though the sense of terror it generates is real (it vibrates off the page once the hunt is on), and though it is never explicitly depicted, the creature is described sufficiently for us to understand that this is a genuine primordial horror, something that doesn’t belong in any world, let alone the modern one, and that it will cause mayhem if it ever gets back to civilisation. But all that aside – and I’m sorry if this is a bit of a spoiler (it spoiled it a little for me too!) – we never get to know exactly what the monster is. <br /><br />The author talks in general terms about the ‘Callisto Effect’, an idea that, if memory serves, he and his regular writing-partner, Doug Preston, first aired in <b><i>Relic</i></b>, published fourteen years earlier in 1995. This is an evolutionary concept in which an area of geographical confinement may become overpopulated by certain species of fauna, the outcome being the emergence of a completely new and highly aggressive genus, a super-predator that will hunt and kill everything around it until the overpopulation problem has been resolved. This is a neat idea, I’ll admit, even if it’s entirely fictional. It gives us a scary antagonist, there is no question about that, but it doesn’t really allow us to tie up all the loose ends. <br /><br />My only other brickbat concerns Usuguk, who isn’t just the wiseman of the local Native American tribe, and who’s still inexplicably here even though the vast majority of his people have migrated across the continent to an easier climate, he also happens to have been a former US soldier and even a scientist; not only that, he was involved in the 1958 incident, when the staff at Fear Base were exposed for the first time to the murderous beast in the ice (or another one very like it). Sorry, but I just found this a bit too convenient. Not, I have to add, that Usuguk is really a great help at the end of the day. Not as much as you’d think he would be. <br /><br />However, these are the only issues I had with <i><b>Terminal Freeze</b></i>, and they didn’t do any real damage. Essentially, this book is monster horror par excellence, garnished with lashings of full-blooded action. And it works perfectly on that level. Half the personnel’s attempted flight in the ice-truck trailer doesn’t really serve any purpose, other than to add a few extra thrills (which it does!), but the increasingly frequent battles with the monster in the concrete bowels of the decommissioned base or on the tundra beyond, are convincing and enthralling, giving us more than a passing nod to major movies of this subgenre. For example, the attempt to destroy the monster with an arc of electricity comes straight out of 1951’s <i><b>The Thing From Another World</b></i>, while the extreme factionalism of the crew and the fact this weakens them in the face of a common enemy is fond homage to John Carpenter’s 1982 version, <i><b>The Thing</b></i>. But again, it’s all ripping stuff. <br /><br />On top of that, Lincoln Child writes so well. The desolate landscape of glaciers and frozen crags is beautifully evoked, while the scientific analysis, even if much of it is technobabble, sounds authentic enough to keep you engrossed. The characters, while in some cases they are stock (Evan Marshall, for example, though an eco-minded scientist is also an ex spec-ops soldier, while even Child’s regular, Logan, remains an unreadable background figure) range widely enough to remain recognisable throughout the blood-soaked chaos, the villains among them adequately annoying for you to enjoy their inevitable gruesome demise. But it’s with the base itself where Child really excels himself, hitting us not with a small huddle of huts and storage sheds connected by a few primitive metal passages along which the polar wind drones endlessly, but with the brooding majesty of Fear Base, formerly a major outpost in the USA’s defensive line against the Soviet Union, and as such vast and multi-levelled, comprising warrens of tunnels, vaults and forgotten rooms crammed with relics of machinery and defunct kit, all now disused and covered with dust. It’s a depthless labyrinth in which the monster can roam unchecked without anyone even knowing it is there – which makes it all the more terrifying, of course, when they’ve got to try and track it down. <br /><br />I’m not going to say a lot more about <i><b>Terminal Freeze</b></i>. Basically, it does what it says on the tin. It’s a sci-fi action horror, the territory familiar, but the atmosphere deeply immersive, and the thrills, when they start, coming at us relentlessly. Read any blurb and you’ll immediately know what you’re going to get. If that kind of thing floats your boat, go for it. <br /><br /><i>And now, my usual folly. I’m going to try and cast this beast in the inevitable event someone options it for movie development and then picks me to be casting director. <br /><br />Evan Marshall – Ben Mendelsohn <br />Jeremy Logan – (assuming he does much more in a screen adaptation) Kiefer Sutherland <br />Kari Ekberg – Carmen Ejogo <br />Emilio Conti – Franco Nero <br />Sergeant Paul Gonzalez – Benicio del Toro <br />Carradine – Mahershala Ali <br />Gerard Sully – Brian Gleeson <br />Penny Barbour – Olivia Colman <br />Wolff – Patrick Dempsey <br />Ashleigh Davis – Amy Seimetz</i></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-331136418202651890.post-73583427890733924222022-12-06T06:06:00.000-08:002022-12-06T06:06:43.223-08:00Festive eeriness from Christmases long ago<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8__gUYTokwpEryu31ffEjiqiiexr84XveaOhXEzOAnT5oLB7g_l2LaZMpU2u88GHomp_K8cgsKbwqw7s1XGLxn92geFsts1ycEpb0fdBNnAClNVXHlkZvB7NeLxTAconJkcbBnpznAtxd3mUgAShSoPbzYZ0Ve3YJkJ5N8oTOKdWsNAm1j8TfHreW/s960/scary%20christmas%202.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="960" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8__gUYTokwpEryu31ffEjiqiiexr84XveaOhXEzOAnT5oLB7g_l2LaZMpU2u88GHomp_K8cgsKbwqw7s1XGLxn92geFsts1ycEpb0fdBNnAClNVXHlkZvB7NeLxTAconJkcbBnpznAtxd3mUgAShSoPbzYZ0Ve3YJkJ5N8oTOKdWsNAm1j8TfHreW/w400-h264/scary%20christmas%202.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><b>Well, it’s almost that time of year again. It’s cold and gloomy out there, but fairy lights are twinkling in windows, street vendors selling fir trees on foggy corners, and shop windows glowing with toys, tinsel and that distinctive warm and rosy light.</b></p><b>Yes, Christmas is just around the corner, so that’s what I’ll be talking about today. To begin with, I’m going to read you all a brief extract from <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-Victorian-ghost-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205712/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115886&sr=1-1">SPARROWHAWK</a>, my Christmas novella of 2010, which made it onto the final ballot of the British Fantasy Awards. But in addition to that, I’ll be reviewing <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Season-instant-bestseller-companion/dp/0751581992/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115607&sr=1-2&asin=B08NB8QNWQ&revisionId=a1caf165&format=1&depth=1">THE HAUNTING SEASON</a>, an anthology of atmospheric Christmas and winter ghost stories, published for the festive season last year by Sphere (unusually, with no individual editor credited). Apologies to all concerned that this review is in effect a year late, but I only acquired this book late last December, so there was no real opportunity to review it then in time for Christmas Eve. It’s still available anyway, so hopefully this review will not be wasted. </b><br /><br />If you’re only really here to let me entice you to <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Season-instant-bestseller-companion/dp/0751581992/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115607&sr=1-2&asin=B08NB8QNWQ&revisionId=a1caf165&format=1&depth=1">THE HAUNTING SEASON</a></b>, then by all means take a sleigh ride to the bottom end of today’s column where you’ll find the review, as usual, in the <b>Thrillers, Chillers</b> section. <br /><br />On the other hand, you could bear with me a little longer, and I’ll take you to another haunting Christmas … <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Long, long ago</b></div><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-Victorian-ghost-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205712/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115886&sr=1-1"><b>SPARROWHAWK</b></a> remains my personal favourite piece of work. I wrote it intentionally as my ode to Victorian era ghostly fiction but also to the Christmas season, my favourite time of year, and a celebration that I’ve never really been able to separate from thoughts of the supernatural. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPaUetKjTN9nKFqZgcdbsPN9TJLCiXXFkMnCqMx2AcUyv0Zi5F9uuI3sQ7yXYdyCyB7eSgnJm8MlJd5_FfnGmDUyO-wuBjYmAtZvfsIAiWzGB0lc-mn7q0gmIrPxltrk1J-8zAwBu5_Uq7zi67DqFivxPRC_TKT5UT0mnNDjTtbuKAGUr-GJLyOJ2/s800/EVGENY-LUSHPIN-ARTIST-Christmas-Eve-24-x-40.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="800" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPaUetKjTN9nKFqZgcdbsPN9TJLCiXXFkMnCqMx2AcUyv0Zi5F9uuI3sQ7yXYdyCyB7eSgnJm8MlJd5_FfnGmDUyO-wuBjYmAtZvfsIAiWzGB0lc-mn7q0gmIrPxltrk1J-8zAwBu5_Uq7zi67DqFivxPRC_TKT5UT0mnNDjTtbuKAGUr-GJLyOJ2/w320-h193/EVGENY-LUSHPIN-ARTIST-Christmas-Eve-24-x-40.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As a child, the magical, mystical nature of Christmas was almost tangible to me. It wasn’t just the midwinter atmosphere: the long darkness, the icicles, the snow flurries. Or that huge range of Christmas folklore and mythology: the elves in the evergreens, Loki and the mistletoe spear, St Boniface and the sacred oak, Belsnickel, Krampus etc etc. It was the fact that this was a holy feast, it was Heaven-sent, which basically gave you full permission to believe in the fantastical. <div><br /></div><div>The Son of God had genuinely been born in a stable in Bethlehem on Christmas Day over 2,000 years ago, an angel taking the glad tidings to local shepherds, wisemen from the East following a star so they could pay tribute. A miracle for sure, which surely meant that other miracles happened around this time of year too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Father Christmas, as we called him in Britain (or Santa Claus in the States, Sinterklass in the Netherlands, Père Noël in France) was real (of course he was real!) because he was a saint, who if he didn’t actually personify in the shape of a chubby old man in a red cloak and a fur-trimmed hood, at least imbued the season with jollity and good will – something that happened at no other time of year I was aware of. <br /><br />Many supposedly true ghost stories I’d heard involved manifestations specifically at Christmas. <br /><br />It’s a moment when ‘the hopes and fears of all the years’ are close to us, and so the spirits – in that time-honoured fashion of <i><b>A Christmas Carol</b></i> – often visit as heralds, bearing warnings about the future or disapproving messages concerning the way we’ve lived our lives to that date. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihz9E2fWcO80LWAvRiD9ot0ikFJ9yv1E4DueIckZbpdNtFhw0aGaeuV5-LgaDzXb3UiGkIKeVx_CwvyDH5IWYMVH108TwUuQdgyOJfyVpqPUDdzAIxg13htZnyJcmM0B8YvbmWE6yQThROmpyY0WefL6ADpb7wCEQRa-gan-qYyJCS7eSjRcoG8KlU/s204/christmas%20knight%202%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="204" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihz9E2fWcO80LWAvRiD9ot0ikFJ9yv1E4DueIckZbpdNtFhw0aGaeuV5-LgaDzXb3UiGkIKeVx_CwvyDH5IWYMVH108TwUuQdgyOJfyVpqPUDdzAIxg13htZnyJcmM0B8YvbmWE6yQThROmpyY0WefL6ADpb7wCEQRa-gan-qYyJCS7eSjRcoG8KlU/s1600/christmas%20knight%202%20(2).jpg" width="204" /></a></div>(One of the eeriest I ever heard featured Geoffrey de Mandeville, a brave knight of the 12th century, but in later life a robber baron, who was doomed after death to ride around the perimeter of his long-demolished castle every Christmas Eve in a cloak and armour soaked with the blood of his victims). <br /><br />In light of all that, it seemed perfectly natural to me to both read and write ghost stories at Christmas. The two clearly went hand in hand, and of course it wasn’t just me. Umpteen classical authors had already done the same thing. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2z0-Qdv5US05kuoGN2xzEoFddDD0BIie_y3wzv5QI42pfX7MLekLT0L8SISmsceQW1lBB5vyEwVgyuLeVUOFw6bja3PvSrVKIh2l86xkIrENuZJ6vHtDFUw7hbJpnPLKK2T_wIXRlPsxhfxw1n8v71zeanQ1dF-SOPgocVKUZOeoR_iK7HLh3xXA/s613/sparrowhawk%20-%20Copy%20(3).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="428" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP2z0-Qdv5US05kuoGN2xzEoFddDD0BIie_y3wzv5QI42pfX7MLekLT0L8SISmsceQW1lBB5vyEwVgyuLeVUOFw6bja3PvSrVKIh2l86xkIrENuZJ6vHtDFUw7hbJpnPLKK2T_wIXRlPsxhfxw1n8v71zeanQ1dF-SOPgocVKUZOeoR_iK7HLh3xXA/w279-h400/sparrowhawk%20-%20Copy%20(3).jpg" width="279" /></a></div>As such, those who follow this column regularly will know that, each year in December, I try to publish a free-to-read Christmas ghost story on here. The truth is that it’s often a toss-up whether I’m able to do this because time doesn’t always allow (though I’ll be trying again in the days ahead). But <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-Victorian-ghost-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205712/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115886&sr=1-1"><b>SPARROWHAWK</b></a> was a particularly good effort on my part, if I say so myself, even though it did eventually run to just under 30,000 words. <br /><br />It was first published by Pendragon Press at Christmas 2010 and later short-listed for the British Fantasy Award, only losing out to my good mate and all-round excellent writer, Simon Clark, so I can hardly complain. Despite that, I remain completely happy with this novella, genuinely feeling that it hit every target I was aiming at. But of course, I can’t really be the judge of my own work; that’s up to my readers. However, a couple of years ago, with the Pendragon version now long out of print, it was republished in paperback by my own small publishing house, Brentwood Press, and released on Kindle and Audible as well, the latter version admirably read by that wonderful actor, Greg Patmore. <br /><br />I won’t say anymore because this is turning into a bit of a hard sell, which is not what I wanted to do. Instead, I’ll let the book do the talking, or a little bit of it. Here, as promised, is a short extract from <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sparrowhawk-Victorian-ghost-Paul-Finch/dp/1916205712/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115886&sr=1-1"><b>SPARROWHAWK</b></a>, which I recorded a couple of days ago. Perhaps give it a listen if you’ve got a few minutes spare, and see what you think, hey? <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/tYgGjf1QEUc" width="480"></iframe></div><br /><b>THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS … <br /><br />An ongoing series of reviews of dark fiction (crime, thriller, horror and sci-fi) – both old and new – that I have recently read and enjoyed. I’ll endeavour to keep the SPOILERS to a minimum; there will certainly be no given-away denouements or exposed twists-in-the-tail, but by the definition of the word ‘review’, I’m going to be talking about these books in more than just thumbnail detail, extolling the aspects that I particularly enjoyed … so I guess if you’d rather not know anything at all about these pieces of work in advance of reading them yourself, then these particular posts will not be your thing. </b><br /><br /><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Season-instant-bestseller-companion/dp/0751581992/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115607&sr=1-2&asin=B08NB8QNWQ&revisionId=a1caf165&format=1&depth=1"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Season-instant-bestseller-companion/dp/0751581992/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669115607&sr=1-2&asin=B08NB8QNWQ&revisionId=a1caf165&format=1&depth=1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7YZ1EIr1eL2UTcJT7S7_1COz8c5rGRwgKm2z6yMaLyoxUwvD8A2c_sHVlJ6oKJlaasuxbKwVyMnlO2E5TonEzgqNTe4kUXsf0bmGslNLgOFWhdt2KfzFOjhjGULsxZKiKlKHE5X8aX1q-k0oU0sMDroTXJtGkwEeuYrdOQsoIoRAELkr3FOZQFNRQ/s493/haunting%20season%20(4).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="307" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7YZ1EIr1eL2UTcJT7S7_1COz8c5rGRwgKm2z6yMaLyoxUwvD8A2c_sHVlJ6oKJlaasuxbKwVyMnlO2E5TonEzgqNTe4kUXsf0bmGslNLgOFWhdt2KfzFOjhjGULsxZKiKlKHE5X8aX1q-k0oU0sMDroTXJtGkwEeuYrdOQsoIoRAELkr3FOZQFNRQ/w249-h400/haunting%20season%20(4).jpg" width="249" /></a></div></b><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Haunting-Season-instant-bestseller-companion/dp/0751581992/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1669128632&sr=1-1">THE HAUNTING SEASON</a></b></div><div><b><i>by Various (2021)</i></b></div><div><br />A beautifully presented anthology of original Christmas and winter-themed ghost stories, mostly set in the past and with a decidedly Gothic aura. Before we get into it, I’ll let Sphere, the publishers, give you their own official blurb: <br /><br /><i>Winter, with its unsettling blend of the cosy and the sinister, has long been a popular time for gathering by the bright flame of a candle, or the warm crackling of a fire, and swapping stories of ghosts and strange happenings. <br /><br />Now eight bestselling, award-winning authors – master storytellers of the sinister and the macabre – bring this time-honoured tradition to vivid life in a spellbinding collection of new and original haunted tales. <br /><br />Taking you from a bustling Covent Garden Christmas market to the frosty moors of Yorkshire, from a country estate with a dreadful secret to a London mansion where a beautiful girl lies frozen in death, these are stories to make your hair stand on end, send shivers down your spine and to serve as your indispensable companion to the long nights of winter. <br /><br /></i><div><i>So curl up, light a candle, and fall under the spell of The Haunting Season … </i><br /><br />The telling of ghost stories at Christmas and in the depths of winter is one of our most time-honoured literary traditions. I’ve waxed lyrical many times on this blog about the joy to be found in spinning spooky yarns while seated around the fire with snow-laden winds whipping at the window. <br /><br />The likes of Charles Dickens and MR James, of course, dined out on the tradition, while even Shakespeare mentioned it. Anyone recall the throwaway line in <i><b>A Winter’s Tale</b></i>? ‘A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one. Of sprites and goblins.’ <br /><br />Many writers have followed in these venerable footsteps since, with the net result that Christmas, or midwinter – because not all the stories in <i><b>The Haunting Season</b></i> are specific Yuletide celebrations – now sits alongside Halloween as the time for eerie tales. And I am so delighted, I can’t stress that enough – I am SO delighted – that now at last, after what seems like an eternity, we see a major publisher getting in on the act. <br /><br />Though no single editor is credited for <i><b>The Haunting Season</b></i>, it excites me no end to see that this beautifully bound and illustrated anthology comes to us from Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown. Does this mean that we’ll see further commissioning of original short fiction by the major houses? Time (and sales) will tell. But I’m cautiously optimistic, because this outing in particular has been quite successful. <br /><br />On the subject of <i>caution</i>, that is one of the most notable features of this particular collection, I feel. It’s a cautious, or careful, exploration of the supernatural field, rather than a full-on dive into it. There are lots of effective tales here, though very few (if any) absolute spine-chillers, and nothing that is likely to shock. Of the eight stories contained here, there is only one I’d classify as a ‘horror story’, and that one is also subtle and meaningful. But there is also much here about subtext and undertone, the majority of which comes from a feminist persuasion. Which is absolutely fine by me, and works very well in this context, and which is also understandable because of the eight contributing authors, seven are women. <br /><br />I will admit to being a tad perplexed that the bulk of these tales are set in that timeless Victorian/Edwardian timeloop, where so much ghostly fiction of the classical variety dwells. That makes for a slightly less diverse collection than I was expecting, but even now in the 21st century, that era remains our go-to period for Gothic fiction, so one can’t complain too much. <br /><br />There is also, maybe, an over-preponderance of upper-crustiness in <i><b>The Haunting Season</b></i>. There are several country house tales here, while more than a few characters derive from the ruling class. But I reiterate, this was often the way of it with the Victorian ghost story tradition, so I see no real harm. <br /><br />The stories themselves, without exception, are exquisitely written, are populated by memorable personalities (Natasha Pulley, for example, utilising characters from her very successful <i><b>Watchmaker of Filigree Street</b></i> series), and hit us with a range of supernatural antagonists. <br /><br />Inevitably, of course, in that great custom of the Victorian ghost story, there are many mysteries to be solved. <br /><br />For example, in Laura Purcell’s <i><b>The Chillingham Chair</b></i>, a spirited young woman is unable to attend her sister’s wedding thanks to a broken foot incurred during a riding accident. However, the wheelchair she is confined in now seems to develop a life of its own and attempts to impart a warning message, possibly about the potential fate of her sister … <br /><br />The one contemporary tale I referenced, <i><b>The Hanging of the Greens</b></i> by Andrew Michael Hurley, presents us with a story inside a story, and a protagonist who must venture into the back of beyond to get the answers he seeks, though I found this contribution to the book particularly disturbing – it’s certainly a new twist on the festive chiller – so more about this one later. <br /><br />Other stories meanwhile, while not exactly mysteries, hint strongly at the troubled pasts of those individuals participating, and leave much to the reader’s own (hopefully dark) imagination. <br /><br />Bridget Collins’s <i><b>A Study in Black and White</b></i> is a great example. In this eerie outing, an unpleasant man on the run from his misdemeanors rents a 17th century house in the countryside. Intent on staying there alone, he soon becomes aware of an unseen presence, a presence that enjoys a game of chess, though it appears even more to enjoy winning. <br /><br />Likewise in <b><i>Thwaite’s Tenant</i></b> by Imogen Hermes Gowar, the central character is displaced from one threatening location to another, which turns out to be even worse, though the exact details of what happened there are initially elusive. I enjoyed this one thoroughly, so a little more on this later. <br /><br />Perhaps the most mysterious of all the stories in <b><i>The Haunting Season</i></b> is <i><b>Monster</b></i> by Elizabeth Macneal. It features a selfish protagonist on the trail of an elusive prize and entering a realm so soaked in mythology that it’s almost unreal. More on this one later, too. <br /><br />For straightforward terror, meanwhile, though with a deep subtext, we go to Kiran Millwood Hargrave’s <i><b>Confinement</b></i>, wherein a woman suffering in the grip of a terrifying supernatural foe, may actually be at the mercy of her own tortured psyche. A poignant tale, this one, as well as a scare-fest, it has meaning far beyond the pages and remit of this anthology, so more about this one later as well. <br /><br />Equally strange and delightful reads are provided by Natasha Pulley with <i><b>The Eel Singers</b></i>, in which a close group of friends take a trip out of London to the wintry fen country, only to encounter some locals who are not quite the welcoming crowd they anticipated, and Jess Kidd with <i><b>Lily Wilt</b></i>, in which a professional photographer of the dead falls in love with his latest project, a beautiful and delicate young woman recently deceased, and uses black magic to restore her to life, only to find that she is a long way from the woman she once was (or is she?). <br /><br />All round, <i><b>The Haunting Season</b></i> does exactly what it says on the cover, delivering a bunch of original short fiction, all expertly and sumptuously written (there isn’t one dud in that regard), all flavoursome of the deep winter, and all offering hints of that gentle horror, or should we perhaps say ‘pleasing terror’ that so earmarks the traditional ghost story for Christmas. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’ll find it here. <br /><br />And now … <br /><br /><i><b>THE HAUNTING SEASON – the movie</b><br /><br />Okay, no film maker has optioned this book yet (as far as I’m aware), and I honestly don’t know how likely it is, but as this part of the review is always the fun part, here are my thoughts just in case someone with cash decides that it simply has to be on the big screen in time for next December. <br /><br />Note: these four stories are NOT the ones I necessarily consider to be the best in the book, but these are the four I perceive as most filmic and most right for adaptation in a compendium of ghost stories. Of course, no such film or TV series can happen without a central thread, and this is where you guys, the audience, come in. Just accept that four strangers have been thrown together in unusual but festive circumstances, which require them to relate spooky tales. It could be that they’re marooned at a snowbound coaching inn and keeping each other company around the Christmas Eve fire, or perhaps are regaling Mr Dickens with recollections of their own experiences after he amuses his guests at a Yuletide dinner party with the first chapter of <b>A Christmas Carol</b>. <br /><br />Without further messing about, here are the stories and the casts I would choose: <br /><br /><b>Thwaite’s Tenant (by Imogen Hermes Gowar):</b> A woman, fleeing with her child from a brutal husband, seeks refuge in a desolate house used by her father for his assignations with various mistresses. But she finds it a dark abode where the many memories of male cruelty refuse to lie at rest … <br /><br />Lucinda – Charlene McKenna <br />Father – Jim Carter <br />Mrs Farrar – Rita Tushingham <br /><br /><b>Monster (Elizabeth Macneal):</b> A younger son, insanely jealous of his horticulturist brother and unmanned by his beautiful wife, seeks greatness by searching for dinosaur bones on the Jurassic Coast. When he uncovers a fully intact plesiosaur skeleton, it’s a wondrous moment, but it comes at a ghastly psycho-supernatural price … <br /><br />Victor – Darren Boyd <br />Mabel – Kelly MacDonald <br /><br /><b>The Hanging of the Greens (by Andrew Michael Hurley):</b> A former vicar recalls the event that cost him his faith: a trip to a lonely farm in the snowswept Bowland hills, to offer an apology from a troubled parishioner to the couple he believes he offended. But a terrifying truth awaits him there … <br /><br />Edward Clarke – Dominic West <br />Joe Gull – Jack O’Connell <br /><br /><b>Confinement</b> (by Kiran Millwood Hargrave): A woman returns to England from India pregnant. But the difficult labour and birth is made worse by the story she has heard that her nearest neighbour was an evil woman hanged for baby-farming. Is the nightmarish figure that now haunts the new mother a figment of post-natal depression, or something even more terrible? … <br />… <br /><br />Catherine – Sophie Turner</i></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0