Walking in the dark

Today, I’m delighted to present you with details of this year’s volume in my folk horror-themed anthology series, TERROR TALES. In 2023, as you can see, it will be TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN, which, as of today, is available for pre-order right HERE.

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.

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.

When it comes to this week’s book review, alas, I’m unable to maintain synchronicity, as I haven’t got a Mediterranean-themed novel to hit you with. But, seeing that the TERROR TALES 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’s recently republished 1980 horror novel, THE REAPING.

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.

And now, today’s main event …

I reiterate that TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN can now be preordered HERE. 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?

If that doesn’t persuade you, here, for your delectation, is the back-cover blurb, followed by the full Table of Contents:

TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN

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 …

The poison apples of Aegle
The human sacrifice on Crete
The beautiful predator of Palermo
The damned souls on Poveglia
The evil artefact at Koyuluk
The blood-drinking baron of Emporda
The demon attack in Vatican City

Includes terrifying tales by Jasper Bark, Simon Clark, Steve Duffy, Paul Finch, Sean Hogan, Carly Holmes, David J Howe, Maxim Jakubowski, Gary McMahon, Mark Morris, Reggie Oliver, Peter Shilston, Don Tumasonis and Aliya Whiteley.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Catacomb by Peter Shilston
Duo of Darkness
On Our Way to the Shore by Maxim Jakubowski
Belmez
Meet in the Middle by Aliya Whiteley
Island of the Damned
The Lovers by Steve Duffy
When Madmen Ruled the Earth
The Wretched Thicket of Thorn by Don Tumasonis
The Blue Room
This Haunted Heaven by Reggie Oliver
Born of Blood and Mystery
The Quiet Woman by Sean Hogan
Holy Terrors
The Teeth of the Hesperides by Jasper Bark
Cyclops
Reign of Hell by Paul Finch
In Human Guise
Mistral by Mark Morris
Ghosts of Malta
Mammone by Carly Holmes
Extinctor Draconis
Vromolimni by David J Howe
The Other Devils
Gerassimos Flamotas: A Day in the Life by Simon Clark
Lord of the Undead
Should Not Be by Gary McMahon

And while we’re at it, why don’t I try and tempt you with some juicy snippets:

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 …

Peter Shilston – The Catacomb

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 …

Aliya Whiteley – Meet in the Middle

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 …

David J Howe – Vromolimni

Why the Mediterranean?

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?

Well, I’ve never made any pretence that TERROR TALES was first inspired by the Mary Danby-helmed Tales of Terror 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. Tales of Terror from Outer Space was a very popular title of theirs, along with European Tales of Terror and Oriental Tales of Terror.

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 TERROR TALES series is to have real longevity, it can’t just pour out spooky tales gleaned from a single country.

We’ve already branched out a little. TERROR TALES OF THE SEASIDE (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 TERROR TALES OF THE OCEAN (2015), which won considerable praise, ranged widely across the Seven Seas.

But the truth is that, though I’m very keen to complete our own TERROR TALES 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.

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 TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN will be the first.

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. TERROR TALES OF THE CARIBBEAN, 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 Central and South America, to those various regions of the United States, to the Far East, even to Ireland. 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.

This applies less to regions like the MEDITERRANEAN, which so many of us are already very familiar with. So, while TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN 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.

But never fear; there are lots – and I mean lots– of other subjects we can tackle: TEROR TALES OF MONSTERS… of the SUPERNATURAL … the OCCULT… the mind truly boggles.

Just keep watching this space. Who knows what we’ll hit you with next.

But for the meantime, one final reminder that TERROR TALES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN, 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 HERE.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS …

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.

THE REAPING

by Bernard Taylor (1980)

Outline
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

However, things take a turn for the really 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.

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.

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.

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 …

Review
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.

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).

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.

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.

For all this, The Reaping 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.

Does it all work?

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.

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.

If there’s any weakness with The Reaping, 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.

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.

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.

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.

Check out The Reaping 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.

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:

Tom Rigby – Matthew Macfadyen
Catherine – Thomasin McKenzie
Ilona – Gemma Arterton
Mrs Weldon – Sophie Okonedo
Hathaway – Paul Anderson
Karl – Reece Shearsmith

Dr Macintosh – Ken Stott

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 SEASON OF MIST, 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”.

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.

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, NIGHTMARE ABBEY: WINTER SOLSTICE 2022.

If you’re only here for the Nightmare Abbey review, you’ll find it, as always, at the lower end of today’s post, in the Thrillers, Chillers section. First of all, though, it’s …

That time of year again

I won’t say too much about SEASON OF MIST, 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 paperback, ebook or on Audible (in two formats, freestanding or as part of a ‘waning of the year’ Audible collection, THE DEAD TIME), and I’ll then close with select quotes from some of the excellent reviews that it’s received over the years.

SEASON OF MIST

Our last autumn of innocence. Star-spangled nights. Mist-wreathed woodland. A twisted shape watching coldly from the shadows ...

Industrial Lancashire 1974

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.

But this particular autumn will be memorable for entirely different reasons.

Because this year someone is killing the children of Ashburn.

Or should that be SOMETHING?

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.

“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 …”

“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 …”

“… the suspense and tension build to a memorable climax that works brilliantly, even though it wasn’t at all what I was expecting.”

“A great narrative and characters add to this absolutely nail-biting read …”

“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 …”

And now ...

MOMENTS THAT MATTERED

What on earth is it that could make you want to be a writer?

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.

In a previous post, I highlighted the role that the great neon sign for GRANADA TELEVISION, 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.

SPUR #2 – THE PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES

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.

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.

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.

So … Wow!, you must be thinking, this it the decade this guy is trying to sell to us?

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 PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES.

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.

Hammer were still packing cinemas with blood-drenched but titillating affairs like Hands of the Ripper,Countess Dracula and Twins of Evil, but you also had infinitely higher budget and way more frightening movies like The Exorcist and The Omen, alongside family blockbusters like Jaws, while our TV schedules also did their bit. Programmes like Supernatural, Beasts and Ghost Story for Christmas sent chills through the living rooms of Britain like nothing that had gone before them.

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 Pan Horrors 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.

And even by the standards of the conte cruel horror story, when I say ‘sleaze’, I’m talking about its most extreme incarnation: sexual violence, perversion, sadism and so forth.

Take John Arthur’s Don’t Go Down in the Woods 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 The Clinic 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.

No wonder there was a ‘lure of the forbidden’ thing going on for youngsters like me where the Pan Book of Horror Stories 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 Monster Mag 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 Pan Horrors 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.

Looking back on it now, it’s actually amazing that some of the stories in the Pan Horror 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.

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.

But it wasn’t just the working class who were affected, it was the country at large.

Pride in our Word War Two effort was fading, especially as so many things in the present seemed to be going wrong.

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).

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.

And this, I think, is where the Pan Book of Horror Stories 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.

For example, in Vol 9 (1968), in Raymond Smith’s Smile Please, 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 Pieces of Mary 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 It Came to Dinner, 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.

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 HECK 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.

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.

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.

However, I don’t want the tone of this post to get too grim. The Pan Book of Horror Stories 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.

For example, Unburied Bane 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 Meshes of Doom, 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.

Anyone who knows their stuff will be well aware of these two tales. They weren’t original to the Pan Book of Horror Stories, both having originated in the Creeps 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.

There were original classics in there too. Eddy C Bertin’s The Whispering Horror, which first appeared in Vol 9, presented us with a conventional but wonderfully horrific vampire story, while David Case’s The Hunter, in Vol 12, unleashed big game hunters onto Dartmoor in pursuit of a murderous assailant who might well be a werewolf.

No, the Pan Book of Horror Stories was not just about the conte cruel. 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.

Therefore, all hail the Pan Book of Horror. 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.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS …

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.

NIGHTMARE ABBEY: WINTER SOLSTICE 2022

edited by Tom English

In a recent interview, Nightmare Abbey editor, Tom English (of Black Infinity 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.

As you may have realised, Nightmare Abbey, 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.

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.

For example, and most interestingly of all for me, was film historian Gary Gerani’s scholarly essay on Thriller, 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.

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 conte cruels, 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.

The contributions that most caught my eye were as follows:

First up, It 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.

Then, in David Surface’s These Things That Walk Behind Me, 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.

Meanwhile, in two exceptionally well-written but tonally very different stories, James Dorr’s The Calm 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 Voices of the Dark 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.

Another blast from the glorious past comes in the shape of Edward Lucas White’s House of the Nightmare, 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.

In That Which Overcomes, 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.

In three other strong and particularly mysterious entries, we have Dead Hands Clapping 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, The Wynd 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 Tableau for Two, 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.

Perhaps the strongest contribution in the whole volume comes, unsurprisingly to me, from Steve Duffy, whose La Nina Atardecer 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.

So, there we go. That was my first dip into Nightmare Abbey, 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.

Grab a copy whenever you can. You won’t regret it.

(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).

Today, I’m delighted to be able to show off the stonking cover for my next historical novel, BATTLE LORD, which is out in January, and which as those interested may have guessed, is a direct sequel to USURPER, published last April. You’ll find that a few paragraphs down, where I’ll also give a brief intro to BATTLE LORD.

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, SEASON OF MIST (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, DEVOLUTION.

So, lots to get through today. But before anything else, as promised, here’s the jacket art for my next historical novel, BATTLE LORD, the sequel to USURPER, which will be published on January 8. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s pretty damn eye-catching.

I’ll be talking a lot more about BATTLE LORD 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 USURPER 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.

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.

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.

As I say, BATTLE LORD, 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 USURPER yet, which is the first in the series, I strongly recommend that you make a beeline for that one straight away.

And now, on a somewhat different note, let’s dive into some …

Autumn chills

People who read a lot of my work may be aware that one of the pieces I’m most proud of is the novella, SEASON OF MIST, which was first published in the collection, WALKERS IN THE DARK, in 2010, (now long out of print) but was re-released as a stand-alone publication by Brentwood Press in 2019.

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).

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.

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.

Primarily, this is because I’m not talking about the winter, I’m talking about the autumn.

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.

Autumn has a flavour all of its own.

So, bearing SEASON OF MIST 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.

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).

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 SEASON OF MIST (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 ...

Happy days

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.

Just think about it.

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.

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.

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.

(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?)

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.

For instance, during my childhood, the main festival at this time of year was not Halloween, but November 5, Bonfire Night.

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.

But for Bonfire Night, things were different.

That was the occasion when all the stops got pulled out, when you’d intone rhyming couplets about it at school – Remember, remember, 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 …

There were so many signs in autumn that all this excitement was approaching, even as early as September.

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.

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.

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.

Did this feed into the eerie side of the season?

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.

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.

The first time I ever heard the synopsis of The Exorcist 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: Scream Inn, Slaughter in the Dark, Werewolf By Night, which were all designed to take advantage of the opaque blackness and drifting mist on evenings in the lonesome October.

That brings me to the other key factor: the way the environment subtly changed during the autumn.

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.

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.

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.

Here’s a brief but hopefully appropriate snippet from SEASON OF MIST:

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.
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 …

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.

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:

The Fall of the House of Usher– Edgar Allan Poe
The Beckoning Fair One– Oliver Onions
Something Wicked This Way Comes– Ray Bradbury
The Guy– Ramsey Campbell
Eyes– Charles L Grant
The Black Pumpkin– Dean Koontz
Dark Harvest– Norman Partridge

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.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS …

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.

DEVOLUTION

by Max Brooks (2020)

Outline
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.

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.

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 …

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.

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.

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.

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.

She’d particularly like to fix her relationship with husband, Dan, though this feels as if it will be quite a challenge.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 …

Review
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.

This is the premise of Devolution, 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.

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.

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.

And it’s this that makes Devolution more than just another scary creature-feature.

As with Brooks’ thumping first success, World War Z, 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.

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.

‘We know they’re all going to die anyway, so why bother building them up?’

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 Devolution 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?

However, this isn’t a situation that will remain unchanged.

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 Devolution, the hominids don’t have it all their own way.

By this, I don’t mean to say that Max Brooks goes all The Hills Have Eyes 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.

The big question is does it all work?

Well, for me the answer is a resounding yes, for various reasons.

Not all reviewers have appreciated the epistolary style, which, as I’ve already mentioned, was also used in World War Z, 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.

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 YouTube, it can never be anything more than yet another fragment of a clue, the authenticity of which can only be guessed at.

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 Weird Tales. 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 Devolution, 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.

All round, Devolution 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.

For once, I’m not going to bother with my homegrown casting choices for a movie version of Devolution, as Legendary Entertainment optioned it on publication, and, according to the Hollywood Reporter 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.

(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).

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.

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, DARK TIDES.

If you’re only here for the Ewan review, you’ll find it as always in the Thrillers, Chillers 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 …

Podcast city

As summer came to an end, I was the grateful recipient of several invitations to participate in podcasts. The first of these was ROCK, PAPER, SWORDS, a regular series from top historical authors Matthew Harffy and Steven A McKay, which focusses on historical action fiction and rock music.

That concept alone ticks a number of important boxes for me, especially as my most recent novel, USURPER, falls into the historical action-adventure category (as will the sequel, BATTLE LORD, out next January) so I was delighted to guest for them. You can find that one HERE.

In addition to that, composer and podcaster Ian Cleverdon invited me to join him on HALF HOUR MENTOR, 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, ONE and TWO on the same site next Saturday.

And now, as promised earlier, onto …

Houses of the unholy

(All you rock fans, see what I did there?)

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.

To start with, they are meat and drink to the world of the crime thriller; take JB Priestley’s Benighted, also published as The Old Dark House (1927) or Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None (1939) and Hallowe’en Party (1969), all adapted as major Hollywood movies (the latter relocated from the English Home Counties to Venice by Kenneth Branagh).

Evil old houses have also provided key focal points in science fiction: HP Lovecraft and August Derleth’s The Lurker at the Threshold (1945) and William Hope Hodgson’s The House on the Borderland (1908). Even the world of comedy has had fun with scary old houses. Take, for example, Oscar Wilde’s The Canterville Ghost (1887) and Josephine Leslie’s fantasy rom-com, The Ghost and Mrs Muir (1945), while from Hollywood there were two classic Bob Hope vehicles, The Cat and the Canary (1939) and The Ghost Breakers (1940). (Who could forget Hope’s immortal one-liner: ‘I’m familiar with big empty houses. I used to do vaudeville’).

But, understandably, it’s the world of horror fiction where the haunted house as a concept has most made its mark.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 The Fall of the House of Usher (1839), MR James with Lost Hearts (1895), Henry James with The Turn of the Screw (1898) and Algernon Blackwood with The Empty House (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.

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.

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 The Killing Ground (2008), most recently included in my Christmas collection, IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER, 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.

2) In The Stain (2007), which most recently appeared in another Christmas collection of mine, THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE, 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).

And now, the plug over and done with, today’s main event:

20 HAUNTED HOUSE NOVELS TO SHED DARKNESS INTO YOUR WORLD OF LIGHT

BOOKS I STRONGLY RECOMMEND …

1 The Amityville Horror by Jay Anson (1977)

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.

2 The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (1959)

Made three times now for the screen, The Haunting of Hill House 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

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.

3 The Elementals by Michael McDowell (1981)

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.

4 The Shining by Stephen King (1977)

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.

5 Burnt Offerings by Robert Marasco (1973)

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.

6 The House on Cold Hill by Peter James (2016)

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.

7 Hell House by Richard Matheson (1971)

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.

8 The Sentinel by Jeffrey Konvitz (1974)

Often regarded as a key component of the 1970s Satanic horror cycle, The Sentinel, which was published only one year after The Exorcist, 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.

9 The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters (2010)

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.

10 The Woman in Black by Susan Hill (1983)

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.

BOOKS I’VE YET TO READ …

(As blurbed by their publishers)

1 Wylding Hall by Elizabeth Hand (2015)

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?

2 How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix (2023)

Every childhood home is haunted, and each of us are possessed by our parents.

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 ...

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

3 A House with Good Bones by T Kingfisher (2023)

In this ordinary North Carolina suburb, family secrets are always in bloom.

Samantha Montgomery pulls into the driveway of her family home to find a massive black vulture perched on the mailbox, staring at the house.

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.

The longer Sam stays, the stranger things get. And every day, more vultures circle overhead …

4 The Night House by Jo Nesbo (2023)

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.

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.

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.

When another classmate disappears, Richard grapples with the dark magic that’s possessing Ballantyne to try and find them before its too late ...

5 The House of a Hundred Whispers by Graham Masterton (2021)

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.

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.

Does evil linger in the walls? Or is evil only ever found inside the minds of men?

6 The Spite House by Johnny Compton (2023)

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.

7 Slade House by David Mitchell (2016)

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.

A stranger greets you and invites you inside. At first, you won’t want to leave. Later, you'll find that you can’t.

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 ...

8 Hare House by Sally Hinchcliffe (2022)

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 ...

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.

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.

9 Home Before Dark by Riley Sager (2021)

What was it like? Living in that house.

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.

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.

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.

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 ...

10 The House Next Door by Anne Rivers Siddons (2007)

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.

by Chris Ewan (2015)

Outline
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.

Hop-tu Naa 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.

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 Hop-tu Naa of 1995, when she is only eight years old, and her mother inexplicably disappears.

Dark Tides is basically the story of what happens next, told over several decades.

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 Hop-tu Naa, and always we are embroiled in this same complex and deeply worrying mystery.

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.

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.

One game they play happens each Hop-tu naa, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Hop-tu naa comes along and one of the original group is killed in what looks like a nasty accident.

Though it only looks like that to Claire’s fellow police officers.

To her, it looks like something else.

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 Hop-tu Naa comes along and another friend dies, and so on for year after year.

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 …

Review
The only real brickbat I have with Dark Tides 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 Hop-tu Naa 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.

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.

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.

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 And Then There Were None back in 1939, and as in that original classic, Dark Tides 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.

The characterisation is also interesting.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Did it scare me, though?

Dark Tides was billed as ‘Truly chilling,’ by The Observer, as ‘A chilling read,’ by The Guardian, and as ‘a bone-chilling mystery’ by My Weekly.

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.

Don’t be put off, however. Dark Tides 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.

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.

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.

(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).

Today, I’m delighted to be able to reveal the final cover for BATTLE LORD, which is Volume 2 in THE WULFBURY CHRONICLES, 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.

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 KIN by Kealan Patrick Burke.

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 …

Darker Ages

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, USURPER, which told a blood and thunder tale set during the Norman invasion of England.

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.

USURPER seems to have done pretty well. It got some good reviews and garnered some very pleasing
thumbs-ups from a range of respected authors …

An action-packed, coming-of-age, adventure set against the upheaval and battles of 1066 … Matthew Harffy

Fearsome battles, believable characters, uncommon valour. A relentless page turner … David Gilman

An authentically blood-soaked historical epic to rank with the best … Anthony Riches

With all the brutal power of a battle-axe to the head, Finch brings 1066 to life in new and vivid ways … Steven A McKay

Well, as mentioned, next January, the second volume in the Wulfbury saga, BATTLE LORD, will hit the bookshelves, though it’s available for pre-order right now of course. Here’s a quick thumbnail outline:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’.

If you like the sound of BATTLE LORD, 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.

Thrillers, Chillers no more

It’s my sad duty to report that my Thrillers, Chillers, Shockers and Killers 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.

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.

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.

In truth, I suspect this latter may be the case.

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?

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).

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 Thrillers, Chillers, Shockers and Killers section of this twice-monthly blogpost is basically no more.

And now, speak of the Devil …

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS …

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.

KINby Kealan Patrick Burke (2012)

Outline
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 …

Review
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.

However, Kealan Patrick Burke gives it a new lease of life in his rural thriller, Kin, though not in ways you might expect.

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.

But I say it again, Kin 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).

I’ve often wondered when watching movies like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Wrong Turn or The Hills Have Eyes, 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 Deliverance and Wolf Creek, 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.

But in Kin, 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 Kin, the Merrill clan of Elkwood are about to learn that the hard way.

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 Kin. 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?

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.

I’ve seen some critiques of Kin 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.

Kin 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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As you’ve probably realised, I enjoyed Kin 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.

Ultimately, of course, it’s all in the eye of the beholder. I’d just say this: read Kin. It doesn’t do what it says on the tin, but for that reason I think you’ll thorough enjoy it.

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).

Claire – Kara Hayward
Pete – Tyrel Jackson Williams
Papa in Gray – Dennis Quaid
Luke – Josh Hutcherson
Louise – Gabrielle Union
Finch – Sean Faris
Beau – Omari Hardwick
Sheriff McKindry – Scott Glenn

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.

In addition, I’ll be offering a detailed review of that tireless US scary fiction editor Ellen Datlow’s most recent anthology, CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HORRORS, which you can find in the Thrillers, Chillers section at the lower end of today’s blogpost.

First of all, I quick reminder that my second historical novel for Canelo, BATTLE LORD, the immediate sequel to the first one, USURPER, which will be published on January 8 next year.

As I write this blog, it’s a deep freeze outside. We already have a very snowy December, and that suits the mood of BATTLE LORD 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.

And now that part of today’s post that you’ve all doubtless been waiting for. The approach of Christmas and the onset of …

The Ghosting Season

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.

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 WARNING IN ADVANCE– has any actual connection to any of the works of fiction here referenced.

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.
“Some Christmas Eve.” I sat on the bed and rooted in my bag.
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.
She was standing outside.
Agnes.
Facing me from a couple of inches away.
As if she’d been there all the time, staring at the door.
She fixed me with a steady, waxen smile. And made no effort to move out of my way.
“I, erm … I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I was just wondering about my phone?”
“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.”
“It’s okay …” I was semi-hypnotised by Agnes Parnell’s pale, rigid smile. “Perhaps I can get it later?”
“Of course,” Parnell said. “Or if not later, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow … yes.” And I closed the door again.
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 …
The Merry Makers, 2019

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.
“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!
The Christmas Toys, 2012

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 …
Brightly Shone the Moon That Night, 2017

“I warn you, exposing frauds is my trade. My reason to live.”
Still nothing.
Without further warning, Hetherington stepped around the corner. “It’s my …”
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.
“It’s my …” Hetherington stammered again.
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?
Can that be it? Was this someone dressed up?
Dazedly, he reached out to touch the thing.
“It’s my, my ...”
His fingers made tentative contact with the figure’s bare, wooden cranium. It was hard, hollow.
“My business …”
Abruptly, its jaw clacked downward, the vivid red gash of its mouth extending all the way to its breastbone.
“BUSINESS!” a distant voice shrieked in the back of his memory.
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.
The Unreal, 2015

“Can I help?” came a voice from behind.
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.
“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 …”
“Gentleman of the road, are you?”
“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.”
“So many do at this festive time of year.”
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.
“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.”
“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 …”
Midnight Service, 2012

“You wanted me to die, and I wanted you to be happy. So, this is the price I paid.”
“What are you talking about?”
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.”
“Suicides?” The word struck him like a hammer blow. “But Leticia, you’re no …”
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.
“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?”
“Leticia, you did not take your own life! Please tell me you didn’t!”
“Why not? This place is a measure of the worthlessness of that life.”
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.
Leticia glided through all this decayed memorabilia painlessly, though her naked feet were black with frostbite ...
Sparrowhawk, 2010

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.
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.
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.
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.
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 …
Krampus, 2015

“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.”
He reached for the knocker, but the door creaked open as soon as he touched it.
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.
To Arthur it was extremely welcoming, but Gabby had different ideas.
Oddly, she began to tug on his arm, trying to draw him away. “We should go, Daddy. We should go right now.”
He glanced down at her, puzzled by her worried frown. “What’re you talking about?”
“I bet it’s the furry house,” she said.
“What?”
“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.”
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.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. They have to look real to trap people.”
The Faerie, 2008

I was walking back towards the colliery forecourt through the screens when I suddenly sensed what I thought might be another presence.
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.
Good Lord, were those footsteps I could hear? Was someone coming up behind me?
“I’m right behind you,” a voice said.
Or did it? Was it my fraught imagination?
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.
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 …
Season of Mist, 2010

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?

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 …
The Mummers, 2000

“Something … something was in the road,” she stuttered. “It was like a snowman, only the most evil snowman I’ve ever seen.”
“Come on, Roni,” Graham said, “how can a snowman be evil?”
“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.”
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.”
“I swerved to avoid it,” Roni retorted. “That’s why we got stuck in the snowdrift. Oh God, that thing was so hideous!”
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.
And he beat a hasty retreat.
The Stain, 2007

Another thought now struck him – an outrageous one.
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.
It opened its eyes.
They were fiery red, their pupils tiny black beads.
“Shit,” he breathed.
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.
The thing sprang out completely from under its cowl of winter foliage.
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.
Long, ratty hair hung past the thing’s ember eyes. A new smell filled the air: dampness, mildew.
The Killing Ground, 2008

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.
“Miss Scrivener,” he coaxed her. “Come on … we’ve got to go, right now.”
“Can’t …” she whimpered. “Can’t move …”
“For God’s sake!” His voice tautened as he heard feet clumping back down the covered stairway. “Get your bloody arse moving!”
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.
He tottered to a halt.
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 …
Spirit of the Season, 2020

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS …

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.

CHRISTMAS AND OTHER HORRORS

edited by Ellen Datlow (2023)

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.

For this reason, among many others, any new Ellen Datlow anthology is an event, and this latest, Christmas and Other Horrors, a timely event indeed.

Before we dive into the contents, let’s first check out the publishers’ official blurb:

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.

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.

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.

Because the weather outside is frightful, but the fire inside is hungry ...

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.

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.

Of course, Ellen Datlow being Ellen Datlow, you mustn’t come into Christmas and Other Horrors 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.

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.

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 Christmas and Other Horrors is ‘A Winter Solstice Anthology’, and that is the key.

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.

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.

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’.

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.

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.

To start with, in Christopher Golden’s eerie chiller, The Importance of a Tidy Home, 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 The Ghost of Christmases Past 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.

In two stories you could certainly classify as ‘warnings from beyond,’ the fear factor goes up several notches. In All the Pretty People, 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 Lord of Misrule, 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.

Meanwhile, the two entries that are probably most ‘Tales from the Crypt’ in tone are The Ones He Takes, 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 The Blessing of the Waters, 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.

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.

Ellen Datlow doesn’t skimp here either, adding several of what I’d call psychological horror stories to the line-up.

In Our Recent Unpleasantness 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 Gràve of Small Birds, 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 Return to Bear Creek Lodge, 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.

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 No Light, No Light, 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.

What you’ve essentially got with Christmas and Other Horrors 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.

Probably best to get it soon, though. Time is rolling on and the goose is getting fat.

(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).

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 …

THE ICY REALM

1

Alex was driving out of the multistorey when he received a call from Jimmy Groober.
‘Jimbo?’ he said.
‘Alex … mate!’ The caller sounded strained. ‘Just wait …’
‘Jimmy?’
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.
‘Jimmy?’ he said again. ‘What’s the matter, mate?’
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.
‘Alex … listen to me. I’m telling you, you’ve got to listen!’
‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Northwestern Station. Just got in from London. I’ve been …’
‘When you get home, you’ll find a package waiting.’
‘What?’
‘A Christmas present.’
‘Okay.’ Alex was mystified. ‘That’s nice.’
‘No, it isn’t. It really isn’t. Listen, buddy … whatever you do, don’t open it, okay? Do not open it.’
‘Jimmy …?’
The call ended.
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 fear?
Alex jammed his brakes on.
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.
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.

The main issue was Dark in the Park, 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 Guardian, who was generally a fan of his, and a close friend of director Des Hepworth’s, had been noncommittal.
‘I’ll need to mull it over, darling,’ she’d said on her way out. ‘Let it percolate.’
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.
And yet now, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, something was lacking.
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.
Oh, it was all lovely, it was great, it was the best job in the world, but it was draining.
‘Yeah.’ He wound his scarf round his neck and climbed from the Jag.
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.
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.
You’ll find a package waiting for you. Whatever you do … do not open it.
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.
‘Bloody hell, Erika!’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t even know you were home.’
‘Came in the back way,’ she giggled, sliding naked into the cubicle alongside him.
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.
‘Awww … did I scare you?’ She pecked him on the lips.
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.
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.
Later, when they went downstairs in their dressing gowns, she suggested a takeaway.
‘Good shout.’ He settled onto the sofa, fiddling with the TV remote.
She dug into the top drawer of the bureau. ‘Indian, Chinese, Thai?’
‘Any,’ he said.
‘That reminds me …’ She opened her laptop to access Just Eat. ‘There was a package for you at the back door. It’s over there.’
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.
‘Who brought it?’
‘Dunno. Shall we do Chinese? Have our usual banquet for two?’
‘And it’s definitely for me?’
‘Course it’s for you. There’s a tag on it … strange message though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Go and have a look. Won’t bite you.’
Alex went over. There were actually two tags. The first one read: For Alex. Merry Xmas. The second one: Don’t wait till the big day. Open now.
Some kind of joke, almost certainly. Something heavy shifted inside.
‘Banquet C?’ Erika suggested.
‘Yeah, that’s fine. You had any contact with Jimmy Groober recently?’
‘Only when you last did. When we were down the Star and Garter.’
‘It’s just that, well …’ He mentioned the odd phone-call.
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.’
Alex put the parcel back on the bureau. ‘For which reason, we’ll leave it.’
‘Don’t believe in opening them early anyway,’ she said. ‘Sort of thing that brings bad luck.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘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.’
‘Good Lord, Erika … let’s not tempt fate.’
‘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?’
‘What could go wrong is that we’ll be in the middle of nowhere in a winter storm.’
‘We’ll be fine. This is England. Not Iceland.’

Alex sat up in the pitch darkness, unsure what had woken him.
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.
‘What is it?’ Erika mumbled.
‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
He took the baseball bat from the side of the bed.
‘Alex?’ Erika said, now wide awake.
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?
‘Do you have your phone?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Keep it to hand, okay. Stay here.’
He padded along the landing to the staircase, the top of which came slowly into view as his eyes

attuned. He listened again but heard nothing.
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.

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.
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.
He went in, slapping the light on.
The lounge was empty. He pivoted, scanning every corner.
And sensed movement.
A white-faced figure appeared at his shoulder.
‘God almighty!’ he yelped.
‘It’s me,’ Erika said, tying her dressing gown.
‘I told you to stay upstairs.’
‘No way, mister.’
‘Well … everything’s okay, look.’
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.
This was one of them.
‘That’s all it was?’ Erika said. ‘A loose nail?’
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:

RUMPLESTILTSKIN

‘Jimmy Groober was in that show, wasn’t he?’ Alex said uneasily.
‘Think that was his first, wasn’t it?’ Erika replied.
Alex threw his thoughts back ten years. Rumplestiltskin 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 Mother Goose, and it had gone down a treat), and Jimmy Groober was one of its regular stars.
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.
Erika giggled. ‘If that isn’t a present from Jimmy Groober, nothing is.’
Alex didn’t laugh. ‘Jimmy’s pranks are normally funny.’

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.
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 Dark in the Park 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.
It didn’t help that he was distracted by other things.
‘Funny that Jimmy Groober wasn’t in, this morning, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t see why,’ Erika replied.
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.
‘Probably gone to his sister’s,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t he have a sister down in Norfolk?’
‘Think so, yeah.’
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.
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 Rumplestiltskin, but she wasn’t answering either.
He closed his laptop. ‘Weird idea for a panto, wasn’t it? Rumplestiltskin.’
‘It’s ten years ago,’ Erika said. ‘What’re you moidering about?’
‘I’ve never seen it done anywhere else.’
‘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.’
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 Rumplestiltskin 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.
‘Good job you cast me, eh?’ Erika said, giving him a saucy look.
‘I didn’t cast you. It was the Casting Committee who cast you.’
‘Anything you say.’
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.
‘It wasn’t like you weren’t the best at the audition,’ he said. ‘By a country mile.’
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.
‘There was that other guy too,’ she said. ‘What was his name? Nils something?’
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.’
‘Really set his heart on getting that part, didn’t he?’
‘Wish I had a quid for every actor I’ve seen make that mistake over the years.’
‘Didn’t he walk out on the Players afterwards?’
‘Wish I had a quid for every time that’s happened too.’
‘Anyway, what was weird about it?’ she asked. ‘Rumplestiltskin?’
‘Dunno.’ Alex pondered. ‘It’s a creepy story as fairy tales go. Whole new level of goblin nastiness.’
‘Goblins are nasty, aren’t they? It’s Enid Blyton who gave them their back garden makeover. You wouldn’t want to know the real ones.’
‘Real ones?’
‘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.’
‘I’ve told you …’ Alex gazed ahead. ‘When the right part comes, I’ll push you forward.’
‘Doesn’t have to be the right part. Any part will do, so long as it gets me an Equity card.’
‘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.’
‘Well, you write the parts. It’s all in your hands.’
But she didn’t hammer this point too hard. Erika usually knew when enough was enough.
Ahead of them, the Lake District fells were stark, soaring massifs of rock and snow.

‘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.’
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.
Alex had bought and renovated the place, making it into his personal weekend retreat, over a decade ago, after the phenomenal success of Witchcradle had ‘catapulted him into the top bracket’, to quote the Sunday Times. 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 Dark in the Park, 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?
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.
Inside the farmhouse, most of the olde worlde 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.

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.

‘As a child, I used to dream of festive seasons like this,’ Erika said.

He stood behind her. ‘You should’ve been around in the Seventies and Eighties. We had them regularly.’
‘I don’t just mean the snow. I mean the setting. It’s magical.’
‘Well, a bit of magic can’t hurt now and then.’
‘It’s your brother and his family who are coming tomorrow, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ he confirmed. ‘They’re only in Carlisle, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for them.’
‘In that case, I need to nip into Shapwick to get a couple of last-minute presents.’
‘Okay, but we’ve only got about an hour and a half of daylight left.’
‘That’s all I’ll need. What about your Michael?’
Alex shrugged. ‘Manchester’s a bit further. Mike’s not sure if him and his girlfriend are going to be able to make it.’
‘Still doesn’t like me, does he?’
‘He’s never been rude to you, has he?’
‘Not in recent times. Not like when he was a kid. You mentioned goblins on the way here. That was your Michael all over.’
He put his arms round her. ‘Took his mum’s side, that’s all.
‘Sometimes he was a horror.’
‘Like you said, goblins are.’

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.
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.
Alex drifted into Shapwick Mall, where Slade 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.
He dug the device from his pocket. It was Des Hepworth.
‘Hi, mate,’ Alex answered.
‘Alex … just had a note through from Heidi Prince.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She’s going to send us the final draft of her review before she clocks off for Christmas.’
‘Okay …?’ Alex waited.
‘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.’
‘I see.’ A heads-up was rarely a good sign.
‘Des sounded awkward. ‘I thought the play was pretty good, myself.’
‘You thought?’
‘I mean I think.’ In truth, Des sounded as though he didn’t know what he meant.
‘Can you copy me in when you get it?’ Alex said.
‘Absolutely. Look … it’s only one review. Don’t worry too much.’
Sure, it’s only one, Alex thought. But like you say, Heidi’s a mate. What about the ones who aren’t?
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.
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.’
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.
‘You’re a damn good writer,’ Sarah had said. ‘And you’ve got more to say than most.’
On this occasion it felt even more important than usual to remind himself of that.
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 …
He stood bewildered, then spied two thin booklets, definitely plays, lying on the floor halfway along the aisle. He swooped them up.

Enemies at the Door by Alex McQuade

and

All the Devils Are Here by Alex McQuade.

Both were grubby and creased, as if they hadn’t just dropped from the shelf, but had been kicked around. When he opened Devils, 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.
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.

Hunting Season by Alex McQuade

‘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 …?’
There was no one in the next aisle, but here, Witchcradle 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?
Suddenly, suspecting he was being watched, he spun round.
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.

The Icy Realm

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.
Staring directly at Alex.
Stiffly, he took the book down.
Its strapline read:

A Compendium of the myths and folklore of the Nordic lands

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:

Yule Lads

But it was the photo that was the main attraction.
Alex had to blink several times before he could comprehend what he was seeing there. Because incredibly, unbelievably, it depicted a face he knew.
Nils … Nils Carling?
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.
‘Little bastard,’ Alex said under his breath. This settled it. He was being targeted.
From somewhere close by, he heard another guttural, piglike chuckle.
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. Blind Alleys, 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.
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?’
‘What?’ he replied, distracted. He glanced at the book in his hand.
A Compendium of the myths and folklore of the Nordic lands.
‘You are going to pay?’ she asked curtly.
‘For Christ’s sake, love … you have a go at me, when there’s been some tramp upstairs ripping books apart. Here!’
He chucked a crumpled tenner at her and dashed outside.
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, Slade had now been superseded by Wizzard, 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.
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.
Until he turned abruptly right and entered through a shop door.
Surprised, Alex hurried forward. Again, the shop appeared to be closed. An empty display stand occupied the window. Overhead, a signpost read: Christmas Shop. 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.
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?
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?’
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.

However, no sound issued from that back room.
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.
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.
Then the door to the back room closed. And a lock turned.
Alex spun round. ‘Hey … hey, whoa, wait!’
He dashed across the room, but now heard the door at the front of the shop closing as well, and then another lock turning.
‘Hey … wait! There’s somebody still in here. For God’s sake, wait!’
The lights went out.
Alex froze for several seconds. When he finally scrabbled at the wall, he found the light-switch and flipped it. But the darkness remained.
‘For God’s sake!’ he shouted. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
But only now was the full nightmare of his predicament dawning on him.
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.
‘Hello!’ he shouted frantically. ‘There’s still someone in here! Hello!’
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.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he yelled.
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.
But before he did, something moved in the darkness.
It was only very slight, but he heard it clearly.
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.
Alex tried to speak but could only make an odd clucking sound.
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.
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.
‘Alex, for God’s sake!’ Erika said.
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.
‘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.’
‘You’ve set the alarm off.’
‘I know, I … it was an accident.’
‘We’d better find someone and tell them.’
‘No, no … we’ve just got to go.’ He lurched towards her, took her by the elbow and frogmarched her along the passage.
‘Alex, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ he said gruffly. ‘Let’s get back before it starts snowing again.’

TO BE CONTINUED

(on Dec 22)

(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: THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE and IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER. Or, if you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for SPARROWHAWK, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England).

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).

THE ICY REALM

2

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.
But the rest of it was harder to dismiss.
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?
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 ‘whiteout conditions …’ and ‘severe disruption …’
‘Damn it,’ he muttered.
‘Told you,’ Erika replied primly. ‘A white Christmas doesn’t always mean a happy one.’
‘Deaths expected …’
‘God above,’ he said out loud. ‘You hear that?’
‘In the Icy Realm …’
‘England has the weirdest weather,’ Erika replied. ‘One week ago, it was raining.’
‘Did they really say “deaths expected”?’
She frowned. ‘Didn’t sound like it.’
‘Did to me.’
‘Probably because you’re a special case …’
‘What the hell!’ he exploded.
‘Alex, be careful!’
He swerved to avoid the snowbank they’d been veering towards. ‘I thought it said …’
‘Don’t listen to that. Focus on driving. We want to get home in one piece.’
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.
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.
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.
‘No probs.’ She jumped out, grabbed her shopping from the rear and headed indoors.
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.
It was Mike. ‘Dad … I’ve been trying to get you.’
‘Yeah … you know what the blackspots are like up here.’
‘Dad, this weather …’
‘Yeah, I know.’ They’d been expecting this, of course.
‘You’ve heard they’ve closed the M6 north of Preston?’ Mike said.
‘It might be clear tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know, Dad. It’s a big risk on Christmas Day.’
‘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.

‘I’m sorry …’
‘Don’t worry, mate. You stay at home. I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure we’ll be here.’
He cut the call and picked the package up. There were two tags attached. The first one read: For Erika. Merry Xmas. The second one: Don’t wait till the big day. Open now.
He tore it brutally apart, and a mouldy, fungus-riddled potato dropped into his palm.
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?
But a warning of what?
Erika glanced up with a big smile, which rapidly faltered. ‘What now?’
‘Mike’s not coming.’
‘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.’
You mean while you’re only a dance teacher, Alex thought sourly, and not a star of stage and screen?
‘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.’
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.
‘You too, Geoff?’ he wondered dully.
But it wasn’t Geoff.
‘Alex … it’s Fiona Havergood.’
‘Hello, Fee.’ He was only partly relieved. ‘Thanks for calling me back. To be honest, I’d forgotten I’d left you a message.’
‘You were ringing about Jimmy Groober.’
‘Yeah, I …’
‘Jimmy’s dead.’
Even with the fire on, Alex went cold. ‘W…what?’
‘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.’
‘What would smell him out?’
‘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.’
Alex could scarcely believe it. ‘Fee, Jimmy called me yesterday evening.’
‘Trying to warn you, I imagine.’
‘Warn me?’ He felt so sick with shock that he was struggling to make sense of any of this.
‘Jimmy liked you, Alex … he must have, if warning you was one of the last things he did.’
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.
‘Fiona, what … what do you mean warning me?’
‘Oh, Alex! Don’t tell me you’re not aware something’s going on? I mean, surely you’ve heard from him by now?’
‘Heard from who?’
‘Nils Karlsson.’
‘K-Karls …’ Alex found himself stuttering. ‘I thought his name was Carling.’
‘Well, you didn’t pay much attention to him, did you. You only had eyes for Erika.’
‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘I can tell by your voice that something’s not right.’
‘Fee, what’re you saying?’ he demanded. ‘That this lad Nils Karlsson’s got some kind of issue with us? All these years later?’
‘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.’
‘It isn’t …’
‘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 …’
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.
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 …’
‘Fiona!’ Alex interrupted. ‘Where’s all this going?’
‘I’m saying that after his big disappointment with Rumplestiltskin, 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 …’
‘What has this got to do with Jimmy Groober? Or me?’
‘And me, Alex,’ she said tersely. ‘Don’t forget me. In case you were wondering, I’m talking to you from the Oakhill Unit at the Infirmary.
‘You … what?’ As far as Alex knew, the Oakhill Unit was a psychiatric ward.
‘Had a bit of a fright the night before last. Nothing to worry about.’
But suddenly she sounded tense, her tone brittle.
‘Are you …’ he was stuttering again, ‘are you okay?’
‘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.’
‘Judgement? What the hell are you saying, Fiona? That before he died, Nils Karlsson set something in motion for us? Some kind of revenge?’
A tinkling laugh responded. ‘Of course, that’s what I’m saying. But not before he died.’
‘Fiona, what the actual fu….?’
‘You see, in your two cases, I think it was the sheer immorality of it.’
‘Look, Fiona …’ He wrestled himself under control. ‘I’ve got real problems up here, so you need to start making sense …’
‘You gave Erika that part of Rumplestiltskin because you fancied her, didn’t you.’
‘She was the best at the audition.’
‘Yes, but you still fancied her.’
‘This is so nuts …’
‘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 that good. That’s why you’ve never got her onto the big stage, isn’t it? You can’t really 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 was immoral, casting Erika for such a crass reason.’
‘This is the biggest load of …’
‘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.’
Alex was stumped. ‘Polly Willoughby? Gordon Compton? They were on the Casting Committee.’
‘Course they were. It’s everyone who was involved, you see. Thirteen of us in total. And these … entities, 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.’
‘A gift? You mean like a potato?’
‘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 …’
‘Accept it?’
‘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.’

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.’
‘Fiona,’ he said tightly, ‘you’re the fairy tale expert … tell me.’
‘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 …’
The line went dead.
Alex stared at his phone, the firelight flickering in its empty screen.
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.
‘You’re not dead, Jimbo,’ he said under his breath. ‘You’re just not.’
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 …
Yule Lads.
He stiffened.
Yes … the Yule Lads. Dear God, that book in which Nils Karlsson’s mugshot was inserted.
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.

Yule Lads

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.

Among the most feared beings in the Icy Realm … wild spirits of the frozen mountains and snow-filled forests …

December 15: Þvörusleikir (Spoon-Licker), stealer of health …

December 21: Gluggagægir (Window-Peeper), stealer of privacy …

December 22: Gáttaþefur (Doorway-Sniffer), stealer of scent …

December 23: Ketkrókur (Meat-Hook), stealer of flesh …

December 24: Kertasníkir (Candle-Taker), stealer of light …

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 …

Alex ran back through the house. This was insane, of course. It had to be. Norse mythology, folklore, fairy tales?
‘What next?’ he muttered. ‘That dwarf off the Singing fucking Ringing Tree?’
But just because these entities didn’t exist, that didn’t mean there weren’t lunatics out there who believed they did.
‘Erika!’ He lurched into the dining room. ‘We’ve got to …’
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.
‘Erika!’
She stopped, pink-cheeked, smiling mischievously.
‘We’ve got to go,’ he said.
Her mouth curved downward. ‘Go where?’
‘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.
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.
‘Bastard!’ Alex dashed back through the downstairs to the kitchen, and then outside.
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.
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.
He fought his way through. ‘Who are you, you scumbag? What do you want?’
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 this toerag, this unknown enemy, this faceless intruder who’d already killed Jimmy Groober.
Alex stopped hard, face burning with cold, lungs heaving.
Killed Jimmy Groober?
Had he really done that?
This same person?
‘Shit.’ Slowly, common sense worked its way back through thoughts rendered chaotic by anger and fear. With another savage gust, snowflakes whipped into him.
‘Okay … I’m out of here. We’re out of here.’
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.

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.

You two will be the final two … the ones they’ll have reserved harshest judgement for.
‘That what you’re planning?’ Alex shouted. ‘Well, go on … bring it on!’
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.
Ketkrókur (Meat-Hook), stealer of flesh …
‘Oh yes?’ Alex laughed dementedly. ‘That’s for me, is it? You think it’ll be that easy!’
He ended on a shriek as he lurched forward, swinging the pipe two-handed into the figure’s torso.

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.
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.
What was this? Where in God’s name was he?
The Icy Realm …
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.
And then, without warning, a glaring light engulfed him.
Alex shielded his eyes as a pair of dazzling headlamps slid to a screeching halt.
A door banged open, and he heard Erika shouting.
‘Alex, for God’s sake! What’re you playing at?’
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.
‘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.’
Alex, almost zoning out in the astounding warmth, shook his head weakly. ‘I … I don’t think there’s anything natural about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just keep driving.’
‘I can’t see a damn thing.’

‘Just get us away … anywhere away from here.’
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.
‘Don’t slow down!’ he barked.
‘God’s sake, Alex … I can’t pull straight out. Where are we going, anyway?’
‘Left.’
She hit the gas as they turned left, the Jag fishtailing.
‘What did you mean it’s not natural?’ she said.
‘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.’
‘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.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Alex, in case you’d forgotten, I’ve had more than a couple of glasses of Cointreau.’
He regarded her long and hard. He ought to have realised from her jerky driving, of course, not to mention her slurring voice.
‘How far are we going?’ she asked.
‘Just get us a bit further away,’ he said. ‘Get us to the M6 junction and I’ll take over.’
‘The M6!’ She looked startled. ‘Why are we going there? We’re not going home, are we?’
He shrugged. ‘Only thing we can do.’
‘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 …’
‘None of that matters.’
‘Alex, are you high?’
‘Erika …’
‘Look, I’m not going all the way home.’ She glared at him as she drove.
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?’
‘Whoa … whoa, ERIKA!’
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.
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.
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.
‘Alex …’ came a weak, whimpering voice. ‘Alex … help me …’
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.
‘Alex ...’ came Erika’s voice again. To his surprise, her silhouette stumbled into view. ‘Alex, I can’t see. Her tone turned shrill. ‘For God’s sake, I can’t see … I’ve hurt my eyes …’
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.
Kertasníkir, stealer of light …
He backed away. ‘Erika, you’ve got to stay here, okay? Just stay here while I get help.’
‘Alex, my eyes …’ He’d never heard a voice so wretched, so tortured, so anguished.
‘Find yourself a tree. Rest against it. I’ll be back as quick as I can.’
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.
‘Alex, for God’s sake!’ Erika wailed. ‘My eyes … don’t leave me.’
He continued down. ‘I can’t take you with me.’
‘Alex, please …’
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?
The Elwells, of course. Who else?
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 …
‘Alex … for God’s sake!’
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.
‘Erika!’ he croaked.
She was forty yards away, though; she couldn’t hear him. And in any case, she was already out there, shuffling forward. ‘Alex …?’
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.

A second later, only powdery snow moved, blowing in wisps over the white-topped river.
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.

All he could do was sit and stare over the ice.
‘Bastards,’ he breathed again. So thinking, his eyes tracked up the hillside to the road.
It was no surprise to see two figures up there, framed motionless against the moon.
‘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?’
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.

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 …

‘No meat?’ Alex was speechless at first. Then he laughed out loud. ‘No meat! For real?’
He gazed up to the ridgeline again. His duo of tormentors remained in place. Black, anthracite outlines. Motionless.
‘Is that it?’ he shouted. ‘Surely to God not?’
But hey, maybe it was. The other deaths had been accidents, hadn’t they? Jimmy … Erika. Not that he hadn’t been punished. He glanced at the text again. ‘My worst fear?’
Not that it seemed a big deal at present. It would later, of course.
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.
‘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.’
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 …
With their kids and grandkids …
A new, different kind of chill crept down Alex’s spine.
When he finally did look round, they were almost upon him. Lurching forward across the snow with unnatural speed.
The Yule Lads fear nothing … save their own voracious parents.
Alex had just enough strength left to scream.
He hadn’t considered how many kinds of meat there actually were.

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:THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVEandIN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER.Or, if you prefer something a little more substantial, you could always opt for SPARROWHAWK, a Christmas-themed novella of mine, set during a very cold winter in the dark depths of Victorian England. In the meantime, have a very merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

Today, I’m delighted to announce that BATTLE LORD is published. It’s the second volume in the WULFBURY CHRONICLES, 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.

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.

Now we roll back the centuries until a whole millennium has passed, and face the oncoming storm of ...

The Norman Conquest

I’m obviously not going to say too much today about the synopsis of BATTLE LORD, for fear of giving away spoilers before you’ve already read it. But suffice to say that it picks up where USURPER left off. Those who’ve read USURPER 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.

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.

For those who still need persuading, here is a breakdown of the key characters in the series so far:

Cerdic Aelfricsson: The main protagonist in both USURPER and BATTLE LORD. 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 ...

Eadora: 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 …

Rothgar Aelfricsson, the Earl of Ripon: 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 …

Aethelric: 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.

Oswalda: 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.

Unferth: 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.

Brithnoth: 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.

Aethelbere: 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.

Haco: 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.

Thegn Redwald: 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.

Harald ‘the Hardraada’: 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.

Wulfgar Ragnarsson: 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.

Sigfurth Blood-Hair: 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.

Harold Godwinson: 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.

William the Bastard: 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.

Yvette d’Hiemois: 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.

Bishop Odo of Bayeux: 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.

Count Cynric of Tancarville: 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.

Turold de Bardouville: 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.

Joubert fitzOslac: 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.

Father Jerome: 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.

Roland Casterborus: 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.

(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, USURPER and BATTLE LORD. 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).

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.

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.

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.

As usual, I’ve divided the material I like the look of into three sections: Crime, Thriller and Horror, and have picked ten for each section.

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.

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.

Of course, if in your eyes there are any painfully obvious absentees from this list, feel free to mention them in the comments section.

CRIME

1. ANNA O by Matthew Blake (pub Feb 1 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

ANNA O HASN’T OPENED HER EYES FOR FOUR YEARS

Not since the night she was found in a deep sleep by the bodies of her best friends, suspected of a chilling double murder.

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.

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.

Awakening Anna O isn’t the end of the story, it’s just the beginning.

2. LEAVE NO TRACE by AJ Landau(pub Feb 27 Kindle and hardback)

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.

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.

3. HAS ANYONE SEEN CHARLOTTE SALTER? by Nicci French(pub on Feb 29 Kindle, Audible, hardback and paperback)

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.

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.

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.

4. ALL US SINNERS by Katy Massey (pub on Mar 7 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

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.

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.

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?

5. BLOOD ROSES by Douglas Jackson (pub on Mar 7 Kindle and hardback)

As the Nazis roll into Warsaw, a serial killer is unleashed …

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?

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.

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?

6. BLACK WOLF by Juan Gómez-Jurado (pub on Mar 14 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

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.

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.

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.

7. THE INSTRUMENTS OF DARKNESS by John Connolly (pub on May 7, Kindle, Audible and hardback)

A Child Missing. A Mother Accused. Charlie Parker Is Their Only Hope.

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.

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.

A house, and what dwells beneath.

8. LONG TIME GONE by Charlie Donlea (pub on May 21, Kindle, Audible and hardback)

Thirty years ago, Baby Charlotte vanished. Today, she’s still in danger.

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.

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.

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.

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…

9 THINK TWICE by Harlan Coben (pub on May 23, Kindle, Audible and hardback)

How can a man who’s already dead be wanted for murder?

This is the question sports agent Myron Bolitar asks himself when two FBI agents visit him in New York.

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.

But Greg died three years previously, Myron says. He went to his funeral and gave the eulogy.

The FBI are disbelieving, and Myron knows he has to find some answers – and quickly.

Could Greg Downing still be alive?

10. THE MERCY CHAIR by MW Craven (pub on Jun 6, Kindle, Audible and hardback)

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin...

Washington Poe has a story to tell.

And he needs you to listen.

You’ll hear how it started with the robber birds. Crows. Dozens of them. Enough for a murder...

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.

And finally, he’ll tell you about the mercy chair. And why people would rather kill themselves than talk about it...

Poe hopes you’ve been paying attention. Because in this story, nothing is as it seems...

THRILLER

1. THE ASCENT by Adam Plantinga (out now Kindle, Audible and hardback)

Kurt Argento, an ex-Detroit street cop who can’t let injustice go - and who has the fighting skills to back up his idealism.

If he sees a young girl being dragged into an alley, he’s going to rescue her and cause some damage.

When he does just that in a small corrupt Missouri town, he’s brutally beaten and thrown into a maximum-security prison.

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.

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.

All that stands in their way are six floors of the most dangerous convicts in Missouri.

2. WHERE YOU END by Abbott Kahler (out now hardback)

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:

Who am I?
Where am I?
What actually happened?

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.

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?

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.

3. THE SPY COAST by Tess Gerritsen (out now Kindle, Audible and hardback)

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.

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.

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.

The Spy Coast is the first novel in the Martini Club series.

4. THE FURY by Alex Michaelides (pub on Feb 1 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

There were seven of us in all, trapped on the island. One of us was a murderer ...

On a small private Greek island, former movie star Lana Farrar - an old friend - invites a select group of us to stay.

It’ll be hot, sunny, perfect. A chance to relax and reconnect - and maybe for a few hidden truths to come out.

Because nothing on this island is quite what it seems.

Not Lana. Not her guests.

Certainly not the murderer - furiously plotting their crime ...

But who am I?

My name is Elliot Chase, and I’m going to tell you a story unlike any you’ve ever heard.

5. EVERYONE WHO CAN FORGIVE ME IS DEAD by Jenny Hollander (pub on Feb 6 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

Nine years ago, Charlie Colbert’s life changed for ever.

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.

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.

But when a film adaptation of that fateful night goes into production, Charlie’s dark past threatens to crash into her shiny present.

Charlie was named a witness in the police reports. Yet she knows she was much more than that.

The truth about that night will shatter everything she’s worked for. Just how far will she go to protect it?

6. THE NEW COUPLE IN 5B by Lisa Unger (pub on Mar 5, Kindle, Audible, hardback and paperback)

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.

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.

7. MURDER ROAD by Simone St James (pub on Mar 28 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

April and Eddie have taken a wrong turn.

They’re on a long dark road, late at night, and they see a woman up ahead, clearly in trouble.

They stop and pick her up. It’s only once she's in the car that they see the blood.

And then they see the headlights, and at last, the woman speaks, her voice faint. “I'm sorry, he's coming.”

8. THE BIN LADEN PLOT by Rick Campbell (pub on Apr 23 Kindle and hardback)

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.

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.

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.

9. EXTINCTION by Douglas Preston (pub on Apr 23 hardback)

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.

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.

10. ERUPTION by James Patterson and Michael Crichton (pub on Jun 3 hardback)

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.

Michael Crichton, creator of Jurassic Park and Westworld, 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.

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.

HORROR

1. AMONG THE LIVING by Tim Lebbon (pub on Feb 6, Kindle and paperback)

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.

2. THE HOLY TERRORS by Simon R Green (pub on Feb 6 Kindle and hardback)

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?

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.

What is it about this place - and why is the TV crew outside not responding? Are they even on air?

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?

3. THOSE WHO DWELL IN MORDENHYRST HALL by Catherine Cavendish (pub on Feb 13, Kindle and paperback)

Evil runs deep at Mordenhyrst Halll ,,,

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.

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.

4. A BOTANICAL DAUGHTER by Noah Medlock (pub on Mar 19 Kindle and paperback)

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.

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.

5. THIS SKIN WAS ONCE MINE by Eric LaRocca (pub on Apr 2 Kindle and hardback)

Four devastating tales from a master of modern horror ...

This Skin Was Once Mine

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 ...

Seedling

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...

Prickle

Two old men revive a cruel game with devastating consequences...

All the Parts of You That Won’t Easily Burn

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 ...

6. ALL THE FIENDS OF HELL by Adam LG Nevill (pub on Apr 2 Kindle and paperback)

The red night of bells heralds global catastrophe. Annihilation on a biblical scale.

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.

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.

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.

7. GHOST STATION by SA Barnes (pub on Apr 9 Kindle, Audible and hardback)

Space exploration can be lonely and isolating.

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.

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.

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?

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.

8. YOU LIKE IT DARKER by Stephen King (pub on May 21, Kindle, Audible and hardback)

“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 You Like it Darker, readers will feel that exhilaration too, again and again.

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.

9. WHEN I LOOK AT THE SKY, ALL I SEE ARE STARS by Steve Stred (pub on Jun 24 Kindle and paperback)

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.

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.

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.

10. INCIDENTS AROUND THE HOUSE by Josh Malerman (pub on Jun 25 hardback)

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?”

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.

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.

But Other Mommy needs an answer.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ...

BATTLE LORD (2024)

The second novel in the WULFBURY CHRONICLES, 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.

WE ARE THE SHADOWS (2009)

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 GROANING SHADOWS).

SEASON OF MIST (2010)

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 WALKERS IN THE DARK).

THE HOUSE OF THE HAG (2015)

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 THE SPECTRAL BOOK OF HORROR 2).

STRANGERS (2016)

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 LUCY CLAYBURN series, and a Sunday Times Top Ten read.

BRANCH LINE (2020)

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 AFTER SUNDOWN).

THE HOTEL ON THE BORDERLAND (2001)

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 HOUSES AT BORDERLANDS).

DR WHO - LEVIATHAN (2010)

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 ‘the Way’. (Full cast audio drama in Big Finish’s DR WHO: THE LOST STORIES season).

THE OLD NORTH ROAD (2006)

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 ALONE ON THE DARKSIDE, and winner of the International Horror Guild Award for 2007).

THE RETREAT (2008)

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 HOUSES ON THE BORDERLAND).

REIGN OF HELL (2013)

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 WORLD WAR CTHULHU).

SPARROWHAWK (2010)

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).

THE TENTH LESSON (2020)

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 THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE).

ONE EYE OPEN (2020)

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).

THE DOOM (2010)

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 THE BLACK BOOK OF HORROR #6).

THE AFTER SHOCK (1994)

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 THE STEAM RAILWAY NEWS CHRISTMAS SPECIAL).

STOLEN (2019)

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).

CALIBOS (2005)

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 DAIKAJU).

MARSHWALL (2013)

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 THE BLACK BOOK OF HORROR #10).

THE GODS OF GREEN AND GREY (2005)

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 PARADOX #7).

Humble apologies for the lengthy time lapse since my last blog post. It’s the usual explanation, I’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.

In addition, because I’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’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.

Just a quick reminder that I haven’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’ll find a few of those at the bottom of today’s blog.

But first of all, my ...

Big news

I’m delighted to announce that, after some lengthy negotiating, I have signed a new two-book deal with Thomas & Mercer, who most of you will hopefully recognise as Amazon Publishing.

Both of these upcoming novels will be stand-alone crime thrillers, the first one (tentatively) titled DEATH LIST, the second (tentatively) titled THE MURDER TOUR. 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.

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.

I can’t say too much about the second one yet, but this first one, DEATH LIST, 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 DEATH LIST it will. Trust me, it really will.

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.

Much more about this one as publication day approaches.

Heck

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.

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.

And now, as promised ...

CRIME WRITERS WHO ARE ALSO HORROR WRITERS

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.

I’m purposely leaving out the mixed-genre’s most prominent purveyors. Everyone already knows that Edgar Allan Poe (as illustrated here by the monstrously talented Lewandrowsky), Arthur Conan Doyle, Dennis Wheatley, Bram Stoker and Stephen King 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.

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 ...

1. Agatha Christie

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, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (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. Hallowe’en Party (1969), recently filmed as A Haunting in Venice, certainly qualifies as a horror novel, as, at a push, does the superlatively titled Endless Night (1967), while it wouldn’t be much of a leap to proclaim the best-selling crime novel of all time, And Then There Were None (1939), the prototype slasher tale. However, for pure unadulterated horror, look no further than Christie’s two short story collections, The Hound of Death (1933) and The Last Seance (2019), both of which are packed with ghoulish goodies.

2. Daphne du Maurier

When one thinks of Daphne de Maurier these days, one tends automatically to think of classic Gothic melodramas like Jamaica Inn (1936), My Cousin Rachel (1951) and Frenchman’s Creek (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 Rebecca (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 The Birds (1952), which we all know so well, but it’s run a close second and third by Don’t Look Now (1971) and The Blue Lenses (1959).

3. Joe R Lansdale

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 The Bottoms (2000), Cold in July (1989) and Freezer Burn (1999), not to mention the Hap and Leonard 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 does horror. The Nightrunners (1987) and Hell’s Bounty (2016) certainly classify as out-and-out horror novels, while some of Lansdale’s short stories - By Bizarre Hands (1988), On the Far Side of the Cadillac Desert with Dead Folks (1989) and Drive-in Date (1991), to name but three, are up there among some of the most horrific ever written.

4. Joyce Carol Oates

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, Snake Eyes (1992) and Zombie (1995), though perhaps the pick of her horror writing can be found in her short stories. Tales like The Ruins of Contracoeur (1999) and Face (2007) are truly chilling.

5. Sarah Pinborough

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 Dog-Faced Gods (2011-2013) series, for example, is set in an alternative dystopian Britain, while the Fairy Tale (2013) series, though dark and transgressive, draws on many popular fairy tales. Meanwhile, her crime novel, Mayhem (2913), pursues the famous Victorian-era Torso Killer, but again with fantastical elements woven in, while more conventional seeming domestic thrillers like Behind Her Eyes (2017) and Insomnia (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 The Hidden (2004) and Breeding Ground (2006).

6. Robert Bloch

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, American Gothic (1974) for example, or Night of the Ripper (1984), he also wrote horror novels, Psycho (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 Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper (1962) and The Night Before Christmas (1980).

7. Charles Birkin

Though Charles Birkin first came to prominence editing the famous Creeps 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 Kiss of Death (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 Green Fingers (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.

8. John Connolly

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 A Game of Ghosts (2017) and The Whisperers (2010). Connolly has also gone full horror mode with the two collections of short stories he has published to date, Nocturnes (2004) and Night Music (2015), in which can be found some exceptional terror tales.

9. Peter James

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 Dead Simple (2005) and Looking Good Dead (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 Sweet Heart (1990) and Prophecy (1992), though he hasn’t given up on the supernatural stuff yet. Much more recent full-blooded horror novels of his include The House on Cold Hill (2015) and The Secret of Cold Hill (2019). James has also published A Twist of the Knife (2014), a collection of crime and horror shorts containing several exquisite examples of the shortform bone-chiller.

10. Ira Levin

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, A Kiss Before Dying (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, Sliver (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, Deathtrap (1978). In horror terms, he will best be remembered for Rosemary’s Baby (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, The Boys From Brazil (1976) seeing a war crimes investigator uncover a fiendish plot to clone Adolf Hitler, and more famously, The Stepford Wives (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.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

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.

THE OTHERS OF EDENWELL

by Verity M Holloway (2023)

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.

THE LAST PASSENGER

by Will Dean (2023)

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.

Twists and turns galore fuelled by steadily intensifying terror. You cannot stop reading.

MEG: HELL'S AQUARIUM

by Steve Alten (2021)

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.

If you like your turquoise seascapes stained with crimson, this one’s for you.

UNCLE PAUL

by Celia Fremlin (1959)

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.

Witty as hell but deliciously dark too. Rises steadily to a nerve-tautening climax and a killer twist.

FATHOMLESS

by Greig Beck (2018)

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.

Quality techno-horror alternates with high adventure as Man’s most ancient nemesis churns him to chum.

BLOOD WOOD

by Christopher Harman (2023)

Robert Aickman meets Ramsey Campbell in this jarring collection of off-kilter tales. Suggestion triumphs over exposition, oddball characters lurk, half-seen horrors abound.

Beautifully and concisely written, and thick with an atmosphere of doom. Another gorgeously packaged collection of nasty treats from Sarob.

GHOSTWRITTEN

by Ronald Malfi (2022)

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.

THE WINTER SPIRITS

by Various (2024)

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.

An absorbing trip into traditionally themed festive terror from a host of quality authors.

THE SENTINEL

by Jeffrey Konvitz (1974)

Interesting horror novel of yesteryear. Not particularly great writing, but a Satanic chiller which, for once, does not concern itself with possession.

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.

THE NEW EVIL

by Michael Stone and Gary Brucato (2019)

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.

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.

ENDLESS NIGHT

by Agatha Christie (1967)

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?

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.

MR MERCEDES

by Stephen King (2015)

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.

A tad leisurely in parts, but a gripping read overall.

THE LIGHTHOUSE

by Alison Moore (2012)

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.

Perfectly written (at 183 pages, an easy read), deeply thought-provoking and achingly sad.

Do monsters roam the Earth?

That’s quite a question to ask, I’m sure you’ll agree, and not something we can easily answer in a single blogpost. Which is why I intend to dedicate an entire book to it in the not-too-distant future. Allow me to elaborate: the main thrust of today’s column will concern the next publication in my TERROR TALES series, and yes, monsters will play a bit part in that, but I’ll outline it in more detail in a few paragraphs’ time.

Before then, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to chat a little bit about …

Upcoming publications

Unfortunately, I’m not in a position today where I can give too much information about anything. Considering I’ve been working full-tilt – to start with, I have three novels to write this year – there is little news so imminent that I’m able to put titles and dates to it.

For example, check out some of the questions I’m regularly asked online.

Q – Can you tell us when the next Heck novel will be out?

A – I’m afraid not. I can only say that it’s already written and under consideration by a publisher. But factors beyond my control mean that the wait must go on for now. (There is some Heck news, though, so keep reading).

Q – You’ve already announced that you’ve signed with Thomas & Mercer, Amazon’s publishing arm, to write two new stand-alone crime thrillers. Can you tell us anything about them yet?

A – There’s nothing more to add at present than you’ll have seen in my previous posts. Both those novels are exciting projects, but both are still being written, so even I am not entirely sure what their final form will be. Sorry about that.

Q – Is there any news on the proposed Lucy Clayburn TV adaptation?

A – No. In fact, this is probably the one definitive answer I’m able to give you today. Covid killed it, basically. Before the pandemic, we were apparently only a couple of months from being greenlit. Since the pandemic ended, I’ve heard nothing at all. We must assume that project is dead in the water.

Q – Will there be another book in the Wulfbury Chronicles.

A – Not as yet. What I am able to tell you on this front is that my third historical novel is now with Canelo, and in this one, we move a century forward into the era of the crusades. However, while it isn’t officially connected to the previous two books, there is some similarity among the names of the key characters, so we can safely assume that it’s a the same family.

Q – In God’s name, there must be something you can tell us?

A – Okay ... I can announce that a brand new Mark Heckenburg novella is due for publication later this year. Unfortunately, I’m unable to disclose any actual dates yet, or the name of the publisher or the title of the work. All I can say again is sorry, but modern publishers like to announce these things themselves, usually with a bit of fanfare. I can also add that a brand new horror novella of mine, though this one is actually quite lengthy – it doesn’t fall far short of being classified as an actual novel – will be published next year. As before, I can’t yet give you the title, the name of the publisher or the date of publication.

However, one thing I can talk about in some detail, and I’m very proud of this, is the upcoming publication of my short story, Jack-a-Lent, in the indefatigable Mark Morris’s latest horror anthology, ELEMENTAL FORCES. It's out on October 8 this year, from Flametree Press, and if you look at the line-up, you’ll perhaps understand why I am so honoured to be included.

Q – Any specific details about anything else?

A – Well, on the basis that I still owe you something …

Monsters … monsters … monsters

They’ve been with us since the dawn of human awareness. Terrifying, destructive beings, creatures that defy description, that are unknowable, uncontrollable, deadly. Ruthless annihilators of the natural order, which can only be stopped by the most heroic acts of human self-sacrifice.

In every society on Earth, in every religion and every mythology, there are references to monsters. Unspeakable abominations whose very existence is often inimical to the survival of mankind. But what exactly are monsters? How is it they have found such an unassailable place in our collective imagination? Are they entirely based on fantasy or is there some element of truth in these horrifying tales?

The forms that monsters have taken are myriad.

Most people have heard of dragons and titans, of frost giants, of lustful, goat-legged satyrs, of the bull-headed minotaur, the zombies of the Caribbean, the vampires of Eastern Europe (check out Mr Lee, right, in Dracula, 1958). But in truth, the pantheon of malevolent beasts is so enormous, so positively encyclopaedic, that more horrific beings than I can count remain unknown to the vast majority of us.

How many readers of this column, for example, know what I mean when I mention the Fachen? The Tarasque? The Yateveo? The Tupilaq? The Lamia?

And believe me, that’s not even scratching the surface. I mean, there are so many questions to ask here. To start with, how is it that so many eyewitness reports of monsters come to us from the pages of history, and yet the beasts themselves are almost completely absent from the fossil record?

All kinds of explanations have been offered.

Monsters are metaphors for mankind’s misfortunes ...

The werewolf is a warning sign that Man, for all his veneer of civilisation, still possesses voracious appetites lurking just below the surface. The colossal sea monster, Leviathan (left, as painted by Katinka Thorondor), advised us that Man can never be dominant in the cosmos, that in the end only God will wield the ultimate power. Medusa, the youngest and most fearsome of the snake-haired gorgons, embodied the routine mistreatment of women by men, and indicated that even if they fought back justifiably, they would be demonised for ever more.

Monsters are an attempt to understand the chaos of our world (that’s an important word today, ‘chaos’, look out for it later on) ...

Entities like Behemoth, Jörmungandr, Tiamat and Typhon were so vast and terrifying that they could only, in truth, be the personifications of cataclysmic Earth events (much how Godzilla was viewed in 20th century Japan). Even smaller beasts, like goblins and boggarts could be a frightening and damaging presence in the remote communities that believed in them because they caused breaches in an orderly world (souring milk, blighting crops) that everyday folk thought they understood and were appalled to learn they didn’t ...

Monsters are simply errors that our ancestors made when they misidentified natural creatures they’d never encountered before ...

When ancient mammoth skulls were uncovered, the aperture to accommodate the trunk looked for all the world like an extra eye-socket, and if the encircling bone had rotted through, which meant the actual eye-sockets were also encompassed by the yawning gap, it was easy to assume that this was all that remained of a huge one-eyed monster, or cyclops (as immortalised by Ray Harryhausen in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, at the top of this column). Race memories of gigantopithecus, the largest ape that ever lived (12ft tall!!), and which died out 300,000 years ago, may well have provided the origin for stories about giants and ogres. The Vikings told tales of the kraken, an immense, many-armed sea horror that would drag down entire ships, and almost certainly were referring to the colossal squid.

But there is one very important thing to consider.

Our distant ancestors might not have been as well educated as we are today, but they weren’t stupid, otherwise they wouldn’t have survived, and they were quite adamant that many of these hellish beings that brought such trauma to their world were actually very real.

Trolls (as depicted above by Einar Martinsen) did ambush lone travellers in the deep and frosty forests of old Scandinavia.

Griffins did guard treasure hoards in the mountains of the Middle East and they would tear you to pieces if you tried to get your hands on any of it.

Grendel, the infamous Walker in the Dark, did drive a Danish king called Hrothgar from his new hall in the swampy region of Lejre, slaughtering 30 of his warriors in the process.

The bonze giant, Talos, did heat himself in a roaring fire until he was glowing red, so that he could embrace the wooden hulls of ships visiting his island and consume them with flames.

And these stories don’t just come to us from the distant past.

In 1959, the infamous Dyatlov Pass Incident saw nine student hikers brutally killed and mutilated in their snowbound camp in the Ural Mountains, an unsolved mass slaying, which some observers, with plenty evidence to support them, have attributed to the Alma, or Russian Yeti.

More recently, off the Devonshire coast in the 1970s, a group of scuba divers from the Salcombe Shark Angling Society were frightened out of the water by a terrifying sub-aquatic roar, though one witness later described it as being more like a repeated, monstrous bark, which is associated in local tradition with a ferocious sea serpent called Morgawr. Such a hold does this semi-mythical sea brute have on the imagination of Devon and Cornish folk that Peter Tremayne wrote a highly successful novel in 1982 called The Morgow Rises.

Many times in the last hundred years, climbers on Western Scotland’s remote Ben Macdui, the highest peak in the Cairngorm mountain range, have reported being pursued through the fog and snow by a towering figure known simply as the Big Grey Man. A giant in every sense, the unknown entity is not known to have attacked anyone, though at least one climber claimed to have taken shelter in a bothy, while the beast circled the isolated structure, and only failed to get at him because he’d barricaded the door.

You may be wondering what all this refers to, and whether I’ve just gone off on a monster tangent because I’ve lost the plot. Well, in actual fact, what I’m getting around to explaining is, first of all, there will not be a TERROR TALES anthology this year. I’m afraid that my nightmarishly packed schedule simply does not allow for it. However, Telos Publishing and myself are determined to make up for this, so, I’m also able to announce that, next year, we’ll be doing a bumper edition, in hardback as well as softback and ebook, called TERROR TALES OF CHAOS, which will be launched at the World Fantasy Convention in Brighton (Oct 30 - Nov 2).

For once, it will not focus on any specific geographic region or particular period of history, but it will follow the same basic format as the other books in the series, new stories interspersed with snippets of scary non-fiction, and will be strongly influenced by both folklore and mythology.

While the emphasis will be on chaos, it will not be on the realm called Chaos - i.e. that limitless ocean of nameless elemental forces said to lie between Heaven and Hell - but on its products, aka the many terrible forms it has taken in the eyes of mankind during its frequent visitations to Earth.

The 17th century English poet, John Milton, took his cue from much more ancient wordsmiths by naming and describing some of the terrifying denizens of Chaos, unimaginable beings who were every bit as wild and destructive as the substance from which they were made.

Individuals like Peor, Arioch (pictured left, as created by Useh) and Demogorgon were so ghastly that even the fallen angels lodged in Hell could not get past them. Perhaps it’s no surprise, therefore, that whenever the children of Chaos have made it into our world, they have done so in the form of unstoppable monsters.

And there you have it: TERROR TALES OF CHAOS will explore the many, many monsters that have terrorised us throughout our histories and mythologies. There’ll be none here that the writers have invented themselves, or which are the work of other writers like the Frankenstein creation or Mr Hyde. There’ll be lots of room for modern interpretation obviously, but essentially all will hail from the long-ago past, and will have come down to us in stories that our distant ancestors would have insisted are absolutely true.

And on the subject of the writers ... well, put it this way, we aren’t far into developing the book yet, but I am very, very happy with many of the names to come on board. Fans of the series will miss out this year, but in 2025 I can confidently predict that they are in for a real treat.

Keep watching this space for further info.

Greetings all as summer dawns, even though it’s wet, miserable and unusually cold here even for Lancashire. And apologies that I’ve not been a very frequent poster of late. It’s not that I haven’t got much to report - quite the contrary, though a bit more about that later - but mainly because I’ve been so busy. Deadlines have been piling up on me one after another, with such regularity that I haven’t been able to take any time off to blog.

I know that probably sounds like an excuse, but I swear it’s true. However, a convenient break in the schedule has now arrived, which, if nothing else, will allow me to focus on a whole bunch of upcoming book titles, which in my opinion are going to make exciting reading in the second half of this year, in other words from July through to December.

You’ll find that item further down the column. Feel free to jump straight down there, if you wish. Unless of course you’re equally interested in those snippets of Finch news that I hinted at, in which case keep on reading.

The year so far

I’ve just delivered the first draft of my brand new crime novel, DEATH LIST, to my new publisher, Thomas & Mercer. It’s a free-stander, but it’s a bit of a departure for me in that it doesn’t involve an official criminal investigation, though worry not: it’s cop-heavy, crime-heavy, murder-very-heavy (as you can see, we won’t be straying too far from home).

I don’t want to give too much away at this stage, though I can admit it’s a very unusual setting for me, even if it will still, hopefully, be one of the scariest books I’ve written to date. To know more, sadly, you’ll need to wait until publication in spring next year.

I’ve also spent time in this first half of 2024 putting the finishing touches to the first draft of my next novel for Canelo. I can’t disclose the title as yet, but it’s another historical adventure, this time set during the Third Crusade.

It involves the same Saxon/Norman family who participated in USURPER and BATTLE LORD (and who knows, maybe a kind of saga is taking shape here). This time, the central character is far from home, not only fighting in the army of Richard the Lionheart, but increasingly concerned that through past misdeeds, his soul might be lost. The question is does the solution to this lie in his becoming meek, charitable and forgiving, or by waging war all the harder against those deemed to be God’s enemies, or by returning a prize captive to England, an angelic young woman who is also a pillar of Christian piety, and in the process needing to overcome every kind of obstacle imaginable?

Also, thanks to the intense workload in this first part of the year, I’ve got some shorter material out in the second. A short horror story, JACK-A-LENT (a slice of folk horror set in urban Liverpool) will appear in the indefatigable Mark Morris’s latest horror anthology, ELEMENTAL FORCES, in October. In addition, a horror novella, which I can’t reveal the name of yet (also an urban chiller, though in this case with Satanic undertones), will be published in the second part of the year, along with a new Mark Heckenburg novelette, which again is embargoed at the present time. In both those cases, keep watching this space for further info.

Lastly, and this is a more recent development, autumn will also see the publication of the next full-length Heck novel, ROGUE.

Yes, you read that rightly.

For several years now, I’ve been beset with enquiries about whether the Heck series will continue. The answer is yes. At last, all the necessary agreements have been reached, and ROGUE will be out before the end of this year. The reason I’m not delivering this important news with a trumpet blast and much banner-waving is because, though the book is finished and has been edited, there are still a few hoops to jump through in terms of publishing logistics. So, you’ll just need to bear with me on that and I’ll blast it out noisily when everything is finally in place.

And now, as promised ...

30 CHILLING READS FOR THE
CHILLIER END OF THE YEAR

I think you all know the format by now. At the end of each of year, usually around late December, and at the halfway point each year, usually in June, I regale you with 30 upcoming book titles I’ve cherry-picked for the six months ahead ... and yes, that’s where we are today.

Though my selections always come from under the blanket term, ‘dark fiction’, I will, as usual, be dividing them up into three distinct categories and picking ten from each: Crime, Thriller and Horror.

These will not be exhaustive lists by any means. There are more exciting looking publications due over the next six months than I can possibly name in one blogpost, so, to stay fully informed, keep your eye on the social media outlets that deal with this sort of thing. But I feel fairly confident that the 30 I’ll be underlining today will be of strong interest to most of those following this blog.

It’s probably also worth making the point that, by the nature of this item (these titles not having been published yet), I’m not in a position to offer you book reviews. All I can do at this stage is give you the publication dates and accompany these with cover shots and official publisher blurbs.

Okay, here we go. July to December 2024, in order of publication, 30 of the most interesting looking works of dark fiction thus far drawn to my attention, 10 crime, 10 thrillers, 10 horror. Enjoy ...

CRIME

1. MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT by Riley Sager (Jul 2 in hb)

On July 15, 1994, ten-year-old Ethan and his best friend Billy fell asleep together in their quiet New Jersey cul de sac.

In the morning, Ethan woke up alone. The tent was sliced open, and Billy was gone, taken. He was never seen again.

Thirty years later, Ethan has returned to Hemlock Circle, still desperate for answers.

Who took Billy?

Plagued by bad dreams and insomnia, he begins to notice strange things happening on the street under the cover of darkness. Someone is prowling the cul de sac when no one is awake to see them.

Are they still out there?

This isn’t a bad neighbourhood. These aren’t bad people.

What if they are?

2. CONFESSIONS OF THE DEADby James Patterson and JD Barker (July 4 in pb and Audible)

The dead tell no tales . . .

Hollows Bend is a picture-perfect New England town where weekend tourists flock to see fall leaves and eat breakfast at the Stairway Diner. The crime rate – zero – is a point of pride for Sheriff Ellie Pritchett.

The day the stranger shows up is when the trouble starts. The sheriff and her deputy investigate the mysterious teenage girl. None of the locals can place her. She can’t – or won’t – answer any questions. She won’t even tell them her name.

While the girl is in protective custody, the officers are called to multiple crime scenes leading them closer and closer to a lake outside of town that doesn’t appear on any map . . .

3. RESOLUTIONby Irvine Welsh (July 11 in eb, hb and Audible)

OLD TRUTHS HAVE NEW CONSEQUENCES

Ray Lennox is determined to move on from his darkest days. The former detective has left Edinburgh for a fresh start in Brighton. Soon, his fixations and addictions have been replaced with quiet evenings and a rigorous fitness regime.

Then Lennox meets Mathew Cardingworth. Rich, smooth-talking and immaculately dressed, he presents himself as a successful and respectable property developer. Yet their encounter reawakens memories that have haunted Lennox for decades, sending him into a spiral of confusion and rage.

Lennox has no choice – he must confront the events of his childhood. But the more he identifies the links between Cardingworth, the disappearance of a group of foster care boys and the violence of his past, the more he finds himself asking: What will he sacrifice to achieve resolution at last?

4. SUGAR ON THE BONESby Joe R Lansdale (July 16 in hb)

PI duo Hap and Leonard investigate the untimely death of a woman whose family stood much to gain from her passing.

Minnie Polson is dead. Burned to a crisp in a fire so big and bad it had to be deliberate. The only thing worse is that Hap and Leonard could have prevented it. Maybe.

Minnie had a feeling she was being targeted, shaken down by some shadowy force. However, when she’d solicited Hap and Leonard, all it took was one off colour joke to turn her sour and she’d called them off the investigation.

Wracked with a guilty conscience, the two PIs - along with Hap’s fleet-footed wife, Brett - tuck in to the case. As they look closer, they dredge up troublesome facts: for one, Minnie’s daughter, Alice, has recently vanished. She’d been hard up after her pet grooming business went under and was in line to collect a whopping insurance sum should anything happen to her mother. The same was due to Minnie’s estranged husband, Al, whose kryptonite (beautiful, money-grubbing women) had left him with only a run-down mobile home.

But did Minnie’s foolish, cash-strapped family really have it in them to commit a crime this grisly? Or is there a larger, far more sinister scheme at work?

5. THE LOST COASTby Jon and Jessie Kellerman (Aug 8 in hb)

When coroner-turned-private investigator Clay Edison is approached to work on a fraud case, he uncovers more than he bargained before: a decades-old scheme targeting the vulnerable.

His investigation leads him to a strange town in the remote California wilderness where the residents don’t care much for outsiders.

They certainly don’t like Clay asking questions. And they’ll do just about anything to keep him quiet. . .

6. WHITESANDSby Johann Thorsson (Aug 8 in eb and pb)

A detective on the bitter edge. A killer like he’s never seen before.

Detective John Dark’s daughter has been missing for two years. In his frantic and fruitless search for her he overreached his position and was reprimanded and subsequently demoted.

Now mysteriously reinstated to the homicide department, Dark is put on a chilling case – a man who killed his wife in their locked house and then dressed the body up to resemble a deer. A few days later an impossibly similar case crops up connecting the suspects to a thirty year old missing persons’ case.

As Dark is finally making headway, a new lead in his daughter’s disappearance pops up and threatens to derail his career again.

Time is running out and Dark needs to solve the case before more people are killed, and while there is still hope to find his daughter.

7. BLOOD LIKE MINEby Stuart Neville (Aug 15 in eb, hb and Audible)

You would do anything to protect your child.
Even if she’s a monster . . .

Rebecca Carter and her daughter Monica, nicknamed Moonflower, travel the American West, always on the move, always hiding, always looking behind them, always keeping Moonflower out of sight. They speak to no one, only interacting with people when it’s absolutely necessary.

But wherever they go, bodies are left behind.

Special Agent Marc Donner of the FBI has been tracking a killer for the best part of two years. A murderer that strikes once every few weeks. The victims are all men, many disappearing only to be found months later, dumped in forests or rivers or quarries, far from their places of death. All of them with their throats opened, their bodies bled out and their spinal cords severed.

The killer leaves no trace, no clues – only a trail of corpses.

After all this time, Donner has gleaned only a handful of facts from the few witnesses and snippets of CCTV footage available. He’s hunting a middle-aged woman who drives a van with blacked-out windows and false plates. Often she poses as a child online to lure in her prey. It’s never been enough to track her down though.

Until now.

And so begins a cat-and-mouse game between Donner and his prey, Rebecca and Moonflower. But who is the actual hunter – and who is the actual prey? For perhaps Moonflower isn’t the child that her mother claims she is. Perhaps she’s something else – and as Donner puts everything on the line to capture them and prove his suspicions right, perhaps he isn’t prepared to face what is really out there.

8. THE DARK WIVESby Ann Cleeves (Aug 29 in eb, hb and Audible)

A LOCAL MYTH. A DEADLY THREAT.

A body is found by an early morning dog walker on the common outside Rosebank, a care home for troubled teens. The victim is Josh, a staff member, who never showed up to work.

DI Vera Stanhope is called out to investigate. Her only clue is the disappearance of fourteen-year-old resident Chloe. Vera can’t bring herself to believe that a teenager is responsible for the murder, but even she can’t dismiss the possibility.

Vera, Joe and new team member Rosie are soon embroiled in the case, but when a second body is found near the Three Dark Wives standing stones in the wilds of the Northumbrian countryside, folklore and fact begin to collide.

Vera knows she has to find Chloe to get to the truth, but it seems that the dark secrets in their community may be far more dangerous than she could ever have believed. . .

9. THE EXAMINERby Janice Hallett (Aug 29 in eb, hb and Audible)

Six Students. One Murder. Your Time Starts Now...

The mature students of Royal Hastings University’s new Multimedia Art course have been trouble from day one. Acclaimed artist Alyson wants the department to revolve around her. Ludya struggles to balance her family and the workload. Jonathan has management experience but zero talent for art. Lovely Patrick can barely operate his mobile phone, let alone professional design software. Meanwhile blustering Cameron tries to juggle the course with his job in the City and does neither very well. Then there’s Jem. A gifted young sculptor, she’s a promising student... but cross her at your peril.

The year-long course is blighted by accusations of theft, students setting fire to one another’s artwork, a rumoured extra-marital affair and a disastrous road trip. But finally they are given their last assignment: to build an interactive art installation for a local manufacturer. With six students who have nothing in common except their clashing personal agendas, what could possibly go wrong?

The answer is: murder. When the external examiner arrives to assess the students’ essays and coursework, he becomes convinced that a student was killed on the course and that the others covered it up. But is he right? And if so, who is dead, why were they killed, and who is the murderer? Only a close examination of the evidence will reveal the truth. Your time starts now...

10. THE WAITINGby Michael Connelly (Oct 15 in eb, hb and Audible)

LAPD Detective Renée Ballard tracks a terrifying serial rapist whose trail has gone cold with the help of the newest volunteer to the Open-Unsolved Unit: Patrol Officer Maddie Bosch, Harry’s daughter.

Renée Ballard and the LAPD’s Open-Unsolved Unit get a hot shot DNA connection between a recently arrested man and a serial rapist and murderer who went quiet twenty years ago. The arrested man is only twenty-three, so the genetic link must be familial. It is his father who was the Pillowcase Rapist, responsible for a five-year reign of terror in the City of Angels. But when Ballard and her team move in on their suspect, they encounter a baffling web of secrets and legal hurdles.

Meanwhile, Ballard’s badge, gun, and ID are stolen, a theft she can't report without giving her enemies in the department the ammunition they need to end her career as a detective. She works the burglary alone, but her solo mission leads her into greater danger than she anticipates. She has no choice but to go outside the department for help, and that leads her to the door of Harry Bosch.

Finally, Ballard takes on a new volunteer to the cold case unit. Bosch’s daughter Maddie wants to supplement her work as a patrol officer on the night beat by investigating cases with Ballard. But Renée soon learns that Maddie has an ulterior motive for getting access to the city’s library of lost souls.

THRILLER

1. DEATH PACTby Matt Hilton (July 2 in eb and hb)

All angels are not goodness and light. In fact . . . they’re some of the most murderous creatures you’ll ever come across

Former detective Nate Freeman just wants to be left alone as he recovers from the case that ended his career two years ago. As a child, he and his brother Will were saved from a religious fanatic compound in the US and brought to the UK. Now, as an adult, Nate has no idea where Will, or any of the other surviving ‘Children of Hamor’ are, until they suddenly start turning up dead - minus some skin . . .

When his old boss DCI Openshaw asks him to assist in finding the serial killer who is hell bent on collecting the symbols so brutally branded onto the children’s backs in the name of Berith - the Fallen Angel - Nate finds himself conflicted. As one of ‘the promised’ Nate is in mortal danger, and as the case builds momentum Will becomes the prime suspect. It’s an intense race against time for Nate to uncover the identity of the ‘angelic’ serial killer and save his own skin in the process!

2. A BETTER WORLDby Sarah Langan (July 2 in eb and pb)

As the outside world literally falls apart, Linda and Russell Farmer-Bowen and their teenage twins are offered the chance to relocate to Plymouth Valley, a walled-off company town with clean air, pantries that never go empty, and blue-ribbon schools. The family jumps at the opportunity. They’d be crazy not to take it. This might be their last chance at survival.

But fitting in takes work. And the strange residents fervently adhere to a group of customs and beliefs called Hollow... but what exactly is Hollow? Finally, thanks to Linda’s medical skills, they begin to find acceptance, and everything seems fine. Sure, Russell starts hyperventilating through a paper bag in the middle of the night, and the kids have drifted like bridgeless islands, but at least they’ll survive. But something isn’t right. The more Linda learns, the more frightened she becomes. Should the Farmer-Bowens be fighting to stay, or fighting to get out?

3. THE STRANGER UPSTAIRSby Lisa M Martin (July 2 in pb)

Most people wouldn’t buy an infamous murder house to renovate for fun . . . but Sarah Slade is not most people.

A therapist and self-help writer with all the answers, Sarah has just bought a gorgeous Victorian in the community of her dreams. Turns out you can get a killer deal on a house where someone was murdered. Plus, renovating Black Wood House makes for great blog content and a potent distraction from her failing marriage. Good thing nobody knows that her past is as tainted as the bloodstain on her bedroom floor.

But the renovations are fast becoming a nightmare. Sarah imagined custom avocado wallpaper, massive profits, and an appreciative husband who would want to share her bed again. Instead, the neighbors hate her guts and her husband still sleeps on the couch. And though the builders attempt to cover up Black Wood’s horrifying past, a series of bizarre accidents, threatening notes, and unexplained footsteps in the attic only confirm for Sarah what the rest of the town already knows: Something is very wrong in that house.

With every passing moment, Sarah’s life spirals further out of control—and with it her sense of reality. But as she peels back the curling wallpaper and discovers the house’s secrets, she realizes that the deadly legacy of Black Wood House has only just begun.

4. THE WILDSby Sarah Pearse (Juy 16 in hb and Audible)

After the dark events that scarred her childhood, Kier Templer escaped her hometown and twin to live her life on the road. They’ve never lost contact until, on a trip to a Portuguese national park, Kier vanishes without a trace.

Detective Elin Warner arrives in the same park ready to immerse herself in its vast wilderness - only to hear about Kier's disappearance, and discover a disturbing map she left behind. The few strangers at the isolated camp close ranks against her questions, and the park’s wild beauty starts to turn sinister.

Elin must untangle the clues to find out what really happened to Kier. But when you follow a trail, you have to be careful to watch your back...

5. THE GRIEF HOUSE by Rebecca Thorn (out now on Audible, eb and hb, July 18 in pb)

Everyone is lying.
But the dead know the truth.

A week-long retreat on a beautiful country estate with no phones and no WiFi isn’t ex-tarot reader Blue’s usual getaway. But ever since her mother’s death she’s been carrying a secret. Could this finally help her let it go?

When she arrives, it’s raining, and there’s something strange about the house. Only a few guests have made it through the weather. As the owners, Molly and Joshua Park, try desperately to cling to normality, the storm worsens until they’re stranded in the house - cut off from the outside world.

And after one of the guests disappears in the night, Blue wonders who around her, the Parks and the guests, is telling the truth about why they’re there - and whose grief might be hiding a deeper secret.

The floodwater rises. Everyone is keeping secrets - but only one is a killer. Can Blue escape with her life, and her sanity?

6. ONE PERFECT COUPLEby Ruth Ware (July 18 in eb, hb and Audible)

Five beautiful couples.
One deadly game.
Who will escape alive?

Lyla Santiago has spent months working on a research project that could be the key to getting a permanent job in her field.

So, she can’t really drop everything to go to a desert island with her actor boyfriend Nico to film One Perfect Couple, a new reality TV show that Nico is sure will lead to his big break – can she?

Two weeks later, Lyla finds herself boarding a boat to an isolated luxury resort in the Indian Ocean.

The rules of the game are simple. Ten strangers have to survive together on the island - and the last couple standing scoops the prize.

There will be sun, sea, laughs and plenty of flirting.
What could possibly go wrong?

But when a huge tropical storm cuts them off from everything, the group must band together.
As tensions run high and fresh water runs low, Lyla realises that someone is playing this game for real – and they’ll stop at nothing to win.

Ten might have arrived, but who will survive to the end?

7. HOUSE OF BONE AND RAINby Gabino Iglasias (Aug 6 in hb)

For childhood friends Gabe, Xavier, Tavo, Paul, and Bimbo, death has always been close. Hurricanes. Car accidents. Gang violence. Suicide. Estamos rodeados de fantasmas was Gabe’s grandmother’s refrain. We are surrounded by ghosts. But this time is different. Bimbo’s mom has been shot dead. We’re gonna kill the guys who killed her Bimbo swears. And they all agree.

Feral with grief, Bimbo has become unrecognizable, taking no prisoners in his search for names. Soon, they learn Maria was gunned down by guys working for the drug kingpin of Puerto Rico. No one has ever gone up against him and survived. As the boys strategize, a storm gathers far from the coast. Hurricanes are known to carry evil spirits in their currents and bring them ashore, spirits which impose their own order.

Blurring the boundaries between myth, mysticism, and the grim realities of our world, House of Bone and Rain is a harrowing coming of age story; a doomed tale of devotion, the afterlife of violence, and what rolls in on the tide.

8. PRECIPICE by Robert Harris (Aug 29 in eb, hb and Audible)

Summer 1914. A world on the brink of catastrophe.

In London, 26-year-old Venetia Stanley – aristocratic, clever, bored, reckless – is having a love affair with the Prime Minister, H. H. Asquith, a man more than twice her age. He writes to her obsessively, sharing the most sensitive matters of state.

As Asquith reluctantly leads the country into war with Germany, a young intelligence officer is assigned to investigate a leak of top secret documents – and suddenly what was a sexual intrigue becomes a matter of national security that will alter the course of political history.

9. HELLE AND DEATHby Oskar Jensen (Oct 10 in pb)

A snowstorm. A country house. Old friends reunited.
It's going to be murder...

Torben Helle - art historian, Danish expat and owner of several excellent Scandinavian jumpers - has been dragged to a remote snowbound Northumbrian mansion for a ten-year reunion with old university friends. Things start to go sideways when their host, a reclusive and irritating tech entrepreneur, makes some shocking revelations at the dinner table. And when these are followed by an apparent suicide, the group faces a test of their wits... and their trust.

Snowed in and cut off, surrounded by enigmatic housekeepers and off-duty police inspectors, not to mention a peculiar last will and testament, suspicion and sarcasm quickly turn to panic. As the temperature drops and the tension mounts, Torben decides to draw upon all the tricks of Golden Age detectives past in order to solve the mystery: how much money would it take to turn one of his old friends into a murderer? But he'd better be quick, or someone else might end up dead...

10. NOBODY’S HERO by MW Craven (Oct 10 in hb)

The man who can’t feel fear is back, in a race against time to find the woman who knows a secret that could take down the world as we know it.

When a shocking murder and abduction on the streets of London leads investigators to him, Ben Koenig has no idea at first why the highest echelons of the CIA would need his help. But then he realises he knows the woman who carried out the killings. Ten years earlier, without being told why, he was tasked with helping her disappear.

Far from being a deranged killer, she is the gatekeeper of a secret that could take down the West, so for years she has been in hiding. Until now.

And if she has resurfaced, the danger may be closer and more terrifying than anyone can imagine.

So Ben Koenig has to find her before it’s too late. But Ben suffers from a syndrome which means he can’t feel fear. He doesn’t always know when he should walk away, or when he’s leading others into danger . . .

HORROR

1. THAT WHICH STANDS OUTSIDEby Mark Morris (July 16 in eb, hb and pb)

After Todd Kingston rescues Yrsa Helgerson from muggers one rainy London night, their resulting friendship quickly develops into a romance. When Yrsa’s mother dies, Todd accompanies her back to her childhood home, an isolated Nordic island. The reception they receive there is one of suspicion and hostility.

The islanders believe Yrsa to be a child of a mythic race called the Jötnar, a claim which Yrsa dismisses as superstitious nonsense. But as the island is rocked by a series of devastating events, Todd finds himself caught up in a terrifying battle, one which possibly threatens the future of the world itself.

2. I WAS A TEENAGE SLASHERby Stephen Graham Jones (July 16 in pb, July 24 in Audible)

1989, Lamesa, Texas.

A small west Texas town driven by oil and cotton―and a place where everyone knows everyone else’s business. So it goes for Tolly Driver, a good kid with more potential than application, seventeen, and about to be cursed to kill for revenge.

Here Stephen Graham Jones explores the Texas he grew up in, the unfairness of being on the outside, through slasher horror but from the perspective of the killer, Tolly, writing his own autobiography.

Find yourself rooting for a killer in this summer teen movie of a novel gone full blood-curdling tragic.

3. FOLK HORROR SHORT STORIES (BEYOND AND WITHIN)ed by Paul Kane and Marie O’Regan (Aug 20 in hb)

A new anthology of Folk Horror stories, covering a wide range of mythologies and dark corners from around the world, revealing tales from the shadows of isolation, creepy forests and horrors rising from the land itself.

Award-winning anthologists Paul Kane and Marie O'Regan have commissioned and chosen an outstanding selection of stories from some exceptional authors.

Contents: The White Road by Neil Gaiman; The Well by John Connolly; Rabbitheart by Jen Williams;
The Original Occupant by Adam L.G. Nevill; Summer Bonus by Lee Murray; The Druid Stone by Katie Young; Blessed Mary by Stephen Volk; The Great White by Benjamin Spada; The Marsh-Widow’s Bargain by H.R. Laurence; Good Boy by Alison Littlewood; The Finest Creation of an Artful God by B. Zelkovich; The Third Curse by Helen Grant; The Lights Under Rachel by Kathryn Healy;
Pilgrimage of the Hummingbird by V. Castro; The Grim by Cavan Scott; Pontianak: An Origin Story by Christina Sng; Ghost Land of Giants by Linda D. Addison

4. BOUND IN BLOODed by Johnny Mains (Sept 10 in eb and hb)

A chilling anthology of over 20 stories of cursed and haunted books; featuring malevolent second-hand books, cursed novelizations, unsettling journals and the end of the world.

You find it hidden in the dark corner of the bookstore; tucked away in a box in the attic, desperate to be read; lurking on your bookshelf, never seen before. Crack the spine, feel the ancient pages. Read it aloud, if you dare.

This anthology brings together horror’s best and brightest to delve into the pages of cursed books, Eldtritch tomes and haunted bookstores.

Featuring stories from: Adam Cesare, Eric LaRocca, Alma Katsu, Zin Rocklyn, Alyssa Cole,
Nadia Bulkin, Danny Robins, Isy Suttie, Charlie Higson, Angeline Morrison, A. G. Slatter, Priya Sharma, A. K. Benedict, Guy Adams, Lucie McKnight Hardy, Ramsey Campbell, Alison Moore,
Laura Mauro, Reggie Oliver, Anna Taborska, Kim Newman.

5. WITHERED HILLby David Barnett (Sep 26 in pb and eb)

If you find your way here, you’re already lost.

A year ago Sophie Wickham stumbled into the isolated Lancashire village of Withered Hill, naked, alone and with no memory of who she is.

Surrounded by a thick ring of woodland, its inhabitants seem to be of another world, drenched in pagan, folklorish traditions.

As Sophie struggles to regain the memories of her life from before, she quickly realises she is a prisoner after multiple failed escape attempts. But is it the locals who keep her trapped, with smiles on their faces, or something else, lurking in the woods?

In London, Sophie leads a chaotic life, with too many drunken nights, inappropriate men and boring temp jobs. But things take a turn as she starts to be targeted by strange messages warning her that someone, or something, is coming for her.

With no idea who to trust, or where to turn for help, the messages become more insistent and more intimidating, urging Sophie to make her way to a place called Withered Hill…

6. THE BOG WIFEby Kay Chronister (Oct 1 eb and pb)

It is said that the Haddesleys have too much of the bog in their blood to live in the world. Living an isolated existence in the Appalachians, they observe strange rituals and worship the forest and mud that surrounds them.

When Charles, the patriarch of the family, reveals he is dying, his children rally around him, only to find their fraying bonds tearing apart one by one, and their beliefs upended. For Wenna, the only Haddesley to have ever escaped the forest, it means coming home to face difficult truths. For Charlie, the eldest son, his father’s death means facing up to new, terrifying responsibilities.

Because the bog is waiting, ever-growing, ever-hungry, and if the Haddesley children aren’t careful, they will awaken something they have tried to keep at bay for a century.

7. WILLIAMby Mason Coile (Oct 3 in eb, Audible and pb)

Henry, a brilliant but reclusive engineer, has achieved the crowning discovery of his career: he’s created an artificially intelligent consciousness. He names the half-formed robot William.

But there’s something strange about William.

It’s not that his skin feels like balloon rubber and is the colour of curdled milk, nor is it his thick gurgling laugh or the way his tongue curls towards his crooked top teeth. It is the way he looks at Henry’s wife, Lily.

Henry created William but he is starting to lose control of him. As William’s fixation with Lily grows and threatens to bring harm to their house, Henry has no choice but to destroy William.

But William isn’t gone. Filled with jealousy for humanity, for its capacity to love and create life, William starts to haunt the house.

He lurks behind each locked door. You can hear him muttering in the eaves of the attic. He is whispering in Henry’s head. And he will be the one to take control . . .

8. ELEMENTAL FORCESed by Mark Morris (Oct 8 in eb, hb and pb)

Elemental Forces is the fifth volume in the non-themed horror series of original stories, showcasing the very best short fiction that the genre has to offer, and edited by Mark Morris. This new anthology contains 20 original horror stories, 16 of which have been commissioned from some of the top names in horror, and 4 selected from the 100s of stories sent to Flame Tree during a short open submissions window. A delicious feast of the familiar and the new, the established and the emerging.

Featuring stories from: Poppy Z Brite, Andy Davidson, Aaron Dries, Paul Finch, Christina Henry, Laurel Hightower, Verity Holloway, Jim Horlock, Gwendolyn Kiste, Annie Knox, Sarah Langan, Tim Lebbon, Will Maclean, Tim Major, Luigi Musolino, Kurt Newton, Nicholas Royle, David J Schow, Paul Tremblay, David J Schow, PC Verrone.

9. IN THE MAD MOUNTAINSby Joe R Lansdale (Oct 15 in pb)

Eleven-time Bram Stoker Award-winner Joe R. Lansdale returns with this wicked short story collection of his irreverent Lovecraftian tributes. Lansdale is terrifyingly down-home while merging his classic gonzo stylings with the eldritch horrors of H. P. Lovecraft. Knowingly skewering Lovecraft’s paranoid mythos, Lansdale embarks upon haunting yet sly explorations of the unknown, capturing the essence of cosmic dread.

A sinister blues recording pressed on vinyl in blood conjures lethal shadows with its unearthly wails. In order to rescue Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn traverses the shifting horrors of the aptly named Dread Island. In the weird Wild West, Reverend Jebidiah Mercer rides into a possessed town to confront the unspeakable in the crawling sky. Legendary detective C. Auguste Dupin uncovers the gruesome secrets of both the blue lightning bug and the Necronomicon.

Exploring the darkest corners of the human psyche, here is a lethally entertaining journey through Joe Lansdale’s twisted landscape, where ancient evils lurk and sanity hangs by a rapidly fraying thread.

Contents: The Bleeding Shadow; Dread Island; The Gruesome Affair of the Electric Blue Lightning; The Tall Grass; The Case of the Stalking Shadows; The Crawling Sky; Starlight, Eyes Bright; In the Mad Mountains.

10. BEST HORROR OF THE YEAR #16ed by Ellen Datlow (Dec 19 in pb)

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 sixteenth 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.

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.

I’m absolutely delighted to announce that the Mark Heckenburg crime series will recommence in the autumn of this year, with a scheduled publication date of mid-October.

There. I’ve said it, I’m committed to it and nothing will change it.

I know that for fans of the Heck novels there have been false daws previously, which has been agonising for me as well, I assure you. But all the days of uncertainty at last are over, and I’ll be bringing the next novel out - it’s called ROGUE, and will be the eighth in the Heck series - in time for the Christmas market. It’s been a long and difficult road, this, and I’ll explain a little bit about the problems that have arisen.

First though, as a quick interlude, just a quick reminder that there will be no Terror Tales volume this year, as my bandwidth is simply too full, but that we’ll be making up for it next year with a bumper edition, TERROR TALES OF CHAOS, as provided by a host of top horror names.

And now, back to the main news item of the day ...

Heck returns

The Heck series was a great success for me. The first batch of Heck novels ran from 2012 until 2018. There were seven in total, but also a number of short stories and novellas.

They follow the investigations of a young detective sergeant attached to the Serial Crimes Unit, a subsection of the National Grime Group (a kind of British version of the FBI, and before anyone says anything, the first of these books was published before the National Crime Agency was born, so as I always say, Scotland Yard got the idea from me).

As a cop whose brief is to follow the very worst of the worst - serial killers and rapists, hitmen, torturers and other violent psychopaths who are all deemed likely to continue their reigns of terror until brought to book - Heck has got himself into some unenviable scrapes over the years, and thanks to his unit’s remit to cover the whole of England and Wales, has pursued ultra-dangerous offenders in locations as far apart as the Thames estuary, Sunderland, the Lake District, Manchester and even on occasion, in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands.

At the core of the overarching story sits Heck’s difficult relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Gemma Piper, who by this time, as the detective superintendent in charge of the Serial Crimes Unit (or SCU), had become his senior supervisor.

Heck and Gemma had originally split up for spurious reasons (mainly Heck’s) and by the time the books start, have a purely professional relationship, though of course things can never be that simple.

Throughout the books and stories, they unsuccessfully try to keep each other at arm’s length. In fact, they hold each other in such unspoken affection that simply concealing it is difficult, though increasingly not so much for Gemma, who as the straightest bat in the police service is endlessly frustrated by Heck’s more chaotic approach to the job.

Basically, Heck will stop at nothing to shut down the careers of those he considers to be enemies of society. And this isn’t just restricted to playing every trick in the book. If necessary, he can and will strongarm his targets. Of course, that’s a dangerous game in the modern police era. You can end up in prison yourself, which for Heck would be a death sentence. So, he continually walks a perilous tightrope through the world of law enforcement, as often at odds with his own side as with the opposition.

What happened?

The reason the Heck series came to its temporary halt in 2018, with KISS OF DEATH the most recent caper in chronological terms, is purely technical.

In short, I changed publishers.

Avon Books were part of HarperCollins, who enabled me to create the Heck series, and I had many happy years rolling out the novels for them. When I moved to Orion in 2020, they were willing to continue the series under their banner - which was amazingly generous of them, given that Heck had never been their original character - but in the end, it was my own decision to write stand-alones for Orion. Two of these books were produced: ONE EYE OPEN and NEVER SEEN AGAIN. Again, they were no holds barred crime thrillers, set in the same universe as Heck (the National Crime Group and the Serial Crimes Unit were all referenced, though Heck himself didn’t appear).

After writing a couple of historical novels for Canelo - USURPER and BATTLE LORD - something I was simply desperate to do, I’ve now returned to the crime fiction scene with Thomas & Mercer, who have commissioned two more stand-alone novels, DEATH LIST and THE MURDER TOUR. Again, these are not Heck novels, but seeing that they are only slated for publication in 2025, T&M have very graciously allowed me to bring the next Heck novel out this year.

Anyway, that’s the background stuff. Now ...

Where do we pick up?

The Heck series resumes a very short time after KISS OF DEATH.

For those new to the series, KISS OF DEATH saw Gemma Piper’s Serial Crimes Unit, under dire threat of being axed in order to save costs, and thus put under joint-command with the Cold Cases Team (helmed by Detective Chief Superintendent Gwen Straker) with the codename Operation Sledgehammer, and

assigned to bring in the 20 most dangerous wanted fugitives from UK justice who are still believed to be in mainland Britain.

The whereabouts of these various killers are unknown, but all of them are classified as Category A, aka they are wanted in connection with the most heinous crimes imaginable and are capable of homicidal violence at the drop of a hat.

For example, Leonard Spate is chief suspect in the murder of a his ex-girlfriend and then the burning down of the Carlisle house in which her two children were sleeping, while Patrick Hallahan is believed to have committed a restaurant robbery in Slough, where two members of staff and a customer were shot dead, and Malcolm Kaye is the suspected deviant who’s been raping and strangling sex workers in Liverpool.

Heck, now working with his new SCU partner, the spiky but spirited Detective Constable Gail Honeyford (whom we first met in HUNTED), is sent in pursuit of Eddie Creeley, a career bank robber, whose last job saw him abduct a bank manager and his wife, and murder the latter by injecting her with battery acid.

Immediately, though he’s focussed on capturing Creeley, Heck is mystified that so many of these ultra-violent offenders have gone missing. Have they themselves become a target for someone?

What follows is a investigation fraught with danger, as Heck and Honeyford follow Creeley’s twisting trail from Humberside back to London and finally to Cornwall, in the process entering the world of high-level organised crime, where vengeance can be enacted on recalcitrant elements by forcing them to fight each other to the death in hideous gladiatorial combats.

In case there are any folks reading this who haven’t yet read KISS OF DEATH, I won’t say any more about how the book pans out, but I do need to mention that once all the dust has apparently settled, it culminates in a truly horrific event, which nobody involved saw coming, and which sets the scene for ROGUE, a Heck thriller which ultimately is as much about revenge as law enforcement.

My recommendation would be that, if you haven’t already read KISS OF DEATH, do so before you pick up ROGUE. But if you’d rather not, you can rest assured that ROGUE stands on its own merits; I’ve endeavoured from the start to make it crystal clear what is happening and why, and to ensure that not having read the previous volume will NOT spoil your enjoyment of it.

Dear All ... ROGUE is a book I’ve been dying to launch into the public domain. The final processes are now underway, and, as I say, it will be published this autumn, most likely in October. But keep watching this space for lots of updates re. artwork, blurbs, book trailers, pre-order details and so forth.

I’m not going to beat around the bush. Heck is back, ROGUE, the eighth novel in the series, is due for publication on October 1 this year, and today, as you can see, we are proud to reveal the cover.

Yes, you heard that rightly. After a lengthy break, imposed on us by unforeseen circumstances, the DS Mark Heckenburg saga resumes.

The next book, ROGUE, which picks up the story only a couple of months after the last one ended, will be available in paperback and ebook from early October. Be assured, we will shout the actual publication date from the rooftops and post the pre-order details all over the place just as soon as that info is available.

If anyone’s a bit concerned by that, perhaps worried that they can’t remember what had happened or where we were up to, don’t worry, we’ll have a quick recap further down this column.

In addition today, though I don’t tend to do my very fulsome book reviews anymore - sadly, they were taking too much time - I’ll be covering a few titles I’ve recently read and enjoyed, but much more briefly and succinctly than before. As usual, you’ll find that at the bottom end of today’s blogpost.

First though, let’s talk about ...

Heck

Before anything else, here’s the official blurb:

A ONE-WAY TICKET ALONG A ROAD OF NO RETURN

They shot everyone. His friends, his colleagues, the woman he loved. And then they vanished into the night. But they left one clue. A clue by which he knows he can track them to their lair. And when he gets there, he’s going to kill them all. Or die in the effort.

Detective Sergeant Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg has a reputation for bending the rules, but when a ruthless gun attack on a North London pub leaves 26 of his closest workmates dead, he throws the rulebook away.

Devastated beyond recovery, he goes rogue.

But Heck himself is a suspect. Suspended from duty and watched day and night, it isn’t just a matter of eluding the surveillance net in London, and so when he makes his move, he becomes a fugitive, an outlaw now infamous across the whole of the UK.

And yet that’s the least of his problems. Because as Heck heads north through the wintry badlands of industrial England, and from there into the mountainous wilds of the Scottish Highlands, the killers and their acolytes, who know full well that he is coming, have prepared accordingly, and some deadly and deranged individuals are lying in wait …

Another hard-as-nails addition to the hugely popular crime series. Ideal reading for fans of MW Craven, Stuart MacBride and Lee Child ...

If any newcomers to the Heck novel series are reading this, you’d be advised, being honest, to start at the beginning. But don’t get me wrong. You can read ROGUE as a stand-alone thriller, though you’d probably get more enjoyment out of it if you had some backstory.

The Heck series follows the investigations of a ‘lone wolf’ copper who is reassigned from the Greater Manchester Police to the Metropolitan Police after a fall-out with his family, and who then blazes a trail with his unique brand of stop-at-nothing policing, finally ending up a detective sergeant in the National Crime Group’s elite Serial Crimes Unit (SCU), whose remit is pursuit and capture of the UK’s most dangerous and violent psychopaths.

Not yet counting ROGUE (published on October 1 this year), there are seven Mark Heckenburg novels:STALKERS, SACRIFICE, THE KILLING CLUB, DEAD MAN WALKING, HUNTED, ASHES TO ASHES and KISS OF DEATH.

In addition, there are two Heck short stories out there, A WANTED MAN and DEATH’S DOOR, the former available on Kindle on 99p, the latter free to read, and one novella, BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT, which you can also read free of charge on my own blog, by following these links: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3.

The central arc of the Heck stories is his on/off romance with Gemma Piper, a young female detective he met on first arriving in London, and whom he commenced an intense relationship with. They were fire and water, to put it mildly, Gemma the ultimate by-the-book ‘straight bat’, Heck the rule-bender extraordinaire. This, though a constant bone of contention between them, wasn’t the main reason their relationship broke down. It was more the case that Heck, in the pig-headed fashion of all men everywhere, became frustrated by his girlfriend’s very fast ascent through the ranks, while he, through his famous lack of political acumen, remained anchored at the level of detective sergeant, though he himself would often admit (usually under pressure) that he’d turned down several offers of promotion because he’d ‘rather be an investigator than an administrator’.

Either way, the scene was set for a dramatic new stage in their relationship, when he arrived at the Serial Crimes Unit to find that Gemma, by this time a detective superintendent, was its senior supervisor. Despite all this baggage, their professional partnership would prove to be productive, Gemma constantly rollocking Heck but at the same time giving him plenty room to employ his eccentric, often high-risk methods, enabling him to snag some seriously nasty criminals.

But things came to a head in KISS OF DEATH ...

Warning for SPOILERS for the next three paragraphs.

... when at the end of a particularly difficult and dangerous enquiry, Operation Sledgehammer, the entire SCU team convene in a North London pub, the Ace of Diamonds, when two unknown gunmen open up on them with automatic weapons. A massacre results, with 26 killed and numerous others critically wounded. Heck survives, but Gemma is among the shot.

It was one of those horror endings, which usually leave readers gagging for more, but which in this case, through unavoidable circumstances (as outlined in earlier blogposts) became more than just a short-lived cliff-hanger as months and months, and then years and years passed, while I found myself working on other projects.

But, as I say, that wait is now over. ROGUE will be the eighth novel in the Heck series, arriving in October, and taking up the story just a couple of months down the line after KISS OF DEATH, with the fallout from the Ace of Diamonds shootings still descending everywhere, chaos in the upper echelons of the police, and one man absolutely determined that, come hell or high water, he will avenge the fallen.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

JUMP CUTby Helen Grant (2023)

What hellish secrets might ancient cans of film contain? When the quest for a lost movie leads a keen researcher to a remote Scottish mansion, she has a uniquely terrifying experience. Stately paced blood-curdler from our uncrowned queen of the supernatural. Exquisitely written, rising to some genuinely hair-raising chills, and packed with fearsome antagonists both living and dead.

THE HAUNTEDby Bentley Little (2012)

A troubled family moves to New Mexico, and find themselves in a suburban house where terror dwells. The master of curious horror channels Amityville in what at first feels like a standard haunted houser but soon turns into a penetrating study of stress, torment and family collapse. Not exactly terrifying, but the scares work well enough, while the power lies in the deep emotional impact.

JULIAby Peter Straub (aka FULL CIRCLE) (1976)

An unhinged woman descends into total madness, convinced she is being stalked by a demonic child. Interesting first horror novel from Straub, and though it drags in parts, and is a tad cluttered with protracted description, there are moments of high horror, the tension builds to breaking point, and the question constantly nags: is this evil the real deal or the phantom of a despairing psyche?

THIS IS MIDNIGHTby Bernard Taylor (2019)

The US tourist in London who becomes too obsessed with the tale of serial killer, John Christie. The neglected baby who takes revenge on its slatternly young mother. The misguided scientist and his ill-advised work with a praying mantis. Excellent range of horror and suspense from one of Britain’s forgotten masters. More great work from Valancourt Books.

SEEKING WHOM HE MAY DEVOURby Fred Vargas (2008)

When a mysterious predator in the French Alps switches from killing sheep to killing people, a detective par excellence is called in. Despite its hallmarks of the classic werewolf tale, we’re in firm crime thriller territory here. May have suffered a little in translation, but engaging all the same, at times uproariously funny and with a quality twist at the end. A fun read for dark fiction fans.

THE NIGHT CHURCHby Whitley Strieber (1983)

Young lovers try to break free from the Satanic cult who groomed them and now seek to replace mankind with a monstrous master race. Hit and miss horror thriller, but an effective blending of arcane mystery, demonic evil and modern day bio-terrorism. Despite uncharacteristically dull execution, a basically daft idea is handled convincingly and laced with shock moments.

ONCE A PILGRIMby James Deegan (2018)

In the post-Ceasefire era, a former IRA commander plots a long revenge on the ex-SAS man who killed his brothers, only for his opponent to slowly turn the tables. Hard-as-nails military thriller from a genuine SAS trooper, superbly written and reeking of authenticity. The horrific violence and ultra-dark undertone of unending hatred won’t suit everyone, but it’s compulsive reading.

ELEVEN KINDS OF LONELINESSby Richard Yates (1957)

Sobering collection of tales from ‘50s America, courtesy of a very fine author who never enjoyed real recognition during his life. The schoolkid who brings isolation on himself. The tough drill sergeant who can’t compete in a world of postwar bureaucracy. The wannabe writer conned into turning a cab-driver’s life into literature. Sad, funny and thought-provoking.

It’s nice to see all the excitement generated about the new Heck novel, ROGUE, which will be published in October (keep watching here for pre-order details).

But I now have some additional exciting news (if you’re a member of the Heck fan club). I’ve had no choice but to sit on this for a little while, but today I can reveal that, as well as the new Heck novel, ROGUE, this coming October will also see publication of a brand new Heck novella, KILLER INSTINCT, which is set several years ago, when all was hunky dory in the Serial Crimes Unit, and the recent devastating events hadn’t taken place.

I don’t want to say much more about it for now, because I’ll be going much bigger on this one in the days to come, except to add that it’s being published by BOTH Press (Books on the Hill, Clevedon), as part of their award-winning initiative to produce dyslexia-friendly books for British adults.

As with ROGUE, pre-order details will appear on here and all over the social networks just as soon as I get them.

But now we must take account of those who are new to this party and perhaps wondering what all the fuss is about.

So, apologies to those who are already familiar with the Mark Heckenburg saga, but I’m going to need to dedicate the bulk of today’s blogpost to those who aren’t.

And by that, I mean that I’ll be giving you all a quick rundown on the story so far. Just a quick reminder of what’s already occurred, if you like, Heck’s past investigations in chronological order etc.

Before we do any of that, I also want to mention again my new publishers, Thomas & Mercer, whom I finally hooked up with in person at the Theakston Old Peculiar Crime Writing Festival in Harrogate last week. I’ll also, if you stick with today’s column to the end, be posting a few more blurbs, connecting you to novels, anthologies and such, which I've recently read and enjoyed.

Harrogate

For those who don’t know about this annual summer knees-up, it’s a huge if very relaxed occasion, crime and thriller writers from all over the world, plus agents, editors, publishers and the like, not to mention bloggers and readers, gathering at the Old Swan Hotel, Harrogate, to compare notes, drink beer, swap stories, drink beer, attend panels, presentations and launches, drink beer, buy lots of books, drink beer, enjoy each others’ company, and drink beer. I think you get the general idea.

(If you don’t, check out this image of Buddy chilling out in the Old Swan garden. This should give you a rough idea how nicely laid-back it is).

Anyway, the usual splendiferous time was had by all. But from my POV, it was particularly fun this year as at last I got the chance to sit down and chat with the latest bunch of high-powered publishing people who’ve finally decided to take a punt on my writing.

In truth, you cannot overstate this.

As an author - at least, from my perspective - there are two things about this business that matter more than anything else.

a) Producing the best work you can in the time available.

b) Producing a piece of work that gets out there into the world and is read by many.

Every writer, of course, is the centre of his or her own universe. But even if you weren’t that, if you manage to create something you really consider to be special, you’re desperate for it to reach as wide a readership as possible. So, you can’t help but be absolutely delighted when a mass-market publisher, with all that financial muscle to promote and publicise, signs you up.

I’m very fortunate as for most my career I’ve been in the hands of big hitters: HarperCollins (where the Heck books began), Orion (for whom I wrote two stand-alones, ONE EYE OPEN and NEVER SEEN AGAIN) and Thomas & Mercer (for whom I have another stand-alone due out next year, DEATH LIST, which is slated for publication in spring).

Not everyone has happy stories to tell about working in the mass-market, but my experience thus far has been almost exclusively good, and I can’t stress enough how smooth a journey through the Thomas & Mercer process DEATH LIST has so far had. I’m very happy to be working with the good people of T&M, who so far have been very accommodating to all my thoughts and ideas.

I don’t want to talk too much about DEATH LIST at this stage. It’s a few months off yet, and the big news on my front at present concerns ROGUE. But I would say that I gain as much out of writing individual, free-standing thrillers as I do adding to the Mark Heckenburg canon, so, with any luck, my future path will now involve plenty of both.

Anyway, as promised ...

HECK: THE STORY SO FAR

(in chronological order)

A WANTED MAN(short story, published March 2015)

Our first visit to Mark Heckenburg’s police career. It’s the early days, and Heck is still a uniformed copper, serving in Salford, Manchester. Frustrated by the mundane nature of his work, unhappy with the situation at home, where his family are now estranged from him due to his joining the police, and irritated with many of his colleagues, particularly his supervisors, whom he finds to be uninspiring leaders, he dreams of better things. Then, while on a solo mobile patrol late at night, he gets a sniff of the local housebreaker and rapist known as the Spider because of his ability to climb walls and enter premises through the narrowest of gaps. Heck could call it in, but he’s had enough of the bosses at present. Instead, he determines to catch this goon on his own. That won’t just raise his standing in the job, it will finally make him feel that he’s at last making a difference. The problem is that the Spider is elusive, and the dingy, rain-soaked rooftops of Manchester will prove a perilous hunting ground.

BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT(novella, published December 2017)

It’s a very snowy Christmas Eve, and Heck, having reassigned to the Met Police and now a detective constable working CID in Bethnal Green, has agreed to man the office alone while everyone else goes home for the holiday. There isn’t much to do. It’s all paperwork, but outside the snow is falling heavily, blanketing the East End, creating problems everywhere. This doesn’t stop Gemma Piper, a fellow DC and someone Heck has become amorous with, popping in to see him while she’s off-duty, dressed as a sexy Santa. They are enjoying each other’s company, when Heck gets a phone call from Jenny Askew, the wife of a bank robber he sent to prison for 17 years. She has just been terrified by a very weird group of carol singers, who tried to gain access to her house. When Heck looks into it, another blagger’s wife has also had a visit, though in her case she’s been tortured and murdered. Convinced that someone is hunting the loot from the robbery, none of which has yet been recovered, Heck realises that several women dotted around London are now in extreme danger. But the blizzard is severe, the snowfall so heavy that all support units are impeded, and he and Gemma must track this bunch of killers on their own, before anyone else falls prey to them.

DEATH’S DOOR(novella, published June 2018)

Heck and Gemma’s relationship is feeling the strain. They love each other and have even set up home together in Finsbury Park, but Gemma is constantly alarmed and annoyed by the risks Heck takes to get the job done, while Heck himself is feeling peeved that Gemma has been earmarked for higher things. They are still only detective constables, but she has now caught the eye of various promotion boards. However, Heck is distracted from these problems when a woman living alone in Bethnal Green complains that she has a peeping Tom, an unknown man who regularly comes to her house at night and looks in through the windows. It doesn’t initially seem serious, but then Heck makes enquiries and finds that, ten years previously, a similar complaint was made by a woman living alone at the same house, and was ignored – and that woman was later murdered, a case that remains unsolved to this day. Is this some monstrous coincidence or is history about to repeat itself in the most macabre way. Heck suspects the latter, and is determined to be there to stop it.

STALKERS(novel, published February 2013)

Heck is now a detective sergeant, working within the Serial Crimes Unit, which is part of the National Crime Group. He had no idea when he applied for this post that ex-girlfriend Gemma, whom he hadn’t seen for several years, was now the detective superintendent in charge of SCU. They respect each other professionally, but that’s where it ends. Gemma, still the ultimate straight bat, mistrusts what she considers to be Heck’s cowboy approach to policing and is not even happy about the huge numbers of hours he puts in, because she knows this stems from his lonely private life and is concerned that it isn’t healthy. At present, Heck is attempting to connect 38 unexplained disappearances of professional women up and down the country. National Crime Group director, Jim Laycock, isn’t persuaded by Heck’s meticulously compiled comparative case analysis and insists that he take some leave. Gemma, who has a different view, forces Heck to take 10 weeks off but tacitly approves his continuing to investigate while he’s on leave. The only problem here is that it leaves him minus backup and resources, which isn’t the best position to be in as he slowly closes on a shadowy syndicate who even within criminal circles are a source of fear and concern: the Nice Guys Club.

SACRIFICE(novel, published July 2013)

Britain is rocked by a series of apparent ‘calendar killings,’ the murders all occurring on and seemingly appropriate to special feast days. A tramp walled into a chimney on Christmas Eve. A courting couple pinned together through their respective hearts by a single arrow on Valentine’s Day, etc. The Serial Crimes Unit is allocated the case, with Gemma as SIO, but when there are three roadside crucifixions on Good Friday, all hell lets loose. The pressure on the investigation team increases tenfold, even Heck and Gemma struggling to deal with it. When the press dub the maniac ‘the Desecrator’ and point out that his targets are selected randomly – they could literally be anyone and could be abducted at any time of day – the powers-that-be demand a shakeup. They want new investigators and a new plan. But while Gemma is taking all this heat on herself, Heck is making headway. To start with, there has to be more than one killer. Perhaps there’s a whole cadre of them. But as he pieces a trail of hard-won clues together, it leads, incredibly, to a public school in the leafy heart of England.

THE KILLING CLUB(novel, published May 2014)

When several murders of wealthy men occur in different locations around England, the MO always different, they aren’t initially linked. But when Heck identifies the victims as suspected clients of the Nice Guys Club, who, though they’ve been closed down in Britain, are still under investigation overseas, it becomes apparent that Nice Guys operatives who escaped the initial sweep have now returned to the UK and are looking to silence potential witnesses. A massive investigation now confronts the Serial Crimes Unit, which is complicated all the more when Nice Guys assassins come after Heck himself. After the events of STALKERS, he’d be the most damaging witness who could possibly take the stand, and there is no way that this deadliest of crime syndicates can allow that to happen. To Heck’s fury, Gemma responds by having him taken into protective custody, and when he breaks out of it, he himself becomes a fugitive.

DEAD MAN WALKING(novel, published November 2014)

Heck and Gemma are no longer on speaking terms after what Heck considers to be her betrayal of him during THE KILLING CLUB. As such, and as part of a new nationwide initiative to embed experienced detectives in rural areas, Heck has sought reassignment away from the National Crime Group, to the Cumbria Police, specifically in the mountainous region of the Langdale Fells. Resources are thin on the ground here, but there is plenty of crime, and Heck keeps busy. But then suddenly, two female hikers are brutally attacked, an act of unprovoked lethality, which has all the hallmarks of the Stranger, a serial killer who many years earlier terrorised Devon and was supposedly put out of action when Gemma Piper, then a mere detective constable working as an undercover decoy, shot and, as far as she’s aware, mortally wounded him. As a terrible winter fog descends on the Lake District’s higher peaks, completely cloaking the picturesque but isolated village where Heck is based, Gemma travels north, just in time for a whole new spree of murders to commence, a ruthless and very cruel individual attacking secluded settlements, remote farmhouses and the like, and anyone at all, male or female, whom he captures alone on the high moors. Could it really be the Stranger? Isn’t he supposed to be dead? Heck and Gemma must join forces to confront him, but as the fog thickens and resources are stretched, they feel increasingly cut off from the police network. The killer meanwhile, whether he’s the old one returned or an eager copycat, launches one murderous attack after another, with no one ever seeing or hearing him ... until it’s too late.

HUNTED(novel, published May 2015)

His relationship with Gemma partly patched up, though still far from perfect, Heck returns to the Serial Crimes Unit, where Gemma requests that he look into a curious case down in Surrey. A wealthy businessman has suffered a series of unlikely accidents, one of which has finally been the death of him. Gemma doesn’t consider this an SCU case. Surrey CID are already on it, but as a favour to her mother, who was a good friend of the deceased, she asks Heck to go and lend a hand. He does so, though he isn’t received warmly by the investigating officer, Detective Constable Gail Honeyford. Honeyford is single-minded and ambitious, never likes being mansplained to and is particularly firm that she doesn’t need any help. However, this latter changes when the case expands, Heck picking out other fatal accidents across the Home Counties, which might well have been engineered by someone. They can scarcely believe that they could have a ‘prankster killer’ on their hands, who likes to play huge practical jokes on random targets ... so huge that they nearly always prove fatal. The case grows exponentially as more and more incredibly inventive and horrific ‘accidents’ are added to the list. But it’s an increasingly confusing picture, Heck and Gail’s area of interest ranging from the South London badlands, where a local gang has been terrorising publicans with a series of late-night robberies, to the high society of Surrey’s land-owning elite. It’s also a concern when evidence emerges that the killers know all they need to about the cops pursuing them, and are planning some nasty surprises for them as well.

KILLER INSTINCT (novella, due for publication October 2024)

Heck visits prison to interview Dick Nesbit, an old lag about to go down for aggravated burglary. Nesbit can’t stand the thought of facing hard time and wants to make a deal. In return for some kind of amnesty, he offers an address where he recently broke in and saw photographs all over the basement walls depicting brutal murder scenes, some of which sound as if they might match unsolved crimes in the east of England. A police visit to the premises, warrant in hand, reveals no trace of any such images, but Heck is increasingly convinced that the death scenes described to him now match a range of open murder cases across the UK. The problem, at least from Gemma’s POV, is that none of these are a fit for each other; each case is currently in the hands of a different investigation team because there is no sign of a common MO. Heck wonders if this lack of MO may be the MO itself, but it seems even more unlikely given that his chief suspect is Ken Kozowski, a respected landscape photographer with no criminal record whatsoever. When Heck undertakes a one-man obbo, it feels on the surface like a lost cause, but there is something about this guy, Kozowski. Is he perhaps a bit too squeaky clean?

ASHES TO ASHES (novel, published April 2017)

John Sagan is an urbane everyman, who, to look at him, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. But in reality he’s a torturer-for-hire, working mostly for the underworld. He travels the country taking his ‘Toybox’ with him. It looks like an ordinary caravan, but in fact it’s a mobile, soundproofed torture chamber. At least, this is what the gossip mongers say. The problem Heck has is that he can’t prove any of it and can’t even lay hands on the Toybox. In the meantime, SCU are diverted north to deal with a madman called the Incinerator, who kills his victims with a homemade flamethrower. Heck doesn’t particularly want to go as the epicentre of the crimewave is Bradburn, Lancashire, the hometown he left so many years ago and has no desire to revisit. But then he works out that the Incinerator might actually be a hitman in an underworld war, the opposite side of which have now taken on their own enforcer, the recently vanished Sagan. It’s a no-brainer. Heck’s going up there and he’s getting involved.

KISS OF DEATH(novel, published August 2018)

With the Serial Crimes Unit under threat due to ongoing police cuts, Gemma Piper, to avoid the disbandment of her department, joins forces with another team hanging by a thread, the Cold Case Squad, who are under the command of an old mentor, Detective Chief Superintendent Gwen Straker, to undertake Operation Sledgehammer. In this dedicated but far-reaching enquiry, a number of very dangerous fugitives still believed to be at large in the UK have been targeted for detection and arrest. Heck, now with a new partner, Gail Honeyford, who has recently joined SCU, is sent to Humberside on the trail of a career bank robber who is also wanted for a double-murder. Progress is steady, until Heck obtains a pen-drive containing footage apparently showing their target fighting for his life in some kind of vicious gladiatorial combat. Heck is stunned. Could these very violent and dangerous offenders all have disappeared recently because they have been abducted and, for someone’s entertainment, been forced to fight each other to the death? It seems impossible. Who would have the wherewithal to mount such an operation? And why would they do it? There must be more to this than mere vigilantism. Gemma and Gwen are uneasy with the whole thing but trust their best detectives’ instincts. Heck and Gail thus travel back to London, the trail leading them into a world of snuf movies, contract killings and ultra high-level organised crime.

ROGUE (novel, due for publication October 2024)

When Heck miraculously survives a mass shooting at the Ace of Diamonds pub in North London, during which 26 of his fellow police officers are slaughtered, he becomes a suspect. None of those supervisors who know him believe he could really be involved, but nevertheless, he is put under surveillance. Heck himself emerged from the massacre unscathed, but with one important piece of evidence in hand, which he is certain will lead him to the shooters, an anonymous two-man hit team who no one even saw coming. However, he won’t share this clue with the official investigation team. He is too twisted up with hatred and a burning desire for revenge. Armed only with this single but vital clue, he evades the police cordon that has been placed around him, and heads north through the desolate landscape of the British winter. En route, he puts more and more clues together, slowly closing the distance between himself and the murderers. He also acquires an illegal firearm. Because things have gone too far for Mark Heckenburg. Mowing down his friends with automatic gunfire. Shooting the woman he loves. Arrest and conviction isn’t good enough for offenders like these. Some crimes are simply too heinous, and some criminals simply deserve to die. This time, Heck’s not just going to be the cop, he’s going to be judge and executioner too. But what he hasn’t allowed for is that the killers know he is coming. They are very ready for him, and have placed some truly nasty obstacles in his path.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

Recent works of dark fiction that I have read, thoroughly enjoyed and now heartily recommend.

PAPER GHOSTS by Julia Heaberlin (2018)

A Texas woman abducts an elderly man and, determined to prove him the serial killer responsible for her sister’s disappearance, takes him on a hellish road trip. Raw, creepy travelogue of a crime thriller. Lacking in action, but captivatingly written in the Southern Noir tradition, and constantly posing the question: is he or isn’t he?

CRISSCROSSby F Paul Wilson (2004)

Another episode in Wilson’s Adversary Cycle, Repairman Jack this time infiltrating the Dormentalist Temple, a NY-based cult hellbent on creating a worldwide catastrophe. Slickly written and hugely clever, and featuring the usual array of complex, high-stakes predicaments. Energised and enthralling. There are few do ‘supernatural horror meets hardcase thriller’ as well as Mr Wilson.

THE RULE OF THREE by Sam Ripley (2024)

Disparate characters investigate a frightening urban legend and uncover a possible series of murders. Exceptionally well-written mystery from Tom Wood (writing as Ripley), a deep dive into the world of urban myths and troubled minds, and a constant sense of impending doom. Massively intriguing and packed with twists and turns you genuinely didn’t see coming. Classy stuff indeed.

DEEP STORMby Lincoln Child (2011)

A doctor joins a top-secret drilling gig on the Atlantic floor, only to learn that the prize below the seabed is a thing of colossal power and mass terror. Withstand the avalanche of scientific detail, and there’s much to enjoy in this deep ocean sci-fi thriller. The unique environment is vividly captured, the atmosphere taut, the basic concept as high they come. It’s got Hollywood written all over it.

WHOSE LITTLE GIRL ARE YOU?by David Craig (1974)

When London gangsters abduct a security chief’s family, to force him to assist with a major heist, a drunken ex-cop determines to foil them. Gritty slice of 1970s Noir, competently if not prettily written, thin on characterisation and filled with painful scenes of alcoholism, and yet it remains an absorbing page-turner. Its moral ambiguity and tough, sleazy tone strike a grimly authentic note.

STARVE ACREby Andrew Michael Hurley (2020)

A husband and wife inherit a barren stretch of Yorkshire countryside, only to learn the hard way that this has always been ‘a bad place’. Ultra subtle psychological/supernatural chiller, eloquently written and deeply evocative of the quiet woods and high dales. Think MR James, think ‘70s TV terror (only with an extra-horrific finale). Should sit comfortably among the folk horror classics.

MOOD SWINGSby Dave Jeffery (2024)

The Halloween dinner for two that descends into nightmarish horror. Life and death in the suburbs as irrational fear becomes a national pandemic. The mortician with a talent for repairing the dead, but also an urge to collect them. Plus, other thought-provokingly gruesome treats. A bunch of short, sharp shockers, expertly and concisely written, all delving deep into our everyday fears and phobias.

You’re probably all getting sick of reading about ROGUE, the next Mark Heckenburg novel (which is out this October). But today, you’re not going to need to read about it. You can hear about it instead.

Because, exclusively in today’s column, I’ve posted a clip of my good self reading the book’s prologue. In addition today, because I’ve got lots more to report in this second half of 2024, I’ll be intro’ing two new novellas I have out by offering you, in each case, the official blurb from the book’s back cover, and a couple of choice snippets.

Hopefully, you’ll find all this sufficiently interesting to stick around for a few minutes. However, I know that time is often short, and so, without further ado, let's get cracking with the ...

New titles

Those who are eagerly awaiting ROGUE - and I’m really delighted that you’ve made yourself known to me, because it proves that there is still a sizeable chunk of readers out there who are dying to know what happens next in the Heck universe - should be pleased to hear that as the final proof-read is now complete (here it is above, in progress), the book has now gone off to be typeset and the production wheels are rolling.

Anyway, there’s been enough teasing done about this. Let’s get into the meat ...

Here is ROGUE, the (four-minute) Prologue ...

Hope you all enjoyed that.

There is still a bit of time to go between now and publication - we haven’t got an actual pre-order date yet, but rest assured, it’ll be on here at torpedo speed when we do. However, you can now buy either or both of my two new novellas this autumn.

First up, we have another Heck outing. This one was is set several years ago, before the recent catastrophic events. It’s called KILLER INSTINCT.

I’ll start with a blurb, and after that a juicy snippet:

When a frantic burglar tells Heck that he’s found photographs of ghastly crime scenes in a privately-owned cellar, Heck initially treats it with scepticism ... but then remembers that there are many gruesome murders in the unsolved file.

Alarmed, he wonders if the Serial Crimes Unit has missed a particularly vicious assailant. And yet none of this sickening evidence marries up. The locations are different, the implements are different, the methods used, though in all cases terrifying, range widely across the spectrum of tortured insanity.

These can’t all be victims of the same perpetrator. But if that isn’t the case, what in God’s name is going on here?

And now the snippet ...

Metal clattered again, and a pair of headlamps sprang into life. With a low, clunky rumble, a vehicle emerged along the shadowy passage. A white high-sided van, battered, rusty and dented, an empty steel rack occupying its roof.
It halted at the alley entrance, signalling to go right. It was difficult to see who was behind the wheel, but in truth it could only be one person. Heck hurried around the first of the idling taxis and leaned in at the passenger window.
‘Do you take card?’
The driver, a hefty bloke wearing a khaki jacket and a flat cap, nodded. ‘Sure do.’
‘Good. I’ll give you two hundred minimum …’ across the road, the van turned right, ‘if you follow that van.’
The driver pulled a face. ‘Don’t waste my time, mate.’
‘I guarantee you I’m not, but we’ve got to go now, or we’ll lose him.’
Along the road, the van stopped at a red light. The driver meanwhile gave Heck a long, quizzical look. ‘This really happens?’
‘It’s a first for me too.’
‘I dunno. Who are you?’
Heck showed his warrant card. ‘Police.’
‘Two hundred?’ The driver pursed his lip. ‘Make it three and we’re on.’
‘Deal.’ Heck jumped in.

The van left Upminster by zigzagging its way through several residential housing estates before hitting the open countryside.
‘The hell?’ the taxi driver muttered. ‘Is he lost?’
‘Far from it,’ Heck replied.
‘This a real bad boy, then?’
‘To be honest … I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Never can tell,’ Heck said. ‘So, stay on him. But keep it nice and steady, eh? Let’s not give him a heads-up.’
‘Bloody hell.’ The driver looked shaken, as though it had taken him this long to realise what it was he’d undertaken. ‘Is he armed?’
‘Again, I don’t know.’
‘Lord help us! And I only charged you three hundred ...’

Still with us? Good, because here is the next of the year’s new releases.

ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE, from Absinthe Books, is a project I haven’t spoken about very much, because all discussions were embargoed until last month, when it was launched at Worldcon in Glasgow. This one is another cop story, but it’s a cop story with a difference. While it has the trappings of a crime thriller, it’s actually, as you may deduce from Greg Chapman’s amazing artwork, an occult horror.

I won’t say anything else about it at present, except that, here’s the official blurb, and following that, a choice extract:

The midnight cathedral filled with fire

The leather-clad monstrosity that kills with a spiked mace

The unholy pact between man and demon

Cynical London cop, Dora “Mac” McDougal, of the Metropolitan Police’s elite Organised Crime Command, has a strike-rate that is second-to-none, mainly because of her cavalier approach to rules and regulations. However, when Mac discovers the whereabouts of a cop-killer whom she has a personal beef with, she literally throws caution to the wind.

This animal in human form took out the only guy she ever cared about. And only one response is possible to that.

However, when Mac’s off-the-books revenge mission takes her north, she finds herself in a woe-begotten town, itself in the grip of supernatural evil. And uncovers a devilish plot to unleash torturous death on an epic scale.

Throughout her twenty-year war against the nation’s deadliest criminals, Mac could never have dreamed how many lower levels of darkness there still are, all just waiting to unleash their malevolent forces.

And here’s the sneak preview I mentioned ...

With a sweeping right hand, it struck her across the face. It wasn’t a punch so much as a raking talon, the extended nails on their shrivelled, stick fingers rending her cheek open. With frantic squeals, she kicked and punched. Another shot went wild above their heads before she released the weapon, and forced herself through the next gate into the garden itself.
Here, it was all knee-deep thorns and bracken, which tangled her legs and threw her down. As she scrambled to her feet, the thing caught up with her again, the fog of its foetor overwhelming as it clenched its fist in the collar of her jacket and hurled her sideways. She flew through the undergrowth, slamming hard into a solid upright beam or post, which knocked all the breath and stuffing from her, the blow to her ribs so fierce that she thought she’d pass out. She had to wrap her arms around it just to stay on her feet.
Again, she sensed the thing looming up behind. She swung around, fists balled, but already it was onto her, those wiry talons clamped on her throat as it shoved her back into the post. The face was an inch from hers. Even in the red-tinged gloom, she saw those lifeless, sunken orbs, the nasal gap where the nose had fallen away, the sagging lower jaw hanging from wasted, string-like muscles ...

At long last I’m able to post this. The e-book of ROGUE, the next Heck novel, Number 8 in the series, is now available for pre-order right HERE, with the paperback to follow shortly.

It will officially be published on October 24, and all you have to do make sure you get it the moment it comes available is follow this LINK.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, thanks very much to all of those Heck fans and loyal readers who encouraged and cajoled me with their messages and posts throughout the period when Heck was ‘off the air’. A change of publisher coincided (tremendously unfortunately) with the Covid crisis, and the Mark Heckenburg series was not the only project to hit the buffers because of this.

I wish we could have got things going again a little sooner, but looking back now, the world as I knew it after Covid was very different from the world before. People had left their positions and others’ priorities had changed. What once had been hot no longer was. The upshot was that it soon became apparent I was going to have to put in way more work than usual if I wanted to see the next DS Heckenburg novel, which was already written (and had been for a couple of years!), see the light of day.

Thankfully though, that time now has come. I’ll be talking a little bit more about it further down, when I offer you a first glimpse of the Dramatis Personae of this all-new Mark Heckenburg thriller.

In addition today, I’ll be posting another Thrillers, Chillers, hitting you all with another quick blurb for each of the novels or anthologies that I’ve recently read and been impressed by.

ROGUE
Who’s Who

ROGUE picks up pretty much where KISS OF DEATH, the seventh Mark Heckenburg left off, Heck now on the trail of the two anonymous hitmen who gunned down 26 of his friends and colleagues and left him to take the blame. That’s all I’m going to say for now about the synopsis. If you can’t live without at least a little bit more, I suggest you get yourself over to the Amazon SITE, where it’s currently on pre-order, and feast on the slightly more extensive info we provide there.

If, on the other hand, you simply MUST know everything, all I can say is get your order in. It isn’t too long until October 24.

And now, as promised, a rollcall of all the key characters in ROGUE (some of whom regular readers will recognise, some of whom are completely new to the saga) ...

Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg

Formerly a detective sergeant in the Serial Crimes Unit sub-section of the National Crime Group, currently on suspension. An instinct investigator rather than an analyst. Not exactly a maverick, but he does prefer to go it alone, and is constantly frustrated by what he considers the inadequacies of the job’s higher echelons. Can be ruthless but mostly is affable, though at present he’s carrying a lot of grief, along with a lot of suppressed anger.

Detective Constable Gail Honeyford

One of Heck’s best and most loyal friends in the job. She is feisty, outspoken and excitable, and sometimes insufficiently respectful of her supervisors, for which she often gets reprimanded.

Detective Chief Superintendent Gwen Straker

SIO on Operation Sledgehammer and a very popular supervisor, Gwen has a maternal style rather than a bossy one, but like all good mothers, she can be firm when it’s required. Very measured. Doesn’t get shouty but can lay the law down when she needs to.

Detective Inspector Jude Penhaligon

Internal Investigations officer, so an outsider from the start – but that doesn’t bother her. Very well educated, cool and analytical. Doesn’t miss much and rarely gets ruffled.

Director Joe Wullerton

Director of the National Crime Group, and one of Britain’s most senior and respected detectives. A gruff but approachable commander, who’s politically savvy enough to trust his top investigators (though he sometimes wonders why). Close to retirement but still a calm, capable leader.

Detective Superintendent Mike Garrickson

A throwback to the ‘good old days’. A diamond geezer who’s often so close to the underworld that he could equally be a villain. However, he’s deceptively clever and shouldn’t be underestimated.

Snake Fletcher

A classic inner-city toerag. A metalhead drug-user, spiv and sneak thief, who has also worked as Heck’s informer, though recently it’s become apparent that he has been playing for other teams. A weaselly, cowardly rat.

Dana Black

Heck’s older sister, and though she doesn’t always approve of his methods (and dislikes the cops anyway), she and he are the only two left of their family, and so the bond is tight. Very working class in her attitude and manner.

Leroy Butler

A former bank-robber but with a code of ethics. He dislikes the police but feels he owes Heck because Heck once took a terrible risk when he pulled his children out of a housefire.

Detective Constable Gary Quinnell

Another of Heck’s mates. Big boisterous character, a Welsh rugby union player and something of a roughneck even though he’s also a practising Christian. Tough as teak.

Kyle Armstrong

President of a Manchester Hells Angels chapter, and a dangerous, violent career criminal. At the same time, a cool, calculating customer who no one should underestimate. Devilishly handsome.

I should add that this isn't the entire list. The names and details of certain other participants have been withheld for the time being to avoid hitting you with any unfortunate SPOILERS.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

Works of dark fiction that I have recently read, thoroughly enjoyed and heartily recommend (sometimes with a few lighter ones occasionally mixed in).

CHILD OF GODby Cormac McCarthy (1973)

A rejected misanthrope goes it alone in the Appalachian wilderness and slowly degenerates into a predatory beast. Short but disturbing novel from the king of dark fables, and a far cry from the ‘subnormal mountain man’ horror some may expect, the antihero at its heart de-evolving through neglect and isolation. Sad, distressing, and a groundbreaker in its effort to understand extreme deviance.

THE ENTITY by Frank De Felitta (1978)

An LA single mother is raped repeatedly by a half-seen being, but an investigating psychiatrist suspects it’s a painful delusion created by trauma. Non-sensational, psychologically complex but fictionalised account of true-life events that shocked America in the 1970s. More like a case study than a horror novel, highly intelligent and soberly paced, and though hair-raising in parts, cleverly keeping many possibilities open.

MULADONAby Eric Stener Carlson (2016)

Texas 1918, the height of the Spanish Flu catastrophe. An abandoned boy falls victim to repeated visits by a demon, who, if his identity isn’t discovered during the course of seven terrifying tales, will drag him to Hell. Effective blend of Hispanic myth and occult horror, with a literary subtext about ignorance, fundamentalism and hypocrisy. Packed with full-on scares, and exquisitely written.

IMPERIUMby Robert Harris (2006)

The struggles of lawyer, Marcus Cicero, during the dying days of the Roman Republic. Political chicanery par excellence, set in a distant but not unfamiliar world, Harris hitting us with complex, intriguing tale and vividly evoking an era long gone.

GRENDELby John Gardner (1971)

A retelling of the Dark Age poem but from the perspective of its main antagonist, Grendel. A marvel of fantasy fiction from an author who left us too soon. Mythology, philosophy and much metaphysical pondering combine to create a thinking man’s epic, complete with comedy, tragedy, heroism and brutality. At the same time a study of isolation, which asks lots of questions but provides no easy answers. A stunning literary feat, well worth its ‘modern classic’ status.

TESTIMONYby Mark Chadbourn (2014)

True case of an idyllic Welsh farm, which malignant spirits soon turn into a literal Hell. A British Amityville minus the charlatanism, the eerie tale of Heol Fanog is better known now after recent TV publicity, but for the full skinny read this excellent study by Mark Chadbourn, who flexes his journalist muscles in leaving no stone unturned to hunt an elusive truth. Very thorough, very engrossing, very frightening.

Want to do something different to promote your next book? How about this? Select certain sections of text and condense them down to the raw dialogue - in other words, turn them into snippets of audio drama. Then get a bunch of talented amateur actors, furnish them with copies of the ‘script’, get them on a mic together and see what happens ...

As part of the promotional strategy for my new Heck novel, ROGUE (published on the 24th of this month, but ready to preorder right NOW), I’ve done exactly this, producing new and, I hope, quite original book trailers. And in today’s blogpost, if you say tuned, you can see AND HEAR them.

You’ll also note the several images with which I’ve peppered this post: those are the actors themselves hard at work on the project. If you want to know how it all happened, you’ll need to stay tuned a little bit longer.

In addition today, I’ll talk about my horror output now that we’re getting to the darker end of the year, and to round things off, will hit you with another of my new-look Thrillers, Chillers, focussing on some of the latest books, both old and new, that I’ve recently read and which have really done it for me.

Before any of that, though, let’s get onto the subject of ...

Trailers ... trailers ... trailers ... trailers ...

The first thing to say is that I’m not here today to tell you how to make a book trailer. Initially, because I’m not by any means a font of knowledge on this matter. But in addition, because the internet is already full of professional and artistic individuals offering this service to writers, and though they’d obviously charge, they can do a far better job than me.

What I AM going to talk about, though, is the brand new step I’ve taken this year - brand new to me at least - as part of the promotion package for the new DS Heckenburg thriller, ROGUE (the ebook of which, I reiterate, can be pre-ordered right now, though both the ebook and the paperback will be available immediately on October 24):

It’s this dramatisation business I alluded to earlier.

I’ve no doubt there are several questions you’ll already want to ask about this. So, let’s go:

1) Why bother doing your own promo?

Well, it’s an understandable position to take. We all like to think that our publishers and their promotions people will take care of publicity. They should do. And most of the time they do, and sometimes they’re even successful ... but not always. In truth, I’ve never met a working author yet who doesn’t gripe at least a little bit about his or her experience of the mass-market publicity machine.

But even if you implicitly trust your publisher to showcase your new book in the best way possible and literally drive an avalanche of sales, how can it hurt you do some promotional work yourself? Most of us do that already, of course. We sit on panels at literary festivals, we attend launches and signings, we give interviews to the press, we write guest blogs for book review websites. But in this age of mass media, there are other things we can do too. Granted, not all of them are cost-free, or can be done on a whim and require next to no time or effort ... but I suppose it all depends how much you want to put into promoting your latest piece of work. It’s your call in the end. No one will force you.

2) Isn’t self-promotion a bit self-indulgent?

Well, the short answer is: Yes, of course it is. But if you want people to read your book, or even just be aware that it’s out there, what else are you going to do? Yes, word of mouth will travel, but it doesn’t always travel quickly. Unless you’re prepared to pay for big advertising, there aren’t too many other avenues open to you.

3) Won’t internet folk just get sick of seeing you talking about your own book, and switch off?

Absolutely they will. Which is why it pays dividends to think laterally, varying what you are doing in terms of promo, experimenting a little, creating a campaign that is slightly different from the norm, and perhaps more interesting each time. In truth, the only limit to what you can do here is the limit of your imagination, but it’s easy to say that. In any case, today, we’re only going to talk about one new method. The one I’ve already mentioned: dramatising passages from the text, getting seriously talented people to perform it, and then weaving it all into a series of eye and ear-catching trailers. Here’s how it happened in the case of ROGUE ...

Audio drama

My wife (and business partner), Cathy, and I, are fortunate enough to both be members of WIGAN LITTLE THEATRE, a dynamic, multi-award-winning operation, which produces top quality on-stage drama at a rate of one play a month, all the year round. Yes, you heard that correctly - ALL the year round. this means, producing about ten plays, invariably to semi-professional standards, every year. After one such exceptional production, Tim Firth’s Sheila's Island, way back in April this year, it suddenly struck me as astonishing that I hadn't tried to make use of this remarkable pool of talent to assist me on the publicity trail. And when I raised this issue in the theatre bar with a group of actors who Cath and I are particularly friendly with, I was amazed at how keen everyone was to participate.

Of course, it wasn't as simple as that.

The first thing I had to do was select chunks of the new book, ROGUE, and narrow them down into pieces of drama, create mini-scripts in effect, which I could then send out to people who didn’t know much about the plot at this stage, and thus had no real context. Next, I had to secure a producer/director/production manager, who could turn what at the time was a still a concept rather than a workable plan into something solid. Then I had to secure a recording date on which everyone would be available. And then find a recording venue, a studio in effect.

The first of these challenges I met quickly because the positive response from all concerned had kindled my enthusiasm no end. It was also the case that I was very in tune with ROGUE by this time. Though I’d completed it several years earlier, Cathy and I had been working hard to devise promotional strategies, and so had refamiliarised ourselves with the book massively. The actors meanwhile were very receptive to my context notes, and so that hurdle was overcome relatively quickly as well.

Securing a production manager/techie guy was also relatively painless. My first port of all was Cash Productions, as owned and operated by pro TV cameraman and movie-maker, Iain Cash, who was more than willing to lend us his expertise. But it was after this when the problems started. All those who'd initially agreed to participate were still willing, but by now it was summer, and so the holiday season was approaching and all the kids were off-school. It was going to be asking a lot therefore to find an afternoon that would suit everyone, and not just the cast, but Cash Productions too.

Somehow, we managed it. Don’t ask me how. Sorry if you were expecting pearls of wisdom on this. I honestly think we just got lucky on that front.

In terms of studio space, this was even more complex. Obviously we had to try and keep the costs down, which meant trying to avoid hiring somewhere. In the end we settled for our own house. We had enough room thankfully, and our springer spaniel Buddy, who’s been moping a lot since the loss of his brother last year, was content to sit quietly and be petted. This would also enable us to reward our amateur cast with as much food and booze as they could manage once the recording session had wrapped.

With everything in the can, it was then a matter of Iain Cash and I going into postproduction, assessing the raw material we’d gathered, editing where necessary - and we had to do a lot of that because, by design, we’d recorded far more than we knew we’d need (to keep trailers interesting, you must keep them short and tight) - and then splicing it all together as effectively as possible.

As to whether we’ve succeeded in that, you can be the judges. Several of the trailers we made - or perhaps I should call them SOUNDBITES - are posted below. Just make sure you TURN THE SOUND ON when you check them out, as otherwise that will defeat the whole object.

I won’t deny that we’re on a learning curve here. As far as I know, this is the first time something like this has ever been done to promote a book. I could be wrong on that, of course - don’t hold me to it. But I’m reasonably confident that readers and book fans won’t have encountered this very often before.

Is it something we’ll do again when the next book comes out? Very likely. And I suspect we’ll be better at it then. I urge all writers who want to do their bit when it comes to promoting their upcoming work to consider trying something similar, because if nothing else, you’ll have one hell of a time while you’re doing it.

My thanks now go to Iain Cash and Cash Productions, and the Wigan Little Theatre crowd, Mark Lloyd, Stacey Vernon, John Churnside, Helen Gray, Joey Wiswell, John Dudley, Nicola Reynolds and Tara Haywood ... for going above and beyond the call of duty to make this thing happen.

One final time, ROGUE hits the shops both as an ebook and paperback, on October 24. And now ...

The scary stuff

It’s almost Halloween. So, it would be pretty remiss of me not to mention some out-and-out horror stuff. I think I’ve just got time to remind you all that ELEMENTAL FORCES has now been published. It’s the latest entry in the excellent anthology series, ABC OF HORROR from Flametree Press, as edited by the tireless Mark Morris.

My own contribution (my second to this series, I’m proud to say), is Jack-a-Lent, a Liverpool-set crime story drawing on the old myths of the city, which very quickly becomes riddled with supernatural terror. If that isn’t enough to interest you, look at some of the other authors involved. I mean, it’s a no-brainer really, isn’t it.

On a similar subject, I’m going to mention, as I do every year around this time, SEASON OF MIST, my autumnal coming-of-age horror novella, first published in 2010, and still available as a paperback, ebook and in Audible.

Looking beyond October 31, in fact probably from the day after November 5, we’ll be thinking increasingly about Christmas. And if you like Christmas spook stories, why not grab another novella of mine from 2010?

SPARROWHAWK, one of my favourite pieces of work to date, is also available in ebook, paperback or Audible.

It’s set in early Victorian London during a bitterly cold Christmas, wherein a range of festive spectres are summoned to confront an embittered veteran of the Afghan War.

On top of that, if Yuletide scare-fare is to your liking, you might also try IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER, or THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE, two collections of my Christmas spook stories, which again are available in Kindle, paperback and Audible.

And now, to finish things off today, as promised ...

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

Works of dark fiction that I have recently read, thoroughly enjoyed and heartily recommend (sometimes with a few lighter ones mixed in).

BY BIZARRE HANDS by Joe R Lansdale (1989)

The weird preacher whose obsessive lunacy always brings death. The Gulf Coast camping trip that quickly turns hideous. The roving teen troublemakers who get far more trouble than they can handle. Lansdale’s first collection of short stories is a mixed bag of horror and crime, but written to perfection, packed with odious fragments of humanity, terrifying scenarios and fist-in-the-face violence so gut-thumpingly brutal that you’ll never forget it.

SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY MORNINGby Alan Sillitoe (1958)

In the late 50s, a Nottingham factory worker causes domestic chaos with his drinking, his carryings-on with married women, and his general disrespect. All-time classic of working-class literature, still as raw, energised and passionate in the 2020s, and of course, flawlessly written, taking the reader right back to another time and place, making the boisterous world of the Angry Young Man as real today as it was then.

SOME WILL NOT SLEEPby Adam L.G. Nevill (2016)

‘The beautiful tall house on the hill’, where trespassers may suffer lifelong damage. The roommate engaged in something unspeakable. The innocent children menaced by the abominable pig thing. The isolated cottage in the Nordic wilds, and the monstrosity that calls it home. And much more. A masterclass in genuine, continuous terror. Nevill writes magnificent prose, but his stories cut like ripsaws.

ROOM AT THE TOPby John Braine (1957)

A former POW embarks on an ambitious career in an industrial Yorkshire town, using every trick in the book, and the local women, to advance his interests. Less an Angry Young Man diatribe, and more a bitter-sweet romance as a young tough learns the hard way that he’s a tad less pitiless than he thought. A stark picture of austerity-ridden postwar Britain, lovingly and handsomely evoked and deeply redolent of a land on the cusp of social revolt.

THE GRAVEYARD APARTMENTby Mariko Koike (1993)

A Tokyo family takes a new apartment amid a complex of old temples and derelict cemeteries, but soon wish they hadn’t. A real slow burner this one but jam-packed with all the typical jolts of eerie horror we find in Japanese spook stories, finally building to a bone-jarring climax. Koike writes with chilling effectiveness, while Deborah Boliver Boehm translates in style.

THE MONSTER OF FLORENCEby Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi (2008)

When US author Doug Preston moved to Italy, he became fascinated by a series of grotesque murders committed by ‘the Monster’, a predator who was still at large. His own investigation followed, and this is it. A masterclass in True Crime, packed with grim detail, but endlessly tense and intriguing (especially when the authors themselves become suspects!), and delving deep into Tuscan lore, arcane ritual, rumours of secret societies etc. As absorbing as any work of fiction.

Today is publication day for ROGUE, the eighth novel in the Mark Heckenburg series.

I’m delighted but also aware that it must seem - certainly to those who follow the Heck books - as if it’s been an age in the writing, but that actually isn’t true. It was written as a direct follow-up to KISS OF DEATH, which was published in 2018, but a change of publisher and then the Covid crisis created an interruption to the natural flow of things, which the Heck saga almost didn’t survive.

It was mainly due to my own determination to keep my favourite character going that the concept remained afloat during this period, though it would still have sunk without the strong encouragement of my wife and business partner, Cathy, who considered the million-selling series too worthwhile and valuable to simply abandon (while the persuasive powers of the innumerable fans who sent me emails, pms and texts, begging me to continue - for which I can’t thank them all enough - was instrumental too).

Anyway, I won’t say much more about ROGUE here, as you can all get hold of it yourselves now and make your own judgements. But the meat of today’s blogpost will contain some of the delightful reviews at the book has had so far.

Let’s get on with it ...

What the Heck?

Okay ... so ROGUE is out at last. My best-selling series of crime/thriller novels is back on the road.

As promised, I won’t belabour you with any further snippets of content info. I’ll simply say Happy Publication Day to my ‘stop at nothing’ detective, and now give the floor to a bunch of people whose professional expertise and literary opinions I value very highly indeed, so that they can offer their own views on the matter ...

‘Finch’s original hero returns explosively. As hardboiled as cop fiction gets. Viciously action-packed but layered with feeling and a deep sense of loss. An assault on the senses in book form.’

Helen S Fields

Author of The Institution and the DI Callanach series

‘If any Heck fans were wondering what he’d get up to once the constraints of being a police officer were lifted, wonder no more.
In this fast-moving tale, he takes on ever more dangerous foes as he hunts the people behind the massacre of his closest colleagues.
Now suspended, he can’t rely on backup from his colleagues. Despite this, he won’t back down or take the easy path, even when the odds against him look hopeless.
My mistake was assuming I could read a bit and get on with my work, but each time I picked it up, I didn’t want to stop reading.
Explosive action-packed and gripping. A worthy addition to a great series.’

David Beckler

Author of the Antonia Conti series

‘Need a rest after tearing through ROGUE, the latest Heck novel by Paul Finch. A thrill-per-page ride with action sequences that wouldn't be out of place in a Bond film.’

David Jackson

Author of Don't Make a Sound, The Resident and the Nathan Cody series

‘Author Paul Finch should be a household name. He is the type of author admired by his peers and readers alike. In ROGUE we have an excellent, superbly written action thriller from one of the UK’s best. In Heck’s latest gut-and-heart-wrenching tale we have tough action, intrigue and a revenge driven maverick hero reminiscent (to me) of a northern Luther. I loved this book, I think you will too.’

Matt Hilton

Author of the Grey and Villere series

‘Finch’s ROGUE is utterly unputdownable as it’s the consummate thriller that thrills, excites, exhilarates and catches you off guard with beautifully placed twists. Excuse me while I head off to hammer on Finch’s door to demand the next novel.’

Graham Smith / John Ryder

Author of Watching the Bodies and First Shot

‘Brutal, brilliant contemporary noir with a jet-black heart. Heck is formidable, tough as old boots, and makes for irresistible reading.’

Tom Mead

Author of Death and the Conjuror

‘A gritty, dark, explosive crime thriller. Heck is hard to beat!’

Alex Shaw

Author of the Jack Tate SAS series

‘Paul Finch is one of the best police procedural writers out there. If you’re a fan, don’t miss this page-turner!’

Marnie Riches

Author of the Detective Jackie Cooke series

‘Heck’s return is not only so welcome and anticipated, but so damn thrilling. Finch’s flair for relentless, unputdownable excitement is here in abundance, dragging us lucky readers face first through his trademark grit and darkness. Loving it!’

Rob Parker

Author of the Ben Bracken series

‘ROGUE is my first foray into Heck’s world and what a rollocking, riveting page-turner it is! Now I’ll have to start the series at the beginning!’

Caroline England

Author of The Stranger Beside Me

‘As packed with twisting mystery, as it is full-throttle action, Paul Finch brings Heck back with a bang! The very definition of a page-turner, it all leads up to a thrilling finale I guarantee you won’t forget in a hurry. Fans really are in for a treat.’

Paul Kane

Author of Her Husband's Grave, The Family Lie and Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

‘After an absence of several years, Detective Sergeant Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg is back with a bang in this latest action-packed thriller from Standish-based novelist, Paul Finch.
In this latest instalment, Rogue, (already available for pre-order online), Finch’s “lone wolf” hero is up against tougher odds than he’s faced in any of the previous seven books, pursuing a gang of cop-killers all over the country, while being hunted by his own team and several deadly-dangerous hitmen.
All the Wigan-born writer’s trademarks are here: raw, uncompromising action, tough dialogue and a whole host of weird and demented villains.
It also page-flips at a furious pace, including one explosive chase sequence up the M6 from Heck’s hometown of Bradburn (a thinly-veiled Wigan), which literally had this reader on the edge of his seat.
Finch, himself a former police officer, has probably surpassed himself with this latest offering in the Heck canon, delivering a pacy, hardboiled romp of a crime novel, which ends in most satisfying fashion. Highly recommended.’

Wigan Today

Apologies for my tardiness on here during the course of this autumn. I’m sorry I haven’t been posting more. The truth is that November in particular has been a phenomenally busy time, what with my promotional campaign for ROGUE, and the finishing touches I’ve been putting to my next novel (my first with Thomas & Mercer), whose title I can’t yet divulge, though as the publicity campaign for that one will be commencing soon, it won’t be too long (and the cover art is sweet, trust me).

I’ve also, as it happens, been working hard on the next book after that, my second for Thomas & Mercer, and am deep in the process of editing the next Heck epic, which is tentatively titled DEVIL’S BARGAIN, though that may change. On top of all that, I’ve got some other bits and bobs to talk about, including more Heck stuff, and a comprehensive list of MY FAVOURITE CHRISTMAS GHOST STORIES, all of which can be found below (the latter near the bottom of today’s post).

First though, how about something …

FABULOUS

I’m obviously talking about the image at the top of today’s column. It’s the work of Polish artist, Dawid Boldys, and it will adorn the cover of the Czech edition of my autumn/winter horror novella, SEASON OF MIST, or, as it translates, OBDOBI MLH. It depicts the scene in the novella when a bunch of schoolkids go up to the derelict coal mine, to collect bonfire fuel, even though they’ve been warned that there is a serial child killer on the loose. (If you want to know how that works out for them, you’ll need to grab hold of the English version; just follow the link).

If memory serves, OBDOBI MLH, is due for publication just around now, which some of my more regular readers may be confused by, given that the narrative commences in September, though in truth, SEASON OF MIST isn’t just about the autumn months. Its narrative runs deep into December, only ending quite close to Christmas. So, hopefully, brand new readers in the Czech Republic will still find it a potent tale.

In addition to this, I want to talk a little bit about ROGUE, the eighth installment in the Heck saga. It’s doing fantastically well; I’m truly delighted the way sales are going and how it’s drawn quite a bit of attention from the crime-writing community. You might be interested in the online interview I did with Sam Brownley of the UK CRIME BOOK CLUB: HERE.

If that’s not enough, since my last post, ROGUE has gathered several more great reviews from some very august persons. Check these out below (sorry, I’m being very self-indulgent and running them in their entirety, so feel free to skip down to the next item, if these are of no interest) …

Wow! Strap in & hold on tight for one Heck (sorry) of a rollercoaster ride from Paul Finch with literally everything you need & more from a cop thriller - a battered, bruised, disgraced cop out for revenge & a system out to thwart him at every turn. Truly outstanding!

Nick Oldham, author of the Henry Christie Mysteries

Grim, gritty, and gripping. Heck crashes through the pages like a bull in a China shop: relentless and unstoppable.

Antony Johnston, author of the Dog Sitter Detective series

When two masked gunmen wipe out an elite police unit in an attack on a London pub they make a deadly mistake: leaving Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg alive.

Suspended from the Met and under investigation by his former colleagues, Heck is determined to avenge his dead friends at any cost. The journey to do so takes him from London gangland, through the industrial wastelands of the North, to the wilds of Scotland. There he encounters a crime syndicate more brutal than anything even he has faced before.

There are tough maverick cops, and then there is the tungsten hard version created by Paul Finch. The difference when the gloves are off and the rule book in the bin is as wide as that between a banger and the atom bomb.

In this latest instalment, as would be expected, the action is both relentless and bruising. The climax is made all the more dramatic by being played out with one of the most dramatic landscapes in the world as a backdrop.

Finch pays close attention to the tools of the trade of violence, not just in the expected way writers in the genre note the capacities of a gun or a knife for a readership avid for detail. He is fully aware of their capacity to do harm, both to the person hit, and the one pulling the trigger. This lends an extra level of authenticity to the resulting carnage.

Finch also asks an interesting moral question in this book, in previous outings there has always been something of the time bomb about Heck. What will happen now the fail safes that have previously stopped the clock before the hands reach twelve are no longer in place? Just how thin is the line between being a maverick on the side of right, and the sort of person they are best placed to hunt?

Answering those questions potentially opens up a new chapter both for this series and its main character.

Adam Colclough, Shots Magazine

Paul Finch’s previous DS Mark Heckenburg novel, KISS OF DEATH ended on the most brutal cliff-hanger imaginable, with most of Heck’s long-term colleagues mown down in a hail of gunfire and even his long-term love-interest, DSU Gemma Piper, apparently lifeless in his arms.

That was almost six years ago - a LONG time to wait for the next instalment! - but ROGUE picks only a couple of months after the Ace of Diamonds massacre, with Heck suspended and now under investigation himself, suspected of having a role in the slaughter. Heck’s alone, but he has two things the rest of the police don’t: a clue to the killers’ true identity, and a burning desire for revenge.
Eluding police surveillance, Heck sets off on the trail of the killers, knowing he’s going down a road of no return. It leads back up North... and beyond it, into the Scottish Highlands and a riveting conclusion.

Paul Finch is a first-class storyteller, and in ROGUE he’s lost none of his touch. As you’d hope for Heck’s long-awaited return, this one has the volume dialled up to eleven, with all the unflinching eye for human cruelty, relentless pace and pulse-pounding action you’d expect from Finch - and a little bit more. After all, Heck’s hell on wheels even when he’s a police officer, but now he’s on a personal mission of revenge. I was almost afraid to find out how far he’d actually go to make the killers pay for what they’d done, and of what would be left for him afterwards.

Almost, but not quite. Paul Finch is far too good a storyteller for that.

Five stars, and I can’t wait for the next Heck book. I understand the delays that held further instalments of the series up are now resolved, and so here’s hoping there's a new one very soon.

Daniel Church, author of The Hollows and The Ravening

When Kiss Of Death was published in 2018, I doubt Paul Finch expected his readers to have to wait six years to see how he resolved the astounding cliff-hanger DS Heckenburg faced at the conclusion of that novel. But it seems not even best-selling authors are immune to the vagaries of the publishing industry. Still, better late than never, Rogue has arrived and once more chaos reigns as the one man wrecking ball known as Heck is let loose on the unsuspecting criminal community.

DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg works for the Serial Crimes Unit, a specialist department of the National Crime Agency whose remit is to investigate cases of serial murder and Rogue is the eighth in the series. Heck has had a complicated relationship with the head of the unit, DSU Gemma Piper. The two were in love but chose the job over their relationship and so he has been reconsidering his position in the SCU.

Their last case was an investigation into a multinational crime syndicate led by the Armenian oligarch Milena Misanyan. While celebrating after closing the case, 26 officers were gunned down in the Ace of Diamonds pub in Barnet, London. Two masked men decimated the unit.

Because he was picking up his colleague DC Gail Honeyford on the way, Heck arrived late and gave chase as the killers left the scene. Heck was able to injure one of the men in a fight before they escaped. Shot in the initial gunfight, Gemma Piper was left fighting for her life. Was the slaughter a revenge attack for the death of Misanyan during the operation?

Nearly two months later the investigation into the Ace of Diamonds massacre is going nowhere. No stone can be left unturned, and no matter how unlikely it may be, Heck has to be considered a suspect. DI Jude Penhaligan of Internal Investigations has been given the job of deciding whether or not Heck was involved. Although much reduced by grief and survivor’s guilt, Heck himself has no intention of being a bystander following the murder of his colleagues.

His only lead is a bangle snatched from the wrist of one of the killers. It suggests a link to the satanic Black Chapel murder case that was solved in Kiss of Death as a place to start. The Black Chapel killers were inspired by a black metal band, now retired to the Scottish countryside. Heck’s heading north! Once Penhaligan realises he has flown the coop, the chase is on. By dodging Internal Investigations, Heck has gone from a colleague who just needs to be ruled out to prime suspect.

From this point on, Rogue is all action. Heck reminds me of Parker in Richard Stark’s Point Blank, working his way up the criminal chain in ruthless, inexorable fashion; always beating the odds with a combination of street smarts, animal cunning and sheer bloody mindedness. Heck is a more human protagonist than Stark’s famously never-evolving antihero. Finch has given his character a traumatic back history and consequently a vulnerability which probably accounts for his popularity as much as his hard man persona. In particular, Heck’s relationships with women – his sister, Piper and Honeyford, for example – are nuanced, and allow him to stand out from the hard man copper crowd.

There is relatively little investigative work in Rogue. To a large extent, the novel succeeds or fails on its action sequences. Thankfully, Finch has included a number of them but two in particular stand out. The first is a shoot out on the motorway heading north, and the second is an especially extended sequence in the Scottish countryside. Both are excellent, dramatic, full of momentum and with a genuine sense of peril. Finch is also a successful horror writer, and he uses those skills to keep the tension ratcheted up.

Readers expecting a police procedural story might be slightly disappointed in this regard, but for my money Rogue more than delivers on its promise of Heck being let off his leash. After such a long delay, Finch must have felt some pressure when writing about Heck’s return. He needn’t have worried.

RoughJustice, Crime Fiction Lover website

In addition to all those, check out this one from top author and blogger, Donna Morfett, who classifies ROGUE as one of her top reads of 2024:

***

Okay, with ROGUE now discussed and done, let’s move onto the elephant in the room.

The one thing that sits in the backs of so many of our minds through from September to the year’s end (but which we’ll rarely admit to until around December), which is of course …

CHRISTMAS

I’m hoping to hit you with another completely original and free-to-read ghost story, right here on this blog, before the big occasional. Regular visitors will know that I try to do this every year.

Unfortunately, it won’t be quite as easy this time. As I’ve already hinted, I have a mid-January deadline, and though I’m in a good position on that, it sometimes feels like madness to simply break off from a job like that in order to do something else.

I can’t make any promises on this, so all I can say is hang tight and we’ll see what we can do.

For anyone who considers it essential that they get their festive ghostly fix, all I can do is point you in the direction of my two relatively recent ghost collections, IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER and THE CHRISTMAS YOU DESERVE, both of which you’ll find several snippets from (and direct links to) if you follow this link back to a blogpost I made Last December: THE GHOSTING SEASON.

There is also, of course, my British Fantasy Award shortlisted novella of 2010, SPARROWHAWK, which is another Christmas chiller, though in this case with romantic and historical elements as well.

However, in case you’ve already ‘done’ these collection, and I’m not able to deliver anything new before the end of the year, here, in chronological order, is a quick rundown of my 60 FAVOURITE CHRISTMAS GHOST AND HORROR SHORT STORIES (by other authors). Please don’t ask why I’ve chosen 60 instead of a more rounded-off number like 50 or 75 or 100; it just happened to be that these were all the stories I could remember. Also, worry not ... I’m not going to bore you with their outlines or offer reviews in each case. I’ve already said that I consider all of these to be outstanding efforts in the field. Just be advised that some of these will take some seeking out. (In addition, please don’t shout at me if I’ve missed out any good ones; just suggest them in the column underneath).

SIXTY CRACKING CHRISTMAS CHILLERS

(with lots of unconnected festive horror artwork

just to add colour)

1. Horror: A True Tale by John Berwick Hardwood (1861)

2. The Crooked Mirrorby Anton Chekov (1883)

3. Markheim by Robert Louis Stevenson (1885)

4. Christmas Eve on a Haunted Hulkby Frank Cowper (1889)

5. The White Ravenby Dick Donovan (1899)

6. Jerry Bundler by WW Jacobs (1901)

7. The Shadow by E Nesbit (1905)

8. Between the Lightsby EF Benson (1912)

9. How Fear Departed from the Long Gallery by EF Benson (1912)

10. The Story of an Appearance and a Disappearance by MR James (1913)

11. The Dead by James Joyce (1914)

12. The Festivalby HP Lovecraft (1925)

13. The Prescription by Marjorie Bowen (1929)

14. The Crime on Christmas Nightby Gaston Leroux (1930)

15. Smeeby AM Burrage (1931)

16. The Crown Derby Plateby Marjorie Bowen (1933)

17. Back for Christmasby John Collier (1939)

18. Christmas Reunionby Andrew Caldecott (1947)

19. A Christmas Gameby ANL Munby (1950)

20. Someone in the Liftby LP Hartley (1955)

21. Florindaby Shamus Frazer (1956)

22. The Waitsby LP Hartley (1961)

23. And All Around the Houseby Jack Oleck (1972)

24. Christmas Nightby Elizabeth Walter (1975)

25. The Chimneyby Ramsey Campbell (1977)

26. Nursery Teaby Mary Danby (1978)

27. Christmas Entertainmentby Daphne Froome (1979)

28. The Night Before Christmasby Robert Bloch (1980)

29. Calling Card by Ramsey Campbell (1980)

30. The Peculiar Demesneby Russell Kirk (1980)

31. Come, Follow! by Sheila Hodgson (1982)

32. Red Christmasby David Garnett (1985)

33. To Dance by the Light of the Moonby Stephen Gallagher (1986)

34. A Dickensian Christmasby Lanyon Jones (1986)

35. The Grotto by Alexander Welch (1988)

36. The Uninvitedby John Glasby (1989)

37. The Delivererby Simon MacCulloch (1989)

38. A Present for Christmasby AJ Merak (John Glasby) (1989)

39. A Christmas Storyby James Dorr (1992)

40. In the Bleak Midwinterby Robert Swindells (1992)

41. Christmas Past by David Belbin (1992)

42. Christmas Gameby Susan Price (1993)

43. Green by Mark Morris (1994)

44. Grandma Babka's Christmas Ginger And The Good Luck/Bad Luck Leshyby Ken Wisman (1994)

45. ... And Eight Rabid Pigsby David Gerold (1995)

46. The Travelling Saleman’s Christmas Specialby C. Bruce Hunter (1995)

47. Christmas Dinnerby Steve Harris (1996)

48. The Decorationsby Ramsey Campbell (2005)

49. The Last to be Foundby Christopher Harman (2006)

50. Loving Angelsby Gary McMahon (2007)

51. Last Christmasby John Llewellyn Probert (2008)

52. Where the Stones Lieby Richard Farren Barbber (2012

53. With Their Eyes All Aglow by Jeff C. Carter (2013)

54. Dark Christmas by Jeanette Winterson (2013)

55. A Christmas Traditionby Peter James (2014)

56. The Psychomenteumby Steve Duffy (2020)

57. The Fourth Callby Ramsey Campbell (2021)

58. The Hanging of the Greensby Andrew Michael Hurley (2021)

59. Grey Glassby Reggie Oliver (2021)

60. Carol of the Bells and Chains by Laura Purcell (2023)

Greetings, all. Hoping you’re enjoying the build-up to the holiday. As regular readers may know, I always like to mark this festive time of year by posting an original Christmas ghost or horror story here on my blog. As I mentioned a short time ago, this was always going to be a problem this year, because my novel-writing deadlines have been proving very onerous. Up to yesterday, I actually thought I was going to have to skip 2024 entirely. However, I then remembered a story I wrote back in the mid 1990s, called DECEMBER.

Initially, it was intended to be part of an all-new collection of mine, A YEAR IN THE DEATH, as inspired by my esteemed ancestor, Mr Dickens's ALL THE YEAR ROUND magazine, the plan being to include twelve scary stories, each one carrying the name of a month as its title. It didn’t quite happen as I planned, though all the stories were written, DECEMBER eventually finding publication in a chapbook from the late lamented Gray Friar press.

Obviously, it’s been quite a while since then, and I imagine that this tale has passed out of most readers’ memories, if they ever read it at all, so now would seem like an opportune time to resurrect it.

I should point out that I was a much younger author when I wrote this story. Though I think you’ll find the writing to be of the required standard, it refers to the world of my young adulthood rather than today, a society that is no longer with us in the 21st century. Hopefully, you can tolerate that, and simply sit back and enjoy this Christmas ghost story.

Just remain for me to now say a very merry Christmas to everyone, and a happy New Year.

DECEMBER

The town centre stores had been preparing for months. So, by the time mid-December came along, and Brenda allowed herself to start thinking about Christmas, the tinsel in the shop windows was a commonplace backdrop, the festive lights nothing more than added illumination.
Tattier by the year, she thought, as she made her way through the bustling streets, a totally manufactured feast. The sheer length of time the decorations had been out left them shabby. It wasn’t as if coloured streamers and gaudy glass baubles were especially seasonal anyway. Even with a carpet of snow underfoot, it all seemed so phony.
It didn’t make her angry as much as sad. But then there were other reasons for that too.
Towards the end of the day before Christmas Eve, she entered one of the department stores to pick up a few bits and pieces, and almost inevitably found herself in a section reserved for decorations. She might as well look, she supposed. She’d have to face reality at some stage, and it wasn’t fair on Josie to make no effort at all.
The place was thronging with jabbering, pink-faced shoppers, excited kiddies hanging on mothers’ arms, harassed-looking fathers carrying piles of colourful parcels. A fake spruce fir, sprinkled with glitter, sat on each counter. Everywhere she looked there were ornaments, cards and clockwork elves working on toys. One wall had been transformed into a Victorian fireplace – a pair of legs in red velvet and black boots were descending into view. Seasonally patterned stockings hung along the mantel, each one sporting a different price tag. Somewhere in the background, Bing Crosby was crooning.
Brenda moved uncertainly from one display to the next. She didn’t really have an excuse not to buy anything. There was money in her purse, and Josie had been so caring and sisterly since the bereavement that it was a shame to pretend this was just any other time of year. But if she was going to buy, it would be something nice, not something tacky like tinsel.
She bustled around the stalls, picking up sprigs of holly and mistletoe. She also bought an ivy wreath to hang on the front door, and several pine twigs, each one thick with needles and cones. Living symbols of joy, she tried to tell herself. She’d tried to tell herself that so often, of course. But at the checkout, the till girl priced her wares and when she rang it up, it came to £19.82.
Brenda’s hand froze on her purse.
“Nineteen-eighty-two,” the girl said, somewhat unnecessarily.
Not a great year all said and done, ’82, Brenda thought, as she again smelled raw alcohol, again heard her mother’s shrieks, again saw foliage mysteriously twitch. And then she focused on the till girl’s puzzled expression – and, smiling inanely, handed over her credit card. It wasn’t as if she was buying a full-sized tree, she advised herself tautly. There was surely no harm in these little spatters of winter vegetation.
Outside, the cold gripped her, and she wound her scarf around her neck. It pained her to think that she’d be spending Christmas with her younger sister instead of Jack. But then Jack was dead. That fact was irreversible, and she was now quite used to it. Or so she assumed. She’d know for sure when she sat down for her Christmas dinner and found only Josie looking over the turkey at her.
“You’ll be sorry,” said an old man standing against a wall.
Brenda glanced curiously round. He wore a scruffy coat, and a flat cap pulled down on thinning grey hair. His eyes were sunken and glassy, his face bristling. He was no one Brenda knew, though he was staring at her without blinking. Then she saw the collecting tin in his hand, with its ‘Blind Association’ sticker, and realised why. She turned to leave.

“I said you’ll be sorry,” he said again. For a split-second his voice sounded familiar.
Brenda looked back at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry, Missus?” he asked, as if suddenly coming awake. “It’s for the Blind Association.”
“I can see that. Were you talking to me?”
“Don’t follow, Missus,” he said, with seeming genuine innocence. His voice was different as well. It bore a strong Irish accent but was also high-pitched and bubbly with ill-health. Before, it had been clear and resonant – and English. A bit like Jack’s.
Brenda cleared her throat. “My mistake. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright, Missus. Something for the blind before you go?”
“Oh ... yes, of course.” She slotted a couple of pound coins into his tin. “You definitely didn’t say anything?”
“Not as I know of, Missus.” His breath smoked thickly. “Not allowed to, you see. We can only stand here. That’s the law.”
Brenda felt as if she should say something else, but couldn’t think what, and instead, walked quickly away. She glanced back once, but he was already lost in the crowd.

Brenda and Josie had pooled their resources after Jack’s death and bought themselves a semi-detached in the suburbs. Brenda had paid her way via the insurance, and only needed to work part-time. At present, she was between jobs. Josie, on the other hand, had a full-time position with a high street bank, and brought home a reasonable wage. Together they’d managed to furnish the house nicely and now lived in some comfort.
The younger sister got home around six, to find the house, as always, warm, lamp-lit and as neat as a new pin. Brenda was in the lounge, kneeling in front of the real-flame gas fire, laying out the items she’d bought.
“Hi,” Josie said, stripping off her gloves and scarf.
“Hi,” Brenda mumbled.
“Getting into the spirit, are we?”
“Thought we could put it all up tonight,” Brenda said. “Not going out anywhere, are you?”
Josie shook her head as she took her coat off. She sat on the sofa and slipped off her high heels, then hiked her skirt up and unfastened her suspender straps. She rolled down the stockings luxuriously, before untying the bun at the back of her head and shaking out her long brown hair. She was ten years younger than Brenda, and it was a constant source of amazement to the older woman that she’d never married. Josie usually shrugged this off as “never having met the right bloke”, which was even more astonishing to Brenda, as her sister certainly seemed to meet enough of them.
Josie stood up. “I’m off for a shower. Mmm ... something smells good in the kitchen.”
Brenda nodded, acknowledging the compliment, then turned back to her purchases. Despite her earlier reservations, there was something undeniably wholesome about fresh-cut evergreens. The smooth, rich texture of leaf and spine; the way they glistened in firelight; the bitter-sweet fragrance of sap and berries. She might make something of this Christmas yet, she thought.
They got around to decorating at about eight o’clock, having first eaten, washed up, and then changed into dressing gowns and slippers. Josie brought the fake tree down from the attic and dusted if off, while Brenda hung up the holly and mistletoe. They’d received a large number of cards, and these she arranged on the mantelpiece. By the time they’d finished, the room was snug and festive. The silver tree looked drab, it was true, but Josie had hung only the most tasteful ornaments on it, and the fairy lights twinkled prettily. Meanwhile, snowflakes pattered on the window, and the gas flame crackled warmly on its imitation logs. Things could have been worse.
Josie poured them both a glass of Pimms.
“You don’t suppose Brandon will be coming home this year?” she asked, curling up on the sofa.
Brenda stiffened in the armchair. She could never think about their younger brother without it bringing a black edge to the day. “This isn’t his home,” she finally said.
Josie took a sip of Pimms. “Oh, come on, Bren. Where else has he got?”
Brenda stared blindly at the TV screen. “Doesn’t he have lodgings in Spain?”
“He sells Timeshare options. He doesn’t live there. And it is Christmas.”
“He certainly doesn’t live here.”
Brenda had always played the stern older sister with Brandon, and why not? She’d practically raised him on her own, thanks to their late father’s unremitting drink habit. What she didn’t want anyone to know, though, especially Josie, was how much she feared him. It wasn’t just his bulk, though the Lord knew, that was bad enough – how many twenty-five-year-olds were the size of a bear? It was the other things: his odd eyes for example – one blue, one green; his gross black beard; the foul temper that had once landed him in prison for a year after he’d battered someone unconscious in a pub fight.
Then there were the real other things – the things she couldn’t mention. The way he’d been conceived. She’d never forget walking into the lounge after a late party that Christmas Eve way back in 1982 …
“He adores you,” Josie said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well ... that’s what he said in his last letter. Course, if you insist on not reading them, you’ll never know. He’s doing quite well, by all accounts. Says he’s made a lot of money. Reckons he might treat us.”
Brenda gave her sister a cynical look. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Josie, now slightly tipsy, returned the gaze boldly. “You know, Brenda ... you can’t go on blaming him for Mum’s death. She was too old and too ill, that’s all.”
Brenda looked back at the television. “I don’t blame him for that.”
She didn’t. How could she? Their father carried the can for that – their brutish, whisky-breathed father, who’d never take no for an answer and simply refused to accept that their ailing mother shouldn’t risk getting pregnant again. Oh no, Brenda would never forget Christmas Eve, ’82: the pleas, the gasps, the drunken grunts. Or the way that huge spruce fir had spread its quivering boughs over the events taking place beneath it; the way it had visibly spread them as she’d watched …
Brenda downed her Pimms and glanced at the bedraggled excuse she’d used for a tree these many Christmases past. She was glad Josie never asked why she didn’t replace it with a real one. She wouldn’t tell her. Likewise, she wouldn’t replace it. Not ever. Of course, she’d be more sure of that if Jack was still here to boost her courage.
Later on, she dreamed about him. They were walking on the beach at Blackpool together, then driving in the Yorkshire Dales. She saw sun-splashed woods and picnic hampers. Then they were home again, her bedside table sporting bouquets of flowers on the morning of her birthday, chocolates on Valentine’s Day. And then she saw Jack himself, booming with laughter over a frothing pint in the pub, friends clapping him on the shoulder, the life and soul of every party. And then she heard the heartbeat – the dull, repetitive heartbeat. Across the pub table, Jack’s handsome face drained white. Suddenly he looked startled. Then he was grabbing at his ribs, at his arm, his voice a strangled squeal, and all the time that heavy and now faltering heartbeat.
Brenda moaned as she awoke. Somebody was knocking on the front door.
“Alright, Jack ... alright ...” she muttered, pulling on her dressing gown and fumbling her way to the top of the stairs. “You’ve never been this late before.”
Somewhere in the pitch-black shadows below, Jack was still knocking. She set off downstairs. There was almost a pattern to it, she thought. It could have been a heartbeat.
Then she woke fully. At first Brenda didn’t know what she was doing. She looked round; she was at the foot of the stairs, the house in complete darkness around her. Of course, there was nobody knocking – it was still the middle of the night. The only sound was the whisper of flakes on the windowpanes.
She padded into the lounge to check the digital clock and saw that it was 2:16 am. She turned wearily away – but something struck her: the scent. She sniffed the air. It was cool and fresh, yet faintly sour. Then she remembered the evergreens. They hung around the room in dark clumps. She hadn’t realised that they smelled this strongly. She could have been in a pine forest. Shrugging, she walked back into the hall. All part of the dream, she supposed. She’d have forgotten it by morning. Before mounting the stairs, she glanced down the hall towards the front door.
Someone was standing in the porch.
Brenda froze. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. She blinked, but the figure was still there, its silhouette visible through the frosted glass. He knocked again. Brenda felt icy prickles down her spine. This was not possible.
In a dreamlike state, she ventured towards the door. Her breath came hard and heavy. She felt sweat on her brow. For a brief second, she thought about Brandon – but no, this late-caller wasn’t nearly large enough. Not that he wasn’t large: he was foursquare, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. Broad, coal face-working shoulders.
Jack.
Brenda felt her hair stand on end. The terror gripping her heart was set to overwhelm her. Yet she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was virtually paralysed. And all the while, the faceless figure watched her through the patterned glass. Only after what seemed like an age did it suddenly lurch away into the murk, feet crunching in the snow. It gave a single, chesty cough as it went. She knew that cough. Pit-dust. He’d suffered it to his dying day, even though he hadn’t worked underground for years by then.
The next thing Brenda knew, she was swooning – her legs buckled. She managed to cry out Josie’s name once.
Mindless moments passed before the light came on, and her sister knelt down beside her. Weakly, Brenda allowed herself to be helped up and led into the lounge.
“It was a nightmare ... it must’ve been,” she stammered, sitting on the sofa.
Josie stood up. “I’ll put the kettle on. Just wait here.”
Five minutes later, they were huddled together over mugs of tea, Brenda still shivering.
Eventually Josie spoke. “Look love ... I’ve not wanted to say this, but it was always going to be difficult this year. Your first Christmas without him.”
Brenda took another swallow of tea. “I could’ve sworn it was him outside, Jose. I mean ... I’d know him anywhere.”
“You’ve already admitted that at least half of it was a dream.”
Brenda shook her head. “It was so real, though. It was so real ... and now he’s out there, in the snow.”
Josie took her by the hand. “Brenda, nobody’s out there. If they were, they’d still be trying to get in.”
“But he went off when I didn’t answer.” Brenda felt growing panic. “He knew I was here and he knew I wasn’t going to answer! What else could he do?”
Josie put an arm round her shoulder. “Brenda ... listen to yourself. Jack’s dead, for heaven’s sake! You know that!”
“I know ...”
“So how could he be outside?”
“Well, who was it, then?”
Josie stood up abruptly. “Why don’t we find out?”
“What?” Brenda felt sudden alarm.
“Come on,” her sister said, striding into the hall.
“Oh God no!” Brenda hurried after her. “What if it’s some madman?”
Josie was already by the front door, drawing back bolts. “You said yourself … he went off. Besides, it was a dream.”
She opened the door, and the icy wind howled in, snowflakes gushing with it. Initially they were blinded and deafened, but when it subsided, they were able to see – nobody. The front gate was still closed and laden with snow. The garden path and the lawns to either side bore unbroken mantles of white. Even the front step was smoothly clad.
“I don’t understand,” Brenda said, as they went back into the lounge.
“I do,” Josie replied. “And I’ve got the solution.”
Brenda glanced curiously at her.
“You’ve been in your widow’s weeds too long, love.” Josie smiled mischievously. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. I’m not working, so we’ll go out in the afternoon and get the turkey and trimmings and everything, and after that ... me and you are going to enjoy ourselves.”

Brenda appraised herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d applied her make-up tastefully and coifed her auburn hair with all the skill she knew, tucking away every grey bit she could find. But still she wasn’t convinced. The strappy black cocktail dress fitted snugly, but the skirt felt way too short, even if it was only just above the knee. The stilettos were uncomfortable as well – she hadn’t worn proper heels in ages and felt awkward and self-conscious in them.
She was on the verge of calling the whole thing off when Josie appeared behind her in bra and miniskirt, feet bare, hair still in rollers. Even then, she looked trim and sexy.
“This is ridiculous,” Brenda said. “I’ve haven’t been to a club for over ten years.”
Josie touched up her mascara. “This isn’t some kids’ disco. The Roxy’s really upmarket these days. Caters for people of our age.”
Brenda snorted. “Our age? You mean your age!”
“For God’s sake, you’re only forty-three!” Josie chided her. “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You’re still a looker ... have you seen yourself?”
“Yes. That’s what’s worrying me.”
“I wish I had boobs like yours, that’s all I can say.”
“Oh the boobs are fine,” Brenda agreed. “It’s just everything else.”
Josie planted a moist kiss on her cheek, before hurrying out again. “Relax. You’ll knock ’em dead, I guarantee it.”
Brenda sighed, then placed her hands on her hips and turned slightly to view herself side-on. She wasn’t entirely convinced that knocking ’em dead was either what she wanted to be doing or should be doing.

The Roxy was throbbing with Christmas.
Shimmering brocade hung down everywhere. Rivers of drunken revellers blundered back and forth, discordant lights playing over them in a kaleidoscopic frenzy. Seasonal hits thumped out at multi-decibels, dry ice spurting in noxious clouds from the base of the DJ’s podium, now guarded on either side by gigantic spruce firs, both festooned with crackers and candy sticks.
Brenda was astonished at how little everything had changed since her own nightclubbing days back in the early ’80s. Styles were different, but it was just as noisy, sweaty and swimming in alcohol fumes. The music wasn’t much different either, but then it was Christmas.
Beside her at the bar, Josie was ordering two more cocktails and trying to fend off a man who wanted a Christmas kiss. Brenda had been approached too, though in her case the would-be beau had been a lot younger than she was and staggering-drunk. She’d found it more insulting than flattering and had sent him away with a flea in his ear. She kept telling herself that she wasn’t here to be picked up. It was a bit of festive fun, that was all.

This was a highbrow philosophy that her sister patently didn’t share. Though Josie had brought them both out with the best intentions, Brenda knew that she was a party girl at heart and found the attention of men, of which she was always the centre, irresistible. The more she drank, the more she got into the mood. Her polite dismissals soon became flirtatious teasing, and eventually three or four male presences were permanent fixtures around them, which Josie was doing progressively less to discourage. Even on the dance floor the two sisters had company, and jostling, lumbering company at that. Brenda drew admiring glances as well, but essentially, she was the second choice.
As midnight approached, she found herself wandering the stairways and balconies alone. The seasonal songs, the laughing and shrieking and clinking of glasses seemed more inappropriate than ever.
Someone pinched her bottom.
Brenda turned to face him, preparing her most withering stare. But there was nobody there. She’d been standing with her back to one of the gigantic Christmas trees. It towered above her. She stepped back, suddenly, absurdly afraid. She smelled again the ice and pines of the northern forests. Then she looked deep into the tree, past its be-ribboned canopy to the shadows underneath: hard, chocolate-black shadows where vague things seemed to twitch and move and gaze soullessly back at her.
Abruptly, she broke away. The next thing Brenda knew, she was running – or rather, trying to run; fighting her way through the frenzied mob. The clock was just striking twelve as she staggered outside into the frosty air, coat and handbag clutched to her chest. She put her coat on and started to walk. She wasn’t sure where too, but just walking was an improvement on being in the Roxy.
Or so she thought. Only now did it strike her that getting a taxi was going to be hell, and that the town centre would be crawling with drunken gangs. As if that wasn’t enough, the snow had stopped falling but what covering there already was had frozen into a slippery crust. She was just negotiating a particularly icy patch when she looked up and saw the man waiting at the next corner.
Brenda halted in her tracks. Not because she feared assault, but because she recognised him. Or at least, she recognised his outline – from the porch step the previous night. He was standing perfectly still by the edge of the pavement, his back to her, wearing a flat cap and scruffy overcoat, but she’d have known him anywhere. Only one man had that solid frame, those wide shoulders.
“Jack ...” she whispered.
He was forty yards away at least; he couldn’t have heard her, but even so he turned slowly. And it was Jack. Waxy pale, the way he’d been that night they rushed him into theatre, but blowing on his hands as if by some cruel miracle even the dead could feel the cold.
“Oh God ... Jack.”
He gave her a single mournful look, then shuffled out of sight around the corner.
Brenda called out for him to stop. She hurried forward, those ridiculous heels clicking on the ice, but when she got to the corner and looked around, he was already at the end of a narrow alley and moving out of sight again.
“Jack ... wait!” She virtually ran down the passage after him, skidding and stumbling in heaps of frozen garbage.
At the far end, she stopped short. The alley gave out to a cobbled access-road running between huge buildings, all now locked and silent. She advanced slowly and glanced in either direction, but there was no sign of anyone. The only light came from a distant security lamp.
“Help you, Missus?” a voice asked.
Brenda whirled round, her heart in her mouth – and noticed two things straight away: firstly, the man standing there wore the same coat and hat that Jack had been wearing not two minutes ago; secondly, he wasn’t Jack. He didn’t even look like him. He was short, shrivelled and old. Dull, sightless eyes peered out from beneath his ragged, grey fringe. It was the blind Irishman from outside the department store.
“I … I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Nothing I can do?” he wondered with a leering smile. As with every other man she’d met that day, his interest in her was anything but pleasant.
“No,” she said in as firm a tone as she could. “No, I’m sorry.” She turned to leave.
“Nice dress, Brenda.”
She looked sharply back at him – and wanted to scream with horror. His eyes were now wide and alert, his mouth clamped into a hard frown. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t the old man anymore. His breadth was greater, his neck thicker. And down below, through an opening in his coat, she saw a cavity in his chest – the straight, surgically-precise sort of cavity made on the operating table. Within that cavity, a mass of grey and yellow muscle was convulsing irregularly.
“Oh my God, Jack ...”
“Look pet,” he began, in his stern but reassuring tone, “you’ve got trouble, see. Tried to warn you, but you weren’t having none of it.” He coughed a dry, chesty pit-cough.
She stared at him askance. It was Jack – but then it wasn’t. His features ran like water-colours, various portions of face appearing and disappearing, merging together then breaking apart; at one moment her husband, the next a blind Irishman, then a composite of the two.
“Jack, I ...”
“Let me talk, love ... time’s short.” As he spoke, his voice also fluctuated: first it was fluting rural Irish, then gruff northern English. “Remember that old story your mam told you, pet? When you were a nipper?”
Brenda shook her head dumbly. She couldn’t remember anything at this moment. “Jack ...”
“Just listen, pet. You’ve got trouble. You remember that tale ... when you used to ask for Christmas stories, while your dad was out pubbing it and only you and your mam got to share Christmas Eve together? You remember, before the others came along?”
She nodded slowly. She thought she did.
“You ought to, pet. It was so cute, you told it to me. About the elves ... the real elves. Not them Enid Blyton things. How they took refuge in evergreens during the winter ... up in the old Viking and Saxon lands. And how folks as took ’em inside, where it was warm, got good luck. Remember, pet? That old tale? Supposed to be the reason we hang the green stuff up at Christmas.”
“Yes, Jack.” She couldn’t stop her voice quavering, but she did remember. It was her favourite Yuletide myth – at an age, of course, when she’d had time for myths.
“Now listen, love.” Jack’s features again swapped, his accent shifted. “Who’s to say them spirits have always got our interests at heart, eh? You’ve felt it, I know. The change. Look at this Christmas, darling ... what’ve you got? You don’t see no Baby Jesuses lighting up the streets, no Angel Gabriels in the pub windows ... too many snowmen and Rudolfs and Seven bloody Dwarves.” His eyes widened. “There’s a shift of power, Brenda.” His voice was suddenly strained, the lump of gristle in his chest juddering. “It’s slow …” He had to heave the words out. “But ... it’s happening. Someone ought to make a stand against it. And who’s got better reason than you?”
She wanted to reach out and clasp him but knew she couldn’t. He was a drifting, twilight figure; a shape seen through smoked and faulted glass.
“Jack, I don’t know what to do!” she blurted.
“Yes, you do, pet.” His voice now sounded distant. His face was firmly the shabby old tramp’s again.
“Jack ...”
“Name’s not Jack, Missus,” the blind man chirped.
“Jack, come back!” she pleaded.
“Sorry, Missus?” He sounded genuinely bemused.
Brenda turned and fled, scrambling back up the alley to the main road, and, by sheer fortune, emerged just as a prowling cab slid by. She flagged it down and it stopped. A few minutes later, she was cruising home through the glistening streets.
“Proper white Christmas this year, eh?” the taxi driver said cheerfully. “Radio reckons it’ll be snowing again by morning. Just like in the old days.”
Brenda looked up sharply. “What did you say?”
She noticed his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He quickly averted them. Then she saw why: he’d adjusted the mirror’s position so that he could look at her legs, which the open coat and ridiculously short dress had revealed to the thigh. Though at present it hardly seemed to matter.
“What did you say ... about the old days?”
“Oh, nothing.” He tried to laugh, embarrassed at having been caught peeking. There was a sudden crackle of static, and relieved, he scooped up his PR to take a message.
Brenda lapsed back into her thoughts. She remembered the story Jack had been talking about. The old days, the very old days: woodlands frozen and deep in snow; the long-hall hearths decked with holly and ivy and mistletoe; greenery everywhere, dangling from the beams, nailed over the doors, always there in the background – abundant, fresh, full of life. She’d never made the connection until now, until this particular Christmas, which of every one she’d ever known had seemed the least concerned with Christ’s birth.
She was home before she knew it, and the taxi a swirl of frosty exhaust.
Brenda glanced at her wristwatch – Josie would be another hour at least. She looked up the path. The curtains were drawn on the ground floor windows, but lamplight shone out. With snow in the front garden, there was a midwinter coziness about the place. At least there would’ve been had she not sensed the presence inside. This house was not empty. She knew that now.
Slowly, she made her way up the path. As she dug into her purse for her key, fresh snow began to fall.
Inside, the house was warm and snug. But the silence chilled her. It should be silent, she told herself; it was the middle of the night. But this silence was different: this was a listening silence. They were waiting for her. Even as she stood there on the mat, she could smell them: pinecones, spruce twigs, rich, sticky sap.
Determined to ignore it, she went upstairs, changed into a nightie, dressing-gown and slippers, and scrubbed off her make-up. It was ridiculous, she told herself, as she stood before the mirror. This was her home. It was Christmas Eve – in fact now it was Christmas Day. There was nothing to be afraid of. But then she fancied she heard a faint rustle from somewhere below. It was the sort of rustle foliage might make in the wind.
It took a couple of minutes to muster the courage to go downstairs, but eventually she managed it. Why not? There was nobody there. She walked straight into the lounge and switched on the real-flame gas fire. A cheery blaze roared up. Then she looked round – and noticed the evergreens.
She was dumbstruck. She didn’t remember hanging so many. Swags of spruce fir ran in loops from corner to corner; twists of mistletoe hung from mantelpiece, lampshade, lintel; clumps of holly glistened behind every card and ornament.
Several seconds passed before she realised what she had to do. She opened the lid of the music-centre, and rather than going for a CD, took an old LP from the shelf, fitted it onto the spindle and pressed ‘play’. The dull chords of the great organ at Salisbury Cathedral rang out. The ‘castrato’ voices of choirboys followed:

Oh, come all ye faithful ...

Brenda glanced warily around. Stillness hung over the room like a drape of green velvet. Boldly, she turned the volume up. When the carol finished, another started:

I saw three ships ...

By the second verse, Brenda was in the kitchen, going through the drawers. Eventually she found what she was looking for: matches. Growing in confidence, she went back into the lounge and, one by one, lit the Christmas candles on the mantelpiece. Candles symbolised the light of the world that Christmas had originally brought, she reminded herself. By the time she’d finished, the record had gone into Stille Nacht, and, for the first time that holiday, something like peace descended. It was Christmas Morning after all. Then an ugly thought occurred to her. They’d accepted the carols – and why not? They always had. They’d tolerated much over the centuries in return for a warm berth in the depths of winter.
Well, she’d see about that. She wasn’t finished yet.
She ran upstairs, took the stepladders from the wardrobe and climbed to the attic. A few minutes later, she was down again, dusting off a cardboard box. She carried it into the lounge and unpacked it. The first thing she took out was a miniature wooden shack with an open front. Following this came plaster figurines of an ox, an ass, Mary, Joseph and the Christchild in his manger. They were old and cracked, but noble in their simplicity. Triumphantly, she turned to the mantelpiece and began to move ornaments and holly aside.
And almost immediately, she pricked herself.
She looked at her thumb, shocked. Blood welled from a deep puncture. A rustling sound caught her attention. She glanced up, just in time to see the holly – several sprigs of it twisted together in a tentacle – sliding off the mantelpiece. She snatched at it, pricking herself again in several places.
Blood dripped on the carpet, and she cursed aloud. Then the other end of the tentacle went, dropping heavily onto the hi-fi turntable and tangling with the needle. An agonised squeak followed and While Shepherds Watched crashed into silence.
“No!” Brenda cried.
When one of the swags came down, it slapped her hard in the face. She staggered and grabbed out to keep her balance, only to plunge her hand onto more holly. Another length of swag unlooped onto the imitation tree, knocking it sideways, ornaments clattering and breaking. Brenda looked wildly round, more angry than frightened. That was when she smelled the smoke. Instantly, her rage was dispelled by fear. All but one of the candles on the mantelpiece had toppled over, and the holly had caught fire.
She tore off her gown and dabbed at it. In seconds, however, the garment itself was alight – it seared one of her wrists. She hurled it to the floor and trampled on it. And all the while the flames spread along the top of the mantelpiece, leaping from sprig to sprig, Christmas cards charring and curling.
Wide-eyed, she backed away. Smoke furled around her. And then, suddenly, she snapped. “Alright! You want fire ... you can have fire!”
In a rage, she grabbed at the first hank of greenery she saw, yanked it down and thrust it onto the gas fire. It ignited as if petrol had been thrown over it. But Brenda wasn’t finished. She dashed from corner to corner, dragging down evergreens and tossing them onto the inferno, which now rose and rose with intensifying heat.
“How do you like that?” she screamed. “Warm enough for you ... go on, burn! You little bastards!”
She leaped up to retrieve the utmost shreds of ivy and mistletoe, even scorched her fingers grabbing at the embers of holly on the mantel. It didn’t matter – she got them all. Every single piece. And one by one, she fed them into the flames, laughing all the while.
Her mirth was short-lived.
When the bundle of burning foliage suddenly began to shift, she assumed she’d overloaded it. That was frightening enough, but what happened next was something else completely. To her incredulity, Brenda realised that it was moving of its own accord. The blazing vegetation was reorganising itself into something symmetrical, something with arms and legs, something vaguely humanoid.
With painstaking slowness, every leaf and stem still brightly aflame, it sat up on top of the fire and placed its feet on the carpet. Then it rose to full height.
Brenda screamed.
What stood before her defied any law of science or nature: a being composed almost entirely of living flame. It turned to look in her direction.
Brenda staggered from the room, still screaming. But the fire demon followed, patches of burning carpet left in its wake. Once in the hall, she grabbed up a glass vase and turned to face it. It seemed to fill her vision as it approached, its heat overpowering. Above its head she saw the ceiling blacken. Items of furniture around it began to smoulder. Still, it came on. She flung the vase blindly, but it exploded on contact, blobs of melted glass blowing back on her like pellets.
She retreated into the dining room, but it followed her there too. Then into the kitchen, from where there was only one retreat – outside. Brenda opened the back door on swirling snow. The cold was mind-numbing, but it didn’t matter. She dashed out, immediately slipping and falling. When the thing appeared in the doorway, she crawled away. But this time it made no move to follow. It simply watched, the wind fanning its flames. Then it slammed the door, and she was plunged into icy blackness.
“I tried, Jack,” she stammered. “I ... I tried.”
The snow bit her near-naked flesh as she clambered to her feet and hugged herself. She didn’t know what else to do. Through the thin curtains on the kitchen windows, she could see a glowing shape leaping and cavorting in triumph, before moving out of her vision. She staggered around to the front of the house, and there again, through the closed drapes, saw a demonic capering as the invader flung itself from room to room. Far overhead, black smoke pumped from the chimney. The stench of burning woods and fabrics was overwhelming, even in this bitter cold.
This unbearably bitter cold.
Brenda hung her head, trying to blot it out, but the wind whipped her without mercy. She felt a darkness opening in front of her …
And then someone caught hold of her arm.
“Brenda!” The voice was full of panic. “For God’s sake, Brenda ... what on Earth are you doing?”
Brenda looked weakly up. It was Josie, now in the process of taking off her coat and throwing it around her sister’s shoulders. A young man in a suit was with her.
“For God’s sake!” Josie said again. “You’ll catch your death.”
“The house ... in the house,” Brenda whimpered.
Josie glanced at the front door. “What do you mean? Somebody’s in the house?”
She looked at the young man. He nodded and said: “I’ll check it out. Got a key?”
Josie handed one over.
Brenda shook her head wildly. She didn’t know this guy; likely as not she’d never meet him again – he was just another of Josie’s endless suitors – but she wouldn’t wish death by fire on anyone. “No,” she said forcefully, “nooo!”
“Brenda ... Jesus Christ!” Josie hugged her tightly. “Go on, Eddie.”
The young guy moved lithely away; light fell across them as he opened the front door. Brenda gazed at it in awe, expecting an explosion of smoke and flames, expecting a prolonged male death-shriek.

But none of that happened.
“There’s no-one here now,” he said, when he reappeared.
Brenda was almost too weak to resist, but still tried to struggle as Josie steered her firmly back into the house. When the door shut behind them, Brenda closed her eyes, refusing to let the warmth embrace her.
“You weren’t having another nightmare, were you?” Josie asked.
Brenda shook her head again. She couldn’t answer. She wouldn’t answer. But when she finally opened her eyes, she reeled at what she saw. The hall should have been a charred shell. In fact, it was untouched – hardly a single item of furniture was out of place. The vase she had thrown lay in pieces on the carpet, but that was all. The lounge should certainly have been burned out, but even that was undamaged. There were faint traces of smoke and a slightly pungent odour, but these were easily explained. Eddie indicated the mantelpiece, where one of the candles had fallen over and set a couple of holly leaves alight. The small fire had gone out of its own accord, however. Aside from that, the room’s livery of evergreens was untouched.
“About that nightmare,” Josie said again.
Brenda began to cry. She moved away and sank onto the sofa, head in hands.
“Oh God ...” she heard Josie saying. “This is all my fault. Look I’m sorry, Eddie. Perhaps another night?”
The man made a muted acknowledgement, but Brenda straightened up quickly. “Wait!”
They looked round at her.
“I want it out! All of it!”
Josie and Eddie exchanged bemused glances.
“All this green stuff!” Brenda rose shakily to her feet. “All out ... every scrap!”
“What are you talking about?” Josie asked.
“This!” Brenda grabbed at a holly sprig and ripped it down. “All of it outside ... NOW!”
“Alright, alright.” Josie made a calming motion with her hands. “Whatever you say, don’t worry.”
She glanced at Eddie and, shrugging, he began to circle the room, taking down evergreens. He tried to ignore one of the higher spots, but Brenda made sure he didn’t.
“All of it please,” she said sternly.
They’d almost beaten her, she thought. But not quite. She’d hung out long enough for help to arrive, and now she’d turned the tables. Jack would be proud.
“Fancied a bare house this year, did we?” Josie asked, her bemusement giving way to what sounded like mild irritation.
Brenda pursed her lips. “Tinsel will do fine.”
It took Eddie five minutes to strip the room, and when he’d piled up every scrap of vegetation, he carried it out to the back and threw it on the compost heap. When he’d finished, he told Josie that he thought he’d better be going. She nodded.
After the twosome had left the house, Brenda walked back into the lounge. The room seemed naked, the silver Christmas tree looking drab and forlorn. Brenda didn’t care – she was in charge again. She’d been warned what could happen back in 1982, but sometimes it took the experience of a lifetime to bring reality home.
She glanced round the curtain and saw Josie and Eddie standing by a red Porsche, kissing. Eventually they climbed inside it and continued to embrace. Brenda let the curtain slip back into place. Maybe this one would lead to something? He seemed like a nice young man, this Eddie.
She surveyed the lounge again. She was still badly shaken, still sore where the flames had licked her wrist, but at least she’d won. She glanced at the clock: 1:36. It was well into Christmas Day. Time for a celebration perhaps? She walked to the drinks cabinet but was just opening the Pimms when she sensed a presence behind her. She stiffened.
There was a rustle of cloth, a husky intake of breath.
Slowly, she turned.
Brandon was standing there, clad in jeans, jacket and gumboots. If anything, he seemed to have grown even larger. His beard was thicker and blacker. He smiled at her in that chilling way, one eye blue, one green. “Hi Brenda,” he said.
And all of a sudden, it struck her what it was about him that she’d always feared. She thought of the trouble he’d been in all his life: the pub fights, the prison sentence, the drinking and the rages and the tendency to smash things. And then she thought about old wives’ tales, and what they’d said about odd-eyed people who behaved that way. What was the word – oh yes, ‘changelings’. She remembered his violent conception under the boughs of that ancient emblem of pagan winter, the spruce fir. And now it all made sense.
He stepped into the room. Involuntarily, she retreated. He smiled again – it really was the most unpleasant smile she’d ever seen. It brooked no argument.
“Told you I’d be home.”
She tried to reply but couldn’t. The glass slipped from her hand.
“Things are going to be different from now on, Brenda,” he added. He looked at the fake Christmas tree, and his smile became a grin of triumph. “I’ve made a lot of dosh, and I’m going to treat you both. You can get rid of that thing for a start.” He turned to something lying behind him in the hall. “Just look at this.”
Brenda didn’t need to look to know what it was.
A spruce fir. A gigantic spruce fir, freshly cut. It was so big that Brandon had to yank it hard to get it in through the door. It was perhaps the biggest she’d ever seen; as if he’d been and torn it down in the middle of a forest. The shadows in its depths were utterly black. Brandon laughed raucously.
As he hauled it across the carpet, the tree’s vast and prickly branches seemed to quiver with excitement.

***

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

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

In the meantime, once again, all the best for the season.

A belated Happy New Year. Sorry folks, a very tight deadline prevented me getting that message out to you any sooner.

Not everyone loves the New Year of course. They feel it's another year gone, but me? ... hell, I'm in the 'another year dawns' camp. And that of course means a whole new year of books to write and books to read.

As always at this time of year, it's the latter point I'm hammering today, this whole blogpost dedicated to some of the awesome looking dark fiction heading our way in the first half of 2025.

Yes, sadly, given the dearth of info relating to titles forthcoming between July and December this year, we can only focus in this particular blogpost on January to June. But don't worry yourself. There are still some interesting looking titles en route.

It's the same story as always. I split the stuff that's caught my attention into three sections: Crime, Thriller and Horror, and have selected ten for each one.

Now, a quick WARNING. I obviously haven’t read all of these books yet, so I'm not posting reviews here. As usual, I’m going to let the publishers do the honours by reprinting the blurb from the back of each book. So, please take note of that. These titles are NOT Finch’s recommendations. I’m simply expressing excitement about in a bunch of cool-looking inbound book titles and letting you know what's out there in reference to them.

It goes without saying that there are many more titles than these due for publication between and including January and June. We haven't got the time to mention all of them. Today’s batch are those that most caught my eye while scouring the 'forthcoming' columns, reprinted here in order of publication. That said, if there are any embarrassingly obvious absentees from this list, feel free to mention them in the Comments section.

CRIME

1. HANG ON ST CHRISTOPHERby Adrian McKinty

(Mar 4 in eb and Audible)

Rain slicked streets, riots, murder, chaos. It’s July 1992 and the Troubles in Northern Ireland are still grinding on after 25 apocalyptic years. Detective Inspector Sean Duffy got his family safely over the water to Scotland, to “Shortbread Land”. Duffy’s a part-timer now, only returning to Belfast six days a month to get his pension. It’s an easy gig, if he can keep his head down.

But then a murder case falls into his lap while his protégé is on holiday in Spain. A carjacking gone wrong and the death of a solitary, middle-aged painter. But something’s not right, and as Duffy probes he discovers the painter was an IRA assassin. So, the question becomes: Who hit the hit man and why?

This is Duffy’s most violent and dangerous case yet and the whole future of the burgeoning “peace process” may depend upon it. Based on true events, Duffy must unentangle parallel operations by the CIA, MI5, and Special Branch. Duffy attempts to bring a killer to justice while trying to keep himself and his team alive as everything unravels around them. They might not all make it out of this one.

2. HER SISTER'S KILLER by Mari Hannah

(Mar 6 in eb, pb and Audible)

What brings people together often throws them apart, especially when it involves family. Newly promoted Inspector Frankie Oliver has been consumed by rooting out her sister’s killer and bringing them to justice. But when new evidence comes to light, and her former boss DCI David Stone embarks on an investigation into the tragic unsolved murder without her knowledge, the ties that bind them begin to fray.

After decades without answers, who knows where the trail might lead? And will knowing the answers be the very thing that breaks Frankie irreparably?

3. THE SUMMER GUESTS by Tess Gerritsen

(Mar 27 in eb, hb and Audible)

The Martini Club isn’t open to everyone ...

Maggie Bird’s ‘book group’ is an unusual one – a group of retired spies living an anonymous life in the seaside town of Purity. And this summer they plan little more than ‘reading’ (whilst sipping martinis), and some gentle birdwatching.

But trouble is just around the corner as the summer guests arrive.

For acting Police Chief, Jo Thibodeau, summer brings its own problems – packed streets, bar brawls, petty theft. And now, a missing teenager down by the lake.

When their good friend becomes a prime suspect in the girl’s disappearance, Maggie and her Martini Club must put down their binoculars and roll up their sleeves. Leaving Jo to deal with not only a powerful family desperate for answers, but a meddlesome group of retirees.

Can Jo and the Martini Club find a way to work together, as they uncover one of the deadliest scandals their small town has ever seen?

4. WHEN SHADOWS FALL by Neil Lancaster

(Mar 27 in eb, hb and Audible)

A tragic death ...

When the body of Leanne Wilson is found at the bottom of a Scottish mountain, it is classified as a tragic accident. There is no evidence to suggest otherwise.

A rising body count ...

Then DS Max Craigie discovers that five other women in the last year have died by falling off mountains, and something feels very wrong. They were all experienced climbers and alone when they died. This can only mean one thing: there’s a killer on the loose.

A killer in the shadows ...

The more Max investigates, the more he believes that they are dealing with something much bigger than a lone serial killer. With five victims and conflicting clues, how do you catch someone committing the perfect crime?

5. ONE OF US IS DEAD by Peter James

(Apr 10 in pb)

Roy Grace is about to find out just how dangerous a dead man can be ...

Arriving late for a funeral, James Taylor spots a familiar face in the church – his old schoolfriend Rufus Rorke.

Except it couldn’t be him, could it? Because two years ago Taylor attended Rufus’s funeral. He even delivered the eulogy.

On the other side of Brighton, at Police HQ, Detective Superintendent Roy Grace has been alerted to a number of suspicious deaths that he can’t get out of his mind. But how are they linked? And could they possibly be connected to Rufus Rorke?

6. DEATH ON WOLF FELL by Nick Oldham

(May 6 in eb and hb)

Former Metropolitan Police firearms officer Sergeant Jessica Raker is on a mission to bring down a brutal organized crime group operating in the idyllic Ribble Valley.

Leader Mags Horsefield is determined to make one of the members pay for getting caught by the police, using her contacts to make sure he’s released from prison early ... into her waiting clutches.

Jess knows Mags from their school days, but their lives now couldn’t be more different. A fire at a local mill puts Jess on the tail of Mags’ OCG; is this her opportunity to catch the Ribble Valley’s most wanted criminal? The battle lines have been drawn, but when Jess is called to an incident at Wolf Fell Hall, a series of terrifying events follow ...

7. COLD JUSTICE by Leigh Russell

(May 8 in eb and pb)

The stakes have never been higher for Geraldine Steel.

When Alice Lewis is found murdered, the case becomes personal for DI Steel, as Alice was the niece of her childminder, Lisa. Despite Lisa’s earlier pleas for help, Geraldine hadn’t acted in time to save Alice.

Now, driven by guilt and a thirst for justice, Geraldine dives headfirst into the case. But the deeper she digs, the more layers of secrets and lies she uncovers about Alice’s life, forcing her to question everything she thought she knew. With an elusive killer watching her every move, Geraldine finds herself caught in a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

8. THE DEATH WATCHER by Chris Carter

(May 8 in pb)

When a routine autopsy on what looked like a straightforward hit-and-run leads the LA Chief Medical Examiner, Dr Carolyn Hove, to discover some puzzling inconsistencies, she calls in Detective Robert Hunter of the LAPD Ultra Violent Crimes Unit. Not only did Dr Hove discover that the death wasn’t caused by a hit-and-run, but she also found indications that the victim had been severely tortured prior to death.

What no one realises is that what Dr Hove has stumbled upon is just the tip of the iceberg and it will lead Hunter and his partner, Carlos Garcia, on the trail of a twisted and clever killer who hides in plain sight. A serial killer no one even knew existed – a killer who has always operated under the radar, expertly disguising every gruesome murder as an accidental death.

But with no leads as to why the victim was targeted, the investigation comes to a standstill, until another body is discovered with an alternative cause of death.

What becomes clear is that this serial killer isn’t going to stop – unless Hunter and Garcia can get to him.

But how do you investigate a murder when you have no victims? How do you catch a killer who leaves behind no crime scene? How do you stop a ghost who no one can prove even exists?

9. SHATTER CREEK by Rod Reynolds

(May 22 in eb and pb)

Fresh from the scandal at Hampstead County PD, Detective Sergeant Casey Wray works a complex double-homicide that points to a killer on a murderous rampage and a shattering series of discoveries that could end her career … The shocking sequel to the addictive, twisty, bestselling Black Reed Bay…

Hampstead County Police Department is embroiled in scandal after corruption at the top of the force was exposed. Cleared of involvement and returned to active duty, Detective Sergeant Casey Wray nonetheless finds herself at a crossroads when it becomes clear not everyone believes she’s innocent.

Partnered with rookie Billy Drocker, Casey works a shocking daytime double-homicide in downtown Rockport with the two victims seemingly unknown to one another. And when a third victim is gunned down on her doorstep shortly after, it appears an abusive ex-boyfriend holds the key to the killings.

With powerful figures demanding answers, Casey and Billy search for the suspect, fearing he’s on a murderous rampage. But when a key witness goes missing, and new evidence just won’t fit, the case begins to unravel. With her career in jeopardy, Casey makes a shattering discovery that threatens to expose the true darkness at the heart of the murders… with a killer still on the loose…

10. WHAT THE NIGHT BRINGS by Mark Billingham

(Jun 19 in eb, hb and Audible)

‘Three dead coppers, Tom, maybe four by lunchtime ...’

The targeted murder of four officers is only the first in a series of attacks that leaves police scared, angry and, most disturbingly of all, vengeful.

As Tom Thorne and Nicola Tanner dig into the reasons for the violence, a deeper darkness begins to emerge: the possibility that these murders are payback. The price paid for an unspeakable betrayal.

To uncover the truth, Thorne will be forced to question everything he stands for. He can trust nobody, and the shocking secrets revealed by one terrible night will fracture his entire world.

THRILLER

1. THE STRANGER IN THE ROOM by Luca Veste

(Today in eb, hb and Audible)

A string of murders and the person who links them all is ... your daughter.

Alison Lennon receives the worst news a parent can expect - her son, Ben, has been killed, in what looks at first like a random attack on a dark street in the middle of the night. Only, she knows that he isn’t the first victim.

Mia Johnstone has just turned 18. Ready for the next phase of her life, she should be looking forward to university, studying, partying. Instead, she’s thinking about how her boyfriend Ben is the third person close to her to have died.

Alison believes that Mia killed her son.

2. THE TROUBLED DEEP by Rob Parker

(Today in eb, hb, pb and Audible)

Nobody ever knew what happened to the Brindleys. One summer they were there - flashy, loud and beautiful - and then they were gone. A mother, father and two children, vanished into the East Anglian night.

Some said the family never made it home from the party; their speeding car thrown off the tracks and the four of them silently buried in the marshes. Others said they had simply moved on. For 30 years, the case remained as cold as the freezing waterways of the Norfolk broads.

Until Cam Killick found the car.

An ex-marine and ex-SBS officer, Cam Killick’s PTSD has made the return to civilian life a living nightmare. The only place he can find peace is underwater, where the world is muffled to white noise. As a cold case diver it is his job to scour the waterways of the country for the lost, the submerged, the drowned, laying their stories to rest alongside them.

Except when Cam throws open the doors to the Brindley car, all four bodies are missing. And Cam will soon learn that some secrets, once submerged, are better off staying that way.

3. THE MAILMAN by Andrew Welsh-Huggins

(Jan 28 in hb)

Mercury Carter is a deliveryman and he takes his job very seriously. When a parcel is under his care, he will stop at nothing to deliver it directly to its intended recipient. Not even, as in the current case, when he finds a crew of violent men at the indicated address, who threaten his life and take the woman who lives there hostage. That’s because Carter has special skills from his former life as a federal agent with the postal inspection service, skills that make him particularly useful for delivering items in circumstances as dangerous as these.

After Carter dispatches the goons sent to kill him, he enters a home besieged by criminals - but the leader of the gang escapes with attorney Rachel Stanfield before the mailman can complete his assignment. With Rachel’s husband Glenn in tow, Carter takes off in pursuit of the kidnapper and his quarry, hunting them across Indiana, up to Chicago, and into small-town Illinois. Along the way, he slowly picks off members of the crew and uncovers a far-reaching conspiracy and a powerful crime syndicate, all in service of his main objective: to hand the package over to Rachel.

Carter has never missed a delivery and isn’t about to start now.

4. THE PSYCHOPATH NEXT DOOR by Mark Edwards

(Jan 28 in eb, pb and Audible)

Ethan Dove’s family has moved to a new home in a safe community, and it’s exactly the fresh start they need. Not only is his marriage to Emma hanging by a thread, but his son, Dylan, and 12-year-old daughter, Rose, deserve to have a happy childhood.

After Rose is bullied by the boys across the road, Ethan is relieved when the woman who lives next door steps in. Fiona Smith has come into their lives at just the right moment, and when she offers to look after Rose during the school holidays, Ethan and Emma can’t believe their luck.

Which is exactly what Fiona wants. Because, far from being the perfect neighbour, Fiona is the last person you should trust with your child. With a vicious plot for revenge, Fiona is happy to train Rose to be her accomplice, especially when she begins to suspect that Rose might not be as innocent as she appears …

5. THE RETURN OF FRANKIE WHITTLE by Caroline England

(Feb 8 in pb)

Frankie Whittle has it all: a career in the City, a gorgeous husband and a baby on the way.

It’s the perfect life, but it's built on sand. In one terrifying night, everything she has worked so hard for unravels. She needs a fresh start. When she discovers that the very place she was born has been converted into a beautiful gated community, it feels like serendipity. After all she’s been through, has she found her dream home?

They say you should never go back, that the past is a foreign country, filled with devastating secrets.

How far will those around her go to keep their secrets safe?

6. THE FROZEN PEOPLE by Elly Griffiths

(Feb 13 in eb, hb and Audible)

Some murders can’t be solved in just one lifetime ...

Ali Dawson and her cold case team investigate crimes so old, they’re frozen - or so their inside joke goes. Most people don’t know that they travel back in time to complete their research.

The latest assignment sees Ali venture back farther than they have dared before: to 1850s London in order to clear the name of Cain Templeton, the eccentric great-grandfather of MP Isaac Templeton. Rumour has it that Cain was part of a sinister group called The Collectors; to become a member, you had to kill a woman ...

Fearing for her safety in the middle of a freezing Victorian winter, Ali finds herself stuck in time, unable to make her way back to her life, her beloved colleagues, and her son, Finn, who suddenly finds himself in legal trouble in the present day.

Could the two cases be connected?

7. WOLF SIX

by Alex Shaw

(Feb 27 in eb, hb, pb and Audible)

Killing for a living is easy ... living for a reason is much harder

Meet Ruslan Akulov.

In the shadowy world of assassins for hire, he is known as ‘Wolf Six’.

A Ukrainian raised in Moscow, conscripted into Russia’s most covert Special Forces unit ‘The Werewolves’, Akulov is full of loathing for the country that built and then broke him. The only rules he follows now are his own.

Unable to shake the guilt of his past, Akulov has made it his business to seek out those who prey upon the innocent. The name Wolf Six is legendary - whispered by those who know it with fear. But when Akulov accidentally thwarts the armed robbery of a Chicago Bank, he pits himself against both the Russian Bratva and the CIA, setting into motion a spiralling sequence of events which will bring his past back to haunt him, and potentially turn his future to ashes…

His mission of retribution takes him from Chicago to Kyiv, to Havana and back into the US, where Akulov must stop at nothing if he is to remain alive. No simple mission, even for the world’s deadliest assassin.

8. MARK HECKENBURG 9

by Paul Finch

(March in eb and pb)

Welcome to the Funhouse. Where random and unwilling participants play the game of death.

The north of England is rocked by two horrifying but bewildering crimes: a £600,000 drugs heist, the couriers and the buyers all slain. And the abduction of an entire stag party, a bunch of strapping young men lured away by two pretty girls, and never seen again.

While northern police forces struggle to cope, go-it-alone Detective Sergeant Mark Heckenburg, still under suspension, is given a stark choice. Infiltrate the Crew, Manchester’s overarching crime syndicate as an undercover asset, or lose his job permanently.

With the assistance of out-of-favour Manchester cop, Lucy Clayburn, Heck undertakes the onerous task, soon discovering evidence linking the two heinous crimes together. But he has a more immediate problem. The Crew’s ruthless Chairman of the Board, Frank McCracken, is increasingly suspicious and determined to test his loyalty to the max.

Meanwhile, another bunch of guileless young men have gone missing, and are now awaiting their fate in the architectural nightmare that is the Funhouse ...

9. THE CHILDREN OF EVE by John Connolly

(May 8 in eb)

Wyatt Riggins, the boyfriend of rising Maine artist Zetta Nadeau, has gone missing, leaving behind a cell phone containing a single-word message: RUN.

Private investigator Charlie Parker is hired to find out why Riggins has fled, and from whom.

Parker discovers that Riggins, an ex-soldier, has been involved in the abduction of four children from Mexico: three girls and a boy, all belonging to the cartel boss Blas Urrea - except Urrea’s family is safe and well in Mexico, which means the abductees cannot be his children. Yet whoever they are, Urrea wants them back, and has dispatched his agents to secure them, even if it means butchering everyone who stands in their way.

One of those agents is Eugene Seeley, a clever, ruthless solver of other men’s problems. The other is an unknown woman.

Every child has a mother. Now Charlie Parker will face one unlike any other, and learn the terrifying truth about the Children of Eve.

10. THE MAN MADE OF SMOKE by Alex North

(May 8 in eb, hb and Audible)

You never forget the day you meet a serial killer.

Dan was just a teenager when he had a chance encounter with the elusive killer known only as “the man made of smoke”. Nobody could blame him for being too scared to intervene, for being too scared to save the latest victim, for letting the killer vanish again.

Nobody except Dan himself.

Years later, Dan has a successful career as a criminal psychiatrist, unpicking the very darkest of human behaviour. Because, despite what he saw that day, Dan knows there's no such thing as a monster.

But now his father, John, has gone missing. And, when Dan returns to the small island where he grew up, he finds out that not long before his disappearance, John had stumbled across a body.

As Dan begins to dig, he finds unsettling links, stretching all the way back to the man made of smoke.

Which means this might just be a chance to not only save his dad, but to finally find redemption.
But what if he's been wrong about that day for all these years.

What if he was right to be scared?

HORROR

1. WICKED JENNY

by Matt Hilton

(Out Now in eb, hb and pb, Feb 1 in Audible)

This eerie tale sees a group of men haunted by one traumatic event from their childhood. They thought they’d moved on ... but someone - or something - won't let them!

1988: 13-year-old Andy Miller and his friends – Carl, Brian, Johnny and Gavin – become witnesses to the vicious attack of their classmate, Poppy, and the brutal murder of her sister at a flooded railway line they call the Frog Ponds. They lead the police to a suspect, a vulnerable older boy whose differences single him out. But when he commits suicide, his guilt is never proven. And the crime goes unpunished, until ...

Now: Carl’s body is found beside the same body of water – and the lives of the four remaining friends start to unravel. Is the hag-like woman terrorizing their every waking moment really a grown-up Poppy hellbent on revenge? Or something else ... something steeped in childhood nightmares? Something determined to reveal the truth and punish the wicked.

2. WAKE UP AND OPEN YOUR EYES by Clay McLeod Chapman

(Out Now in eb, pb and Audible)

Noah Fairchild has been losing his formerly polite Southern parents to far-right cable news for years, so when his mother leaves him a voicemail warning him that the ‘Great Reckoning’ is here, he assumes it’s related to one of the many conspiracy theories she believes in. But when his own phone calls go unanswered, Noah makes the long drive from Brooklyn to Richmond, Virginia. There, he discovers his childhood home in shambles, a fridge full of spoiled food, and his parents locked in a terrifying trance-like state in front of the TV. Panicked, Noah attempts to snap them out of it and get medical help.

Then Noah’s mother brutally attacks him.

But Noah isn't the only person to be attacked by a loved one. Families across the country are tearing each other apart - literally - as people succumb to a form of possession that gets worse the more time they spend watching particular channels, using certain apps, or visiting certain websites. In Noah’s Richmond-based family, only he and his young nephew Marcus are unaffected. Together, they must race back to the safe haven of Brooklyn - but can they make it before they fall prey to the violent hordes?

3. WITCHCRAFT FOR WAYWARD GIRLS by Grady Hendrix

(Today in eb, hb, pb and Audible)

‘I did an evil thing to be put in here, and I’m going to have to do an evil thing to get out.’

They call them wayward girls. Loose girls. Girls who grew up too fast. And they’re sent to the Wellwood House in St. Augustine, Florida, where unwed mothers are hidden by their families to have their babies in secret, give them up for adoption, and most important of all, to forget any of it ever happened.

15-year-old Fern arrives at the home in the sweltering summer of 1970, pregnant, terrified and alone. There, she meets a dozen other girls in the same predicament. Rose, a hippie who insists she’s going to keep her baby and escape to a commune. Zinnia, a budding musician who plans to marry her baby’s father. And Holly, barely 14, mute and pregnant by no-one-knows-who.

Every moment of their waking day is strictly controlled by adults who claim they know what’s best for them. Then Fern meets a librarian who gives her an occult book about witchcraft, and power is in the hands of the girls for the first time in their lives. But power can destroy as easily as it creates, and it’s never given freely. There’s always a price to be paid ... and it’s usually paid in blood.

4. SCUTTLER’S COVE by David Barnett

(Feb 13 in eb and pb)

The sea never forgets. The sea never forgives …

Scuttler’s Cove is a working village, nestling in dramatic coastal scenery in Cornwall, where life has gone on uninterrupted for centuries … until this seaside idyll was discovered by the rich.

Now the quaint harbour-front cottages have been snapped up by second-homers and rental companies, and the locals can barely afford to live in their own town.

It is a very different place for Merrin Moon, who left for university at the age of 18 and never looked back. Now in her thirties, she returns to the Cove for the first time since, after the death of her mother.

She soon discovers that there are forces at play in the village that she could never have imagined. Is someone trying to drive out the second homers? And has their arrival started a chain of events none of them will be able to stop?

For something old and terrible is awakening beneath the town’s hallowed ground. And with it comes a horror that the residents have fought for generations to keep a secret.

5. THE BUFFALO HUNTER HUNTER by Stephen Graham Jones

(Mar 18 in eb, hb and Audible)

Etsy Beaucarne is an academic who needs to get published. So when a journal, written in 1912 by Arthur Beaucarne, a Lutheran pastor and her grandfather, is discovered within a wall during renovations, she sees her chance. She can uncover the lost secrets of her family, and get tenure.

As she researches, she comes to learn about her grandfather and a Blackfeet called Good Stab, who came to Arthur to share the story of his extraordinary life. She discovers that the journals detail a slow massacre, a chain of events charting the history of Montana state as it formed. A cycle of violence that leads all the way back to 217 Blackfeet murdered in the snow.

A blood-soaked and unflinching saga of the violence of colonial America, a revenge story like no other, and the chilling reinvention of vampire lore.

6. COLD ETERNITY by SA Barnes

(Apr 8 in Audible)

Halley is on the run from an interplanetary political scandal that has put a huge target on her back. She heads for what seems like the perfect place to lay low: a gigantic space barge storing the cryogenically frozen bodies of Earth’s most fortunate citizens from more than a century ago ...

The cryo program, created by trillionaire tech genius Zale Winfeld, is long defunct, and the AI hologram ‘hosts’, ghoulishly created in the likeness of Winfeld’s three adult children, are glitchy. The ship feels like a crypt, and the isolation gets to Halley almost immediately. She starts to see figures crawling in the hallways, and there’s a constant scraping, slithering, and rattling echoing in the vents.

It’s not long before Halley realizes she may have gotten herself trapped in an even more dangerous situation than the one she was running from....

7. SENSELESS

by Ronald Malfi

(Apr 15 in eb and hb)

What do you see ...?

When the mutilated body of a young woman is discovered in the desert on the outskirts of Los Angeles, the detective assigned to the case can’t deny the similarities between this murder and one that occurred a year prior. Media outlets are quick to surmise this is the work of a budding serial killer, but Detective Bill Renney is struggling with an altogether different scenario: a secret that keeps him tethered to the husband of the first victim.

What do you hear...?

Maureen Park, newly engaged to Hollywood producer Greg Dawson, finds her engagement party crashed by the arrival of Landon, Greg’s son. A darkly unsettling young man, Landon invades Maureen’s new existence, and the longer he stays, the more convinced she becomes that he may have something to do with the recent murder in the high desert.

What do you feel...?

Toby Kampen, the self-proclaimed Human Fly, begins an obsession over a woman who is unlike anyone he has ever met. A woman with rattlesnake teeth and a penchant for biting. A woman who has trapped him in her spell. A woman who may or may not be completely human.

8. THE STAIRCASE IN THE WOODS by Chuck Wendig

(Apr 29 in eb, hb and Audible)

Five high school friends, bonded by an oath to protect each other no matter what.

On a camping trip in the middle of the forest, they find something extraordinary: a mysterious staircase to nowhere.

One friend walks up – but never comes back down.

Now, 20 years later, the staircase has reappeared, and the friends return to find the lost boy – and what lies beyond the staircase in the woods…

9. GOING HOME IN THE DARK by Dean Koontz

(May 20 in eb and Audible)

As kids, outcasts Rebecca, Bobby, Spencer, and Ernie were inseparable friends in the idyllic town of Maple Grove. Three left to pursue lofty dreams - and achieved them. Only Ernie never left. When he falls into a coma, his three amigos feel an urgent need to return home. Don’t they remember people lapsing into comas back then? And those people always awoke …didn’t they?

After two decades, not a lot has changed in Maple Grove, especially Ernie’s obnoxious, scary mother. But Rebecca, Bobby, and Spencer begin to remember a hulking, murderous figure and weirdness piled on mystery that they were made to forget. As Ernie sinks deeper into darkness, something strange awaits any friend who tries to save him.

For Rebecca, Bobby, and Spencer, time is running out to remember the terrors of the past in a perfect town where nothing is what it seems. For Maple Grove, it’s a chance to have the “four amigos,” as they once called themselves, back in its grasp.

10. SMALL TOWN HORROR by Ronald Malfi

(Jun 4 in pb)

Maybe this is a ghost story…

Andrew Larimer has left his past behind. Rising up the ranks in a New York law firm, and with a heavily pregnant wife, he is settling into a new life far from Kingsport, the town in which he grew up. But when he receives a late-night phone call from an old friend, he has no choice but to return home.

Coming home means returning to his late father’s house, which has seen better days. It means lying to his wife. But it also means reuniting with his friends: Eric, now the town’s deputy sheriff; Dale, a real-estate mogul living in the shadow of a failed career; his childhood sweetheart Tig who never could escape town; and poor Meach, whose ravings about a curse upon the group have driven him to drugs and alcohol.

Together, the five friends will have to confront the memories - and the horror - of a night, years ago, that changed everything for them.

Because Andrew and his friends have a secret. A thing they have kept to themselves for 20 years. Something no one else should know. But the past is not dead, and Kingsport is a town with secrets of its own.

One dark secret...

One small-town horror...

It’s a big announcements day here on WALKING IN THE DARK, most of it concerning forthcoming Finch publications. Those in the know will remember that I forecast three new books for 2025, and now at last I’m able to publicise the cover-art and publication details for two of them, the two that are most imminent, so imminent in fact that they’re both now available for pre-order (one of them less than a month away!).

However, before we talk about the new books, I’d like to apologise for my tardiness of late. Regular readers will note that I haven’t written anything on this blog since January. Alas, there are very sad reasons for that. I’ve recently lost a dearly loved one.

Not long after my last post, my mother, Margaret, a feisty 92-year-old (right), suddenly began to feel unwell and it was a relatively fast decline from that moment on.

She finally left this world on March 26, but only after a typically tough battle against what, in the end, was nothing more than Old Age itself. That was a kind of consolation: that she wasn’t actually ill and made it right to the end. It was also a consolation that she passed away very peacefully in her sleep.

I hope people will forgive me this personal interlude in the normal run of business, but it’s actually quite relevant. Some may remember that my father, Brian, who died at the age of 70 in 2007, was a screenwriter of considerable note, and obviously a key inspiration in terms of the career I eventually chose for myself. However, my mum played her part too.

An accomplished actress, singer and dancer, she appeared in hundreds and hundreds of plays in the Northwest English theatreland, most of the time at Wigan Little Theatre (right), and covered every genre in the business, from comedy to hard drama, from literary classics to thrillers and musicals. She was also an author in her own right, having written at least a dozen pantomimes, all of which went on to grace the stage to some acclaim. She too, therefore, was a huge motivation behind the career I eventually settled on.

RIP, Mum. At least you’re now with Dad in that great script room in the sky.

Now, onto those ...

Forthcoming publications

First of all, if you look topside, you’ll see the front cover for the 9th novel in the Mark Heckenburg series, NO QUARTER. I know that I’ve teased people about this for a while, but at last the book is done and dusted, and due for publication in both ebook and paperback on May 1st this year.

NOTE: If you go racing over there right now, you’ll see that it’s available for pre-order already on Kindle, but it isn’t on paperback. But never fear, the paperback will also be out on May 1st, so you can purchase it then.

If anyone is looking to acquire NO QUARTER on Audible, the good news is that it will be published in that format later this year. The not-so-good news is that I haven’t got a date for that yet, though I guarantee it will happen. It’s all been agreed. Just keep watching this space.

(Those awaiting the Audible of ROGUE - Heckenburg 8 - will also need to be patient a little bit longer, I’m afraid. Audible publication is a slightly slow-moving beast, but that title too will be out at some point in 2025).

I don't want to say too much more about NO QUARTER on here, I mean aside from the info in the back-cover blurb (left). Obviously, I’d rather you read the book, and with publication only a few weeks away, there isn’t much point in my doing it anyway.

But suffice to say that yet again, it picks up fairly quickly where the last Heck novel, ROGUE, left off. As always, though, it's a free-standing, action-packed crime thriller, which you can enjoy without having read any of the Heck books before.

You should enjoy it particularly if gritty urban realism is your thing.

Meanwhile, I’d like to say thanks again to all those Heck fans who kept the flame burning during his years of enforced absence from the bookshelves. It’s common knowledge now that this resulted from my change of publisher coinciding with the Covid crisis. It was the perfect storm and had a knock-on effect that would last several years. Now at last that crisis is over, but again to those fans - if you had not kept contacting me about it, I possibly might have concluded that all interest in the character and his stories had dwindled. It’s so gratifying to see these two new books in the series prove that it hasn’t.

Next up

Excited as I am about the next title in the Heck series, I’m equally excited about my second forthcoming novel for 2025. This one, THE ISLAND, is a free-stander and will be my first book with Thomas & Mercer.

Again, I don’t want to give too much way about it, except to confirm that, yet again, we are in solid murder mystery country, with plenty of action and scariness thrown in. This one will hit the shelves in paperback, ebook and Audible on September 1st this year. But if you absolutely MUST know more about it in advance ... if you have an uncontrollable pathological need to find out more ... okay, you’ve twisted my arm.

Here’s the official blurb:

A dream holiday. You’d die to be there.

You are offered the getaway of a lifetime on a remote island with a group of strangers. Things have been difficult recently, so you jump at the chance to swim under the summer sun, explore the peaceful woodlands and return to an elegant hotel for a glorious dinner.

As the boat pulls into the harbour, you’re surrounded by crystal-clear water and soon you are alone. Just the peace and quiet you were promised. No phone signal, no internet… no way to call for help. But nothing will go wrong in paradise, right?

As a huge summer storm rolls towards the island, everyone is starting to realise the secrets they’ve been hiding for years seem to have followed them here. And you are no different.

Then one of your group disappears. His body washes up in the picture-postcard harbour, and it’s clearly no accident. Can you get out alive?

Roll on September, eh? I can’t wait for this one.

Final thoughts

So ... 2025 has been a year of contradictions thus far. It started off in the saddest possible way, catastrophically even, and yet it’s always had the potential to be an unusually successful year. With NO QUARTER and THE ISLAND both scheduled for publication long before my mother became unwell, it looked very promising indeed. And let’s be honest, that promise remains. In fact, there’s a promise of even better to come, because the eagle-eyed among you will have noticed that I also mentioned a third novel slated for publication this year. This one will be another of my medieval adventures from Canelo (an imprint of Penguin), and though not quite a follow-up to the previous two, USURPER and BATTLE LORD, it won’t be overly different in terms of epic action. This one is due out in the late autumn, which obviously is way ahead of us yet, so I won’t give too much more away at this stage.

Look, none of us can be sure what the months and years ahead will bring, except that most of us will experience sadness and gladness in more or less equal measures. If you’re afflicted by the former, you have my full sympathy, and I hope these forthcoming titles of mine may go some way towards alleviating it.

Happy reading.

THRILLERS, CHILLERS, SHOCKERS AND KILLERS

Works of dark literature that I have recently read, thoroughly enjoyed and heartily recommend (sometimes with a few lighter ones mixed in).

DAS REICH

by Max Hastings (2009)

After D-Day, Hitler’s elite 22nd SS Panzer Division marches north from the Garonne, meeting constant opposition from Resistance fighters and Allied commandoes, and responding with brutal atrocity. The ultimate factual assessment of some of the darkest days on WW2’s Western Front. Hastings is a voice of vast authority as he assesses the savagery from all perspectives, juxtaposing ethics and military expediency, courage and cruelty. Objective, balanced and meticulously researched.

WOLF OF WESSEX

by Matthew Harffy (2019)

In the Wessex of 838 AD, a hoary old warrior must clear his name of an unjust murder charge, and in so undoing uncovers a plot to overturn the kingdom. Strong characters sit at the heart of this small canvas but nevertheless rollicking adventure set at the dawn of the Viking Age. Rich in atmosphere, packed with intense combat, and beautifully evocative of Saxon England. Built into real historical events but a mini saga all of its own. Great escapist fun in the best axe-wielding tradition.

HORRORWEEN

by Al Sarrantonio (2012)

When evil Samhain returns to Orangefield, pumpkin capital of upstate New York, for Halloween, murder and madness ensue. Sarrantonio pulls out all the stops in this smoothly woven mesh of horror stories, creating a lively all-in-one novel filled with memorable characters and rich in All Hallows lore. Hints of Bradbury, hints of King, and a tone reminiscent of YA though this one is strictly for grownups. An excellent, eerie ride with which to start the Ghosting Season.

GOMORRAH

by Roberto Saviano (2006)

An investigative journalist’s penetration of the Camorra’s criminal activities in Southern Italy. Multi prize-winning True Crime exposé, which has resulted in the author needing a permanent police escort ever since. Fearless documentation of organised crime’s crushing grip on the Neapolitan region, and the terrible repercussions it has for every part of that society. A courageous and honourable piece of work, excellently translated by Virginia Jewiss.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by Graham Masterton (1996)

A badly injured lawyer seeks solace in a crumbling Hudson Valley mansion, unaware of the latent evil lurking in its dingy passages. More than just another haunted house chiller, the author really cuts loose in this one with some wild stuff indeed, but also packs it with his trademark scariness and gore. Solid horror from one of the modern maestros.

THE CORMORANT

by Stephen Gregory (1986)

A young writer and his family inherit an idyllic cottage in North Wales but also a large, aggressive cormorant, on whose survival their ongoing good fortune rests. A beautiful oddity of a horror novella from an author who left us too soon. A strange tale by any standards, but so elegantly written that you are seduced from the start. Ambiguous about the presence of supernatural evil, but finally rising to a weird and horrific climax.

THE ANGLO-SAXONS

by Marc Morris (2021)

Between the Romans’ departure and the Norman invasion, much of Britain lay under pagan invaders, the Saxons, though they soon Christianised and founded the kingdom of England. This is their saga, as told by a personable historian who writes accessibly and entertainingly, covering all aspects of the Dark Ages era, social, political, military, describing kings and their battles but also the fundamentals of daily life, tying it all together with vivid clarity. History on both an epic and a human scale.

BILLY SUMMERS

by Stephen King (2021)

An ex-military sniper turned writer is offered staggering money to take out an LA hitman currently seeking a plea-bargain, but late in the day he smells a rat. Leisurely paced but always compelling chunk of neo-noir, which gets neatly into the head of the professional killer while also building a complex and convincing mystery-thriller. As always with King, the interplay of deep and likeable characters ups the stakes dramatically. Taut, tense and involving.

LEGION

by William Peter Blatty (1983)

A Georgetown detective investigates a child-crucifixion and links it to a serial killer shot by fellow cops ten years earlier. Quite simply, one of the best horror novels ever written, Blatty providing a hugely satisfying sequel to his bestseller, The Exorcist, at the same time pondering deeply on matters of life, death, religion and philosophy and yet continuing to terrify us with nightmarish scenarios and an opponent from the depths of Hell. An exceptional achievement in the realms of dark fiction.

A KESTREL FOR A KNAVE

by Barry Hines (1968)

In the late 1960s, a Barnsley council house lad escapes the drabness of his everyday life by catching and training a young hawk. There aren’t enough accolades one can heap on this seminal work. Tough and insightful, poetically written, witty as well as tragic, social realism woven thick into the lyrical descriptions of town and country. Hines asks searching questions of the self-satisfied establishment, and presents the working-class struggle in clear-headed, non-sentimental fashion.

THE OTHER PASSENGER

by John Keir Cross (1944)

The not so romantic date with the ventriloquist and his dummy. The madman whose wife’s severed head talks to him constantly. The hideous reason behind the terribly cold bed. The doppelganger torment that leads to an ordeal by fire. In the immediate post-war years, British horror authors penned some seriously twisted stuff, and JKC was no exception. Another resurrected classic from @Valancourt_B.

THE BERESFORD

by Will Carver (2021)

In an unnamed city, a matronly lady presides over a venerable old apartment house where lost souls wash up on a regular basis, and all-too-often turn to murder. Strange but hugely readable tale, sitting somewhere between horror, mystery and surrealist dark comedy. Will Carver ties it up neatly at the end, but it’s a twisty, intriguing journey. A fun but grisly ride. Not for the faint-hearted.

THE WOLF’S HOUR

by Robert McCammon (1989)

An Allied spy infiltrates German-occupied France in the months leading up to D-Day, his mission to scope out a proposed countermeasure called Iron Fist. The Gestapo are soon onto him, but he has one key advantage: he’s a werewolf. Blood and thunder wartime horror thriller, packed with hair-raising terror and rivers of gore. The Nazis have never been more evil, the lycanthrope never more ferocious. Unbelievably tense and readable. One of those books you reach for every spare second.

BEST NEW HORROR #30

edited by Stephen Jones (2020)

The academics who sought out a missing ghost story and became part of it. The tape-recorded sounds that created real, living nightmares. The deep-sea diving suit with a life of its own. The schoolkids terrified by faces in tree bark. Another selection of topline horror from antho maestro, Stephen Jones. 2018 is the year in focus, and on this evidence, it hit us with a chill a minute. I still mourn the closure of this terrific annual showcase for all that’s best in shortform scariness.

SILVERWEED ROAD

by Simon Crook (2022)

A weary cop recounts the bizarre series of crimes he investigated on the same suburban road in 2019, resulting in ten interconnected horror stories. The gardener whose war with the local jackdaws gets totally out of hand. The mysterious entity in the luxury swimming pool. The Saxon ring and the ancient evil it invokes. The quiet house that turns into Hell’s aquarium. A top-notch portmanteau horror, hitting us with a wide range of terrors. Vividly and stylishly written.

THINGS GET UGLY

by Joe R Lansdale (2023)

The sports star lover facing death by dog. The kids sent to bring their uncle’s corpse home despite the summer heat. The wannabe who could only prove himself by committing the most atrocious deed. Crime meets horror meets comedy in another outrageous collection of iron-hard tales hammered out on the anvil of Joe Lansdale’s unforgiving imagination. Two-fisted stories packed with JL’s signature grit and violence. As the title says, it often gets ugly.

WICKED JENNY

by Matt Hilton (2025)

In 2020s Cumbria, a group of middle-aged men lose a friend to a hammer attack, are reminded of a terrible incident when they were kids and come to suspect the presence of a ghastly female predator. A tightly written bone chiller, with feet both in the ‘folk horror’ and ‘murder mystery’ camps. Local legends interchange with regret, guilt and other psychological tortures as our hapless everymen struggle with their past. Unsettling throughout, building steadily to an horrific crescendo.

JOEby Larry Brown (1991)

In sun-parched Mississippi, a tough, troublesome redneck befriends a hillbilly kid from a woe-begotten family and tries to help him build a more normal life. Hints of Steinbeck, hints of Faulkner, and lashings of Southern Gothic as two rebels without causes make the best they can of a dang-cussed situation. Gritty, unromantic portrayal of life in trailer park country. Coarse, whiskey-soaked and short on good guys, yet exquisitely written and deep in character.

Order 'Terror Tales of the Mediterranean'

When cruel maniacs lurked in the suburbs

MOMENTS THAT MATTERED

During dark days in the autumn of the year

Haunted house horrors: a very cool Top 20

20 HAUNTED HOUSE NOVELS TO SHED DARKNESS INTO YOUR WORLD OF LIGHT

Check out the final artwork for Battle Lord

Be afraid: the Ghosting Season has arrived

Fancy some festive terror in the Icy Realm?

THE ICY REALM

1

Part 2 of THE ICY REALM. Hope you enjoy.

THE ICY REALM

2

BATTLE LORD hits the bookshelves today

Your dark fiction choices, January to June

By Heck! A few pics from my writing past

Big news on the dark fiction front - at last

Monsters with claws sunk into our psyche

Chilling books for the chilly end of the year

30 CHILLING READS FOR THE
CHILLIER END OF THE YEAR

CRIME

THRILLER

HORROR

Heck returns this autumn in all new novel

Heck returns, on a mission of total revenge

TWO new Heck thrillers due out in autumn

A host of devils arriving here this autumn

HECK is back, ROGUE ready to pre-order

ROGUE
Who’s Who

Promote your book with some acting talent

Uncompromising action, demented villains

Great reviews, eerie art, Christmas chillers

DECEMBER: A festive supernatural foray

DECEMBER

Incoming titles to darken your spring days

CRIME

THRILLER

HORROR

Sadness, joy - an astonishing year thus far

MOMENTS THAT MATTERED

20 HAUNTED HOUSE NOVELS TO SHED DARKNESS INTO YOUR WORLD OF LIGHT

THE ICY REALM

1

THE ICY REALM

2

30 CHILLING READS FOR THE CHILLIER END OF THE YEAR

CRIME

THRILLER

HORROR

ROGUEWho’s Who

DECEMBER

CRIME

THRILLER

HORROR

30 CHILLING READS FOR THE
CHILLIER END OF THE YEAR

ROGUE
Who’s Who