P.L. McMillan's Blog

It’s the final day of my annual writing challenge and the last day of the MileHi Con so I am exhausted!

Hopefully you, dear reader, had a lovely weekend! Without further ado, mainly because I am so tired, the next prompt is:

A Brando Sando magic system that fucks…
In space.

From Patrick Barb

The purple-eyed orphan, who was wary of the universe but definitely fated to change it somehow, sumersaulted through the zero-G. The undead spike star chased her, spinning out gruesome tentacles in an attempt to catch her.

The space station rumbled, klaxxons roaring, alarms flashing. Steam hissed angrily from broken pipes while air vented out multiple hull breaches.

Fated Orphan dodged around a corner, desprete to get to the escape pods. The rest of the crew was dead. She was a recent orphan and had yet to find the motley crew who would teach her about the universe around her and help her on her path to heroism.

Ahead, the corridor crunched shut as a hull breach caused it to suck into itself and Fated Orphan was trapped.

Fear in her heart, she turned. She was definitely just a normal girl so was doomed in the face of the monstrosity.

Suddenly the general comms channel crackled, static screaming.

“The metal!” cried a voice, definitely belonging to the wise mentor who would teach her about a magic system the reader was eager to learn about.

Fated Orphan saw vials of test materials floating out of the lab close by — vials containing metorite samples and space metals.

She grabbed one.

“You have to snort it!” continued the voice, laying out a way of consumption that was legally distinct.

Fated Orphan was hesistant but for plot reasons she did it.

Snorting up some lime green metorite, Fated Orphan felt the power flow through her. Psy powers like she had never known. With just some sassy finger guns, she blew the spike ball monster apart.

Thus began her fantasy journey to save the universe from the evil emperor!

OKay, forgive me for the sarcasm in the story haha. Again, I am pretty tired! I think i hit a lot of the fantasy tropes, let me know if I missed any!

x PLM

I am still at the con, writing this at my table. Things are becoming unhinged as people are getting overcaffienated and under hydrated.

This prompt is inspired by a massive parrot I saw at the event. My friend and new friend at the next table went down a rabbit hole of how a parrot that size could eat a baby and well, here you go…

Art credit to Hope (support them at Crimson_harpy on Instagram).

Trigger warning: child death.

The woman stumbled out of the trap of trees, high pitch cries chasing her.

Her taut belly pulled her forward, it’s precious cargo fit to bursting. She cradled it with both hands, trying not to fall. Shadows swooped, briefly blotting out the sun. Circling her. Keeping pace as she fought against the contractions. As she desperately ran for safety.

The world was in ruins.

But ahead - ahead was an old grain silo. It tilted to the left but it still had its roof. It could protect her. If she could make there before the labour pains brought her to get knees.

“Kiss? Kiss?” called a voice from the skies.

“Hello! Hello!” cried another.

The colourful harbingers of death had been following her for a full day now, as soon as her contractions had started.

Their feathers - cerulean, cherry, lemon colours - caught the sunlight like gems, as their tiny amber eyes tracked her every move.

The huge parrots waited. Patiently.

Each the size of a vulture, they preyed on the dwindling human population at their most vulnerable moment: birth.

A vicious contraction ripped through the woman's body and she fell with a cry, begging her baby to wait.

The sanctuary was in sight but so far.

The parrots landed in the dry grass, eying her with alien hunger.

Bracing her pelvic muscles against thr coming life that demanded to be born in a world hungry for its death, the woman gripped fistfuls of grass, trying to pull herself to the silo. But it was too far.

The parrots hopped after, eagerly chirping and crying out mocking phrases they'd learned from their prey: “Help! Help!” “Get away from me!”

The worst was when they mimicked the cries of a newborn. As if they knew. Knew how much it hurt

Despite the danger, her child refused to wait.

It happened fast, too fast.

Blood soaked her dress, the grass.

The parrots took off again, swooping over her head while the woman screamed.

The head crowned.

The baby slipped out.

They were upon her.

The woman tried to bat them away, there was too many. They were too big. Strong on the meat of men.

Their razor sharp beaks snipped through the umbilical cord.

Their claws snatched the infant from her, carried it away.

The woman cried out.

The parrots echoed back, blood coating the grass, “Polly want a baby?”

I don’t know what it means that I was inspired to write this based on seeing a huge parrot. Hopefully you enjoyed it and I'll see you tomorrow for the last story!

x PLM

Am I writing this at MileHi Con right now because I chose to take a nap rather than write during my lunch break? Yes.

Today's prompt comes from TG: “you wake up in your tent and everyone is gone. You think you see things but can’t tell if they’re in your mind"

I huddle, wrapped tight in my sleeping bag. The glamping tent is empty. The sleeping bags belonging to my parents, my sisters, are empty.

Shivering, I try and stay still. Moonlight wreaths everything in a chilled light.

I want to cry out but there's something out there.

I want to believe it’s my family, except for the wet, slobbering eating sounds.

A shadow sweeps through the light. Something with too many limbs. Limbs with too many joints. Breath chokes in my throat. It approaches the front of the tent where the zipper is only half closed.

It begins to open.

Ha, that’s right. A drabble. 😂

See yall tomorrow!

x PLM

It’s Halloween eve! Tomorrow is my first day tabling at the MileHi convention. If you’re in the Denver area, come by and say hi! I’ll be there with a friend, probably dressed up as a xenomorph or witch. Does it count as dressing up as a witch if it’s just how I dress?

It’s also day 3 of my writing challenge and today’s prompt is from Carson Winter:

Slender Moon (as in Slenderman and Sailor Moon. We had a discussion once on how absurdly long her legs are.)

With silver nail and golden hammer, I pinned the parchment to the tree. Words in ink spilled from my own veins spelled out a desprete plea.  I still had three more wards to go to complete the ritual.

If it worked.

If the old man was telling the truth.

The ground shook violently, the trees creaked and groaned.

The hair on the back of my neck rose, electricity running through my veins. This wasn’t fair. I didn’t deserve this.

Yet, I ran.

And the moon followed.

And how do you outrun a celestial body?

Dodging trees, slipping on moulding leaves, pulling free from brambles, I despretely counted my steps until I reached two hundred and twenty-two. Each step was a struggle of balance as the earth bucked and trembled.

Catching myself against a gnarled old oak, I looked over my shoulder. My throat felt raw from trying to catch enough air to keep running, to surviving.

The moon hung low in the sky, cradled by a night sky mottled with sickly stars. The moon glowed with a ghostly intensity, like a spectral face watching me as I cried in its light. An opalscenet mass hung from it, stretching long, down, down, down to the Earth where it split in two endlessly long legs.

These legs strode over the ground, shaking it with an instense mass and yet leaving the trees untouched. I could almost feel the legs, like they had atheir own gravitational pull.

I fumbled in my pockets, pulling out a couple silver nails and dropping them into the moss at my feet.

Choking back a sob, I knelt and dug through the debris, to find one but not both. I should have enough for all the wards. I’d bought extra from that man after all, using up almost all of my meager savings to do so.

Holding another ward against the tree, I hammered a silver nail to keep it in place. The words: “I don’t deserve this. Let me move on.”

I coulnd’t resist looking again. Its glow coated the trees like a disease. Pearlescent clouds shifted across the surface of its preternatural legs and feet.

On the night wind, I could hear the softest of feminine whispers: “for love, for justice.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I screamed at the moon.

“For love, for justice.”

I ran. I had no choice. I had seven wards that needed to be placed in a circle. Seven pleading letters to hopefully placate the wraith of the moon.

Tears coated my cheeks and chin, plegm choking me. Blinded, I tripped on a root, fell down a riverbank.

The nails in my pocket stabbed into my thigh, sending a sharp lance of pain through my leg. I dropped my hammer, losing sight of it in the piles of dead leaves.

“No, please,” I begged.

The moon’s slender body passed through the treetops like mist. “For love, for justice. For love, for justice.” Whispers, condemnations on the wind.

Overhead, the moon’s face hung, eating up the sky.

On hands and knees, I dug through the rot and mush. “I don’t deserve this! I don’t! I don’t!” My slimy fingers curled around the handle and I pulled it free.

The moon placed a foot at the top of the riverbank. The air grew colder, bitterly so, my breath rose like ghosts from my lips. I scrambled up the other side and forced my aching legs to run.

I’d lost count though. He’d said two was the number of the moon, that three were needed to bind its rage. Two hundred and twenty-two steps. I’d lost count. I had to pray this wans’t an exact science.

I stumbled against the bucking ground as the moon gave relentless chase. When I gained just a tiny amount distance, I let myself slam into a tree, wrapping my arms around it. I barely had any time. Any time at all. My fingers were numb from the cold, blood seeping into my jeans leg.

With shaking hands, I pulled out another ward, my head spinning. I stared down at the words I’d written: “I hate you. I wish I’d never met you.”

The man had told me to pour everything into the wards, it was the only way to absolve the lunar curse.

“I’m glad you died. I only wish it had happened sooner. That I’d been free of you sooner.”

I reached into my pocket, didn’t feel the nail stab into my index finger. Blood poured over my hands, warming them. Staining them like they’d been stained that night. I

“For love, for justice.”

Only one more ward. I turned and ran in the direction I hoped would bring me to complete the circle, complete the ritual.

“It wasn’t my fault. She was asking for it, she forced me!” I screamed over my shoulder.

The moon, overhead, said nothing. The last sprint was unbearable, my lungs burned, my heart pounded against my ribs like a hammer to an anvil. I lost count again. I had to pray this would work.

I’d escaped her and now I had to escape the moon.

I broke from the tree line. Tehere, ahead of me, a single tree. Beyond it, like a teasing hope, a hint of sunrise.

I pumped my arms harder, my legs screaming. I threw myself at the tree and ripped the parchment from my pocket. “I had to free myself and you wouldn’t let me go. You have to let me go. What happened wasn’t my fault!”

My whole body shaking, the whole world shaking, the moon approached on the slenderest of legs.

“For love, for justice.”

I spilled more nails from my pockets as I pulled one free. My hands were fully coated in blood and I left crimson fingerprints on the final ward.

My throat was too raw to even scream. Too ruined to make anything more than a whimper.

“For love, for justice.”

I missed the nail.

“For love, for justice.”

I missed again, slamming my thumb instead.

“For love, for justice.”

I tried to scream, blood in my throat. I hammered the nail true.

“For love, for justice.”

The final ward was I place. I fell away from the tree, back to the sunrise. Above, the leviathan moon hung heavy. It stood over me.

“No,”

Was it her curse? Was I doomed to never escape her, even when she was dead?

It stepped closer. My skin went dead from the cold, my lips cracked, blood freexing on my chin. I had no idea if the spell would work.

If the wards were enough.

If I should have made them apologetic to quell a hateful spirit rather than full of despair and rage.

“For love, for justice.”

Or was it guilt. Despite everything. Blaming myself for everything, dooming myself in the end.

Despite everything, I would die for her. Die because of her.

When all I’d wanted was to live.

“For love, for justice.”

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Six minutes to go! Hope you enjoyed it.

x PLM

Tis the third day, dear reader. Have you been enjoying my spooky tales so far? Halloween is coming up so hopefully you have some exciting plans for the spookiest of holidays. I’ll be tabling at a convention, so not sure what my plan is for that.

One cool thing – my podcast cohost made a found footage film with his wife for Halloween. You can check it out here. I love that. I feel like more people should do cool stuff like that. Give it a watch and comment!

Now onwards. Today’s prompt is from my friend from Pseudopod, Alex Hofelich. He and I share a mutual love of Mothman, which should come as no surprise that his prompt for me is: Mothman's badonk.

Our greed took the light from us and plunged our world into an endless night of ash and cold.

Wrapped in what rags I could find, I pushed against the wind, through trees as sharp as blades. Even through my rags, I could taste the sour ash – sins of generations past that still cursed us.

Behind me, our leaning house was swallowed in the forever night. He was back there, lungs rotting from darkcough. It could be weeks, or days, but he would die if I didn’t find tinea weed in time. If I could even find it at all.

Through the dark wood, whose branches creaked and cracked like ancient bones. A lank quadraped followed, slinking through the ash and weed. It could have been a mutated wolf or even a deer. It didn’t matter. In this new world, we were all slaves to the night.

When I grew tired, thighs aching from dragging my legs through the deep ash, I climbed a tree and tied myself to its ragged trunk. Pulling my arms in through my sleeves, I huddled into my jacket and rags. I could smell myself, but my musk was better than the acrid air around me.

Somewhere below me, something growled.

I plucked some dried meat from an inner pocket and slipped it between my lips, chewing slowly. Favouring my right jaw, where the teeth wiggled and gums bled more freely. Eventually I feel asleep, meat half chewed in my cheek.

#

Legends say it can be found deep in the wood, near where our greedy ancestors had sliced into the valleys and bedrock. That’s where I went.

Though I wasn’t sure if I was striving to find it or just to stay away from home so I wouldn’t have to watch him slowly die.

I didn’t know if I was a saviour or a coward.

The beast had circled my tree while I slept. I saw its circuit in the ash. I shimmied down and began my march again.

On this lonely journey, I couldn’t keep my thoughts blank. One ear and eye open for the predator that follows behind, my mind whirled. It followed a familiar circuit, the same one since I was a child.

Resentment to my parents, who had children despite everything. I didn’t ask to be born into this world, to be born to suffer, to despair. He’s the same way. He wants to have kids. Even now, spitting up bits of lung, he brought it up before I left. Begged me not to go, to think of the future. If he dies, I’d be bringing up the child alone. It didn’t matter to him. He didn’t even consider how hard it would be for me. All that mattered was the idea that a part of him would be carried forward.

I left anyway. If I had to suffer in this world, I would try my best to keep him here too.

#

The land sloped downward. That’s when it attacked. When it had the high ground.

I heard it growl. I turned, too late, and it was on me, slobbering jaws snapping at my throat. I gripped its fur with two white knuckled fists, holding it just barely at bay.

Dozens of milk-white eyes swirled in sunken sockets, blind, it had to have tracked me by sound and smell alone. Didn’t matter.

My third arm, the one that sat in the middle of sternum, darted out from my jacket. It held the knife I always kept ready. I buried the blade deep into its throat.

It howled, trying to pull away. I let its momentum roll us over, until I was on top. Pinning it down.

I sliced it chin to groin, let its organs spill steaming to be coated by the acidic ash.

I stood, straddling it, reaching into its body. I harvested the organs that seemed the least riddled with boils and worms, slipping the meat into my oiled pouches, tying them tight until I could cook them later.

I left the rest for whatever else was starving in these woods.

#

I’d found myself in a valley, where a river used to be. Back when rivers were above ground. Here, the land was partially protected by hills and thicker trees so that the ash was less.

A relic of the past hung over the dusty riverbed like a skeletal cowl. A shattered bridge, its metal beams curled and rusting. I took shelter beneath it, away from any eyes that could be watching.

I cleared an area, made a pile from some petrified wood, and started myself a fire to cook the meat I’d been so lucky to get.

I sensed it before I saw it. The hair on the back of my three arms rose. I looked up.

It perched on the bridge above me, towering. Blacker than the dark sky. And in the blackest abyss, glowed two crimson eyes. Massive antenna rose over a body not much more human than mine, covered in a dark thick fur.

My mouth instantly dried up, I scooted back, jagged metal digging into my spine. I knew I couldn’t hide from it. It saw beyond the physical. It saw beyond all. I could feel it in the deepest part of my brain.

It spread its wings, blotting out more sky, and it descended gracefully, landing delicately on two taloned feet. It stood across my fire from me. I gripped my knife with a sweaty hand knowing it would do me no good.

Tucking its wings back against its body, it stared.

I then knew. Tinea weed wasn’t a plant at all.

It was a monster.

Its stare trapped me. Then the pressure shifted and I realized it wasn’t looking at me anymore. It was staring at the fire.

Slowly, painfully slow, I reached forward and pulled a hunk of meat from a steaming stone, singing my fingers. I tossed it.

The giant caught it with three fingered paws. It turned from me, launching itself to perch on a nearby stone. Hunched over the meat. Eating.

I stood, as slowly as I had reached for the meat. I crept forward. Its generous haunches were covered in the dark fur that caught the firelight so softly. I reached out and pinched a bit in my fingers, pulling until the prize came free.

What I now held was a hybrid of feather and fur, covered in a fine coating of dust or ash. I slipped it between my lips, unable to help myself. I chewed, swallowed. I don’t know what I expected.

Stepping back, away from it, I probed my body, tongued my teeth.

My gums were firm. The taste of copper only an afterthought.

My teeth weren’t loose.

My joints felt refreshed.

This was it. The cure.

The chewing stopped and it turned, eyes blazing over a shoulder.

I tossed it another hunk of meat.

I could grab more fur. I could make the long trek home. I could cure him, submit to him, bear his children.

Or I could follow this dark harbinger. I could hunt for it. It could keep me well in this wasteland for as long as it found me useful, its crimson eyes a beacon in the night.

The choice wasn’t really a choice.

I threw it the last bit of meat I had.

I wasn’t going back. Ever again. The only way I would go was forward.

The End 

What did you think? I had a lot of fun with it, but you know I am more than happy to write a Mothman story anyday.

See you tomorrow!

x PLM

Spooky reader, it’s day 2.

Before we dive in, I wanted to mention that I’ll be tabling at MileHi con this year. So if you’re local to Colorado and are attending, then come say hi to me in the vendor room!

Now it’s time for the next story. This one I wrote prior, I’ll admit. I led a drabble writing workshop at the Colorado Festival of Horror, using the prompt: Halloween in Space. Drabbles being words of exactly 100 words.

If you listen to the podcast I host with friend and fellow author, Carson Winter, then that theme probably seems familiar. We hold a yearly drabble contest and that was this year’s theme.

Part of the workshop was discussing the challenges of drabble writing, then there was the practical section where we all wrote a drabble.

Bit of a flex, I got my drabble to 100 words in that setting and so here it is:

“It’s not possible,” Jill said.

“Don’t listen, don’t say anything,” George replied.

The knocking continued.

Jill began to weep. “What if they need help? What if we know them?”

George shook his head.

The knocking continued.

“Trick or treat! Give us something good to eat!” Impossible children’s voices.

Jill fled, floating in 0-G, away from the airlock. Tears a trail of glistening breadcrumbs.

The knocking followed. Childish laughter,

“Leave us alone!” Jill screamed.

Furious, hungry fists against the hull. Gorwing more violent as the children screamed in the void:

“Trick or treat! Give us - give us something good to eat!

The End

I know I wrote this before the contest but I feel like the challenge was still there since I wrote this in a time limit situation under pressure. I really liked it so wanted to share it!

If you missed yesterday’s story, you can find it here.

See you tomorrow!

x PLM

Sweetest reader. It is that time of the year again. The leaves are turning, the hot edge of summer’s heat is cooling, frost threatens.

It’s spooky season. And I got so busy visiting pumpkin patches and planning a special DnD episode for my podcast that I forgot to start my annual writing challenge where I write seven stories in seven days. I usually start it on the 25th so the last day in on Halloween. Whoops. Welp, starting now. Better late than never right?

Today’s prompt is from Marilyn D. who actually sent me to her website where there were a few options to choose from.

I went with: It’s your last year of trick-or-treating, and your parents have let you go alone. At your last house, you ask to use the restroom, and when you leave the house, you realize the streets are all empty and all the lights along the street are out… including the house you were just in.

Onwards:

I had to pee again. I knew it wasn’t a real need. It was how scared I was. I peered down another silent street. The lights were off in every house, even though my dino watch said it was only 6pm.

I shivered.

It was dark. The streetlights flickered, dimmed.

I went up to a house that still had jack o lanterns with flickering candles. I rang the doorbell and heard it chime. I knocked and no one came.

Pressing my knees together, I didn’t need to pee. But it felt like it.

I turned and left.

Stripped trees creaked in rising winds that sent showers of damp leaves over the sidewalks.

There should have been other kids. Grown ups.

My pillowcase barely had any candy in it, but it still felt so heavy.

I was lost. Every street was dark. We’d only just moved here a week ago.

After Joan’s funeral.

My parents said we needed a fresh start. I just knew I hated Joan even more dead than when she’d been alive.

She’d always been their favourite.

I sat on a curb and pulled some candy out of my bag, checking it like Mom taught me, so I wouldn’t eat a razor blade. I tried to remind my body, I didn’t actually need to pee.

In fact, thinking I did was what got me into this mess.

I didn’t really want to go trick or treating tonight. I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t want to go alone. But going alone in my old Batman costume was better than staying home and listening to Mom cry.

I always felt like peeing when I was scared. It started with Joan’s favourite game: hide and seek. I always had to be the one hiding. She said it was because I was younger. But if she caught me, she would pin me down and pinch me with pliers until I screamed.

So I hid and shook, and hoped she wouldn’t find me and that Dad would come home soon.

By the fifth house, being asked again where my friends were, I really thought I needed to pee. So when my math teacher, Ms. Smalls, opened the next door, I asked to use her bathroom.

I didn’t pee. I just cried.

Then I flushed and pretended to wash my hands. When I came out, everyone was gone.

I swallow the candy and realize how thirsty I am. The candy only made it worse.

Somewhere down the street, someone giggled.

I stood, listening, heart pounding.

The giggle repeated.

I turned from the sound and ran.

My watch said 8pm. I really had to pee and the giggles were getting closer. I turned down another dark street, my candy bag abandoned a long time ago. I didn’t bother knocking at any more doors. No one was answering.

She was catching up.

Snot poured down my lips and chin. I turned down a side yard and spotted a small wooden hutch pressed against the side of the house.

I couldn’t see what time it was. I squirmed in the rotting vegetables and coffee grounds, trying to filter the smell through my costume.

I couldn’t hear anything, maybe she’d gone away.

Then the lid was pulled away.

I was yanked out by my hair and she stood over me in the same dress Mom picked out for her to be buried in.

“Found you!” she said, pliers in hand.

As she gripped my throat and lowered the pliers to my face, hot liquid gushed over my thighs, soaking my costume.

The End.

Hope you enjoyed my first story! Be sure to stop by tomorrow for the next one! You can still submit a prompt too, if you have one. Just use this form:

x PLM

It’s that time of the year again, dear reader! I’ll be starting my annual spooky writing challenge on October 25th, writing a story a day until Halloween!

And you can be involved! Send me a prompt using the form below and it might end up inspiring a story!

Thank you!

Another book I read on holiday. I guess I was on a folk horror journey, haha. There are some spoilers in this review, after the spoiler. So if you don’t want the ending spoiled, just don’t venture past!

David Barnett is a journalist, novelist and comic book writer based in the North of England. After many years working in regional newspapers he became a full-time freelance writer in 2015 and as a journalist works primarily for the UK press. He is also the author of several published novels, including the bestselling CALLING MAJOR TOM, and writes comics for DC, IDW and others. David has also worked in training and lecturing, principally in journalism, and takes on commercial content commissions.

— David Barnett’s website

You can check out more on Barnett’s website.

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

Inside

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?

Outside

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…

An utterly bewitching, dual timeline folk horror novel, with a truly devastating twist you have to read to believe.

– Goodreads page

Published September 2024 by Canelo Horror, Withered Hill is a mind-bending British folk horror told through two timelines side-by-side and an ending you will not see coming.

Sophie is our main character – she’s not exactly living her best life and she feels left behind by her friends, who are getting married, getting jobs, moving away.

The novel is told with alternating chapters – days before Withered Hill and days in Withered Hill. How did she get to Withered Hill, how did she lose her memories, and what is Withered Hill, who are its people, and what lives in the deep dark woods?

The plot unfurls, slowly, in twists and turns. The ending had me stunned.

I loved the folk horror elements and the use of dual timelines, I loved how the mystery slowly unfurly in trickles and drops, I loved the strangeness of Withered Hill, and I loved the brutality of the ending.

I honestly can’t say any more without risking spoilers and I really, really think you should just go out and read this book. I am obsessed with it. I don’t know how to put it well enough in words. I coulnd’t put this book down and I can’t stop thinking about it now. Just go. Come back later and let me know your thoughts.

11/10

x PLM

Beware thee! Stay back unless you are prepared for spoilers!

Seriously though.

Oh my God.

Okay so the reveal is that the Sophie in Withered Hill isn’t the Sophie from before. It’s like a changeling created by Owd Hob to take her place. The timelines aren’t Sophie before and than in Withered Hill, they are happening essentially at the same time with the book ending when Real Sophie is brought to Withered Hill so Fae Sophie can give her to Owd Hob.

I literally stopped and had to reread this chapter again. I never saw this twist happening.

Essentially, Owd Hob requires a wife every year. In return he gives Withered Hill bountiful harvest. He also creates a twin of the wife that’s meant to go out into the world and infiltrate the populace. The women are chosen because they are considered bad in some way and thus, worthy of replacement. I gathered that part of the goal for Withered Hill was to replace the human populate (who are obsessed with materialism and consumerism) with fae replacements, who can guide the world back to the Old Ways.

As for Real Sophie? Well, it’s slowly revealed that Sophie killed her own sister, almost drove someone else to suicide.

Does that mean she deserves to be wifed by Owd Hob (which essentially means rape and then being consumed and shat out, used as the soil to sprout a new doppleganger.)?

Through the book, I never grew to like who I thought was Before Sophie and felt a lot of empathy for After Sophie so when the truth was revealed, I was conflicted.

The punishment of becoming Owd Hob’s wife is horrific. Yet, Sophie never did try to better herself. Even now, I keep thinking about it.

This was an astounding book. I loved it. I think it will haunt me for a long time.

There was only one thing that kinda bugged me. When it’s revealed that Real Sophie drove someone to attempt suicide, we then meet that woman who says something like “we can be friends once you’re a better person.” After Fae Sophie takes Real Sophie’s place, it’s revealed that the woman was also replaced by a fae, so they do become friends and hang out.

That felt a little convenient for me. It seemed like Withered Hill takes a year to produce a fae twin ready to replace her human twin, meaning only one a year. Even if they had been doing this for 100 years, that’s only 100 people so what are the chances that someone else Sophie knew was also a fae?

It’s a little thing but I felt it was unnecessary for the plot and could’ve been cut as it didn’t feel so realistic. Does that make sense? Still, just a small thing and I really really loved this book.

 O B S E S S E D.

Got witches in your village, who you gonna call?

A child psychologist, I guess! This is one of the books I read on my recent vacation, all spoilers are kept below the spoiler line so don’t go past that if you don’t want the ending spoiled!

Daisy Pearce was born in Cornwall and grew up on a smallholding surrounded by hippies. She read The Hamlyn Book of Horror far too young and has been fascinated with the macabre ever since.

Daisy began writing short stories as a teenager and had her first short story ‘The Black Prince’ published in One Eye Grey magazine. In 2015 ‘The Silence’ won a bursary with The Literary Consultancy and her short story, ‘The Brook Witch’, was performed on stage at the Small Story Cabaret in Lewes.

Daisy’s debut novels ‘The Silence’ and ‘The Missing’ were published by Thomas & Mercer in 2020. Her third novel ‘Something In The Walls’ was published in the US in 2025 and will soon be available in the UK. Daisy currently works in a library and hunts ghosts.

— Daisy Pearce’s website

You can check out more on Pearce’s website, or follow her on Instagram.

Newly-minted child psychologist Mina has little experience. In a field where the first people called are experts, she’s been unable to get her feet wet. Instead she aimlessly spends her days stuck in the stifling heat wave sweeping across Britain, and anxiously contemplating her upcoming marriage to careful, precise researcher Oscar. The only reprieve from her small, close world is attending the local bereavement group to mourn her brother’s death from years ago. That is, until she meets journalist Sam Hunter at the grief group one day. And he has a proposition for her.

Alice Webber is a thirteen year old girl who claims she’s being haunted by a witch. Living with her family in their crowded home in the remote village of Banathel, Alice’s symptoms are increasingly disturbing, and money is tight. Taking this job will give Mina some experience; Sam will get the scoop of a lifetime; and Alice will get better, Mina is sure of it.

But instead of improving, Alice’s behavior becomes increasingly inexplicable and intense. The town of Banathel has a deep history of superstition and witchcraft. They believe there is evil in the world. They believe there are ways of…dealing with it. And they don’t expect outsiders to understand.

As Mina races to uncover the truth behind Alice’s condition, the dark cracks of Banathel begin to show. Mina is desperate to understand how deep their sinister traditions go–and how her own past may be the biggest threat of all.

“Unexpected, mesmerizing, and totally original…will keep you guessing until its wild end.” -#1 International Bestselling author Darby Kane

“Harrowing and moving…Pearce has written something magical. There are scenes in this book I’ll never forget.” -Kristi DeMeester, author of Such a Pretty Smile

— Book page on Pearce’s website

Published February, 2025 by Minotaur Books, Something in the Walls by Daisy Pearce is a British folk horror about witchcraft, small towns, and the dangers of crowd mentality.

Something in the Walls was a fun, wild ride. From the twists and turns, the superstitions and madness a group of people can be consumed by, this novel did not let go.

From the start, Pearce sets the tone of uneasiness and unbalance. The main character, Mina, seems lost. Anxious. She thinks she sees her dead brother in a photo and, on the urging of her stoic fiancé, goes to a grief group.

She meets someone else searching for what might lie beyond and that leads her on a witch hunt.

Literally. A small town believes young Alice is a witch.

I grew to love Mina’s character so much. She starts off rather meek, soft, listless. Yet in the face of events she can’t explain, in a strange place surrounded by strange people, she stands strong and shows her courage.

The heat of the British summer seems to drip off the pages suffocating you as you read. The small village seemed to crowd me even through the pages.

As Mina seeks to find answers and help Alice, things get weirder and weirder. But what really lies beneath the quiet surface of the small town? I loved loved loved how Pearce set up the slow unspooling of the mystery, setting up foreshadowing that led to the shocking end.

If you’re a fan of psychological, suspenseful folk horror about witches – this is the book for you.

10/10

x PLM

 Spoilers ahead! You’ve been warned.

Seriously though, this will spoil the ending!

In the beginning, it seems like there is something supernatural going on. Mina sees things, things happen – undeniable things – then it all twists. Mina doesn’t flinch away from hunting for the truth, even as it leads to her own life being in danger.

Like I said, there are some serious supernatural things that happen but then there are other things. Women talking about gaps in their memories, talk of a “Riddance” festival to curb young women into “good” behaviour.

Then you learn the messed up truth.

Mina’s brother’s death? She smothered him to relieve his suffering.

The knocking on the walls? The next door neighbor’s wife signalling SOS.

The next door neighbour’s “harmless” cocktails he feds to the young girls he babysits? Drugged.

I was not expecting the reveal. Obviously – trigger warning if you’re someone sensitive to SA and CSA. It might mean this book isn’t right for you. I wasn’t expecting it at all.

But I loved how Pearce spun this twisted web. When the old man tricks everyone including Mina herself, into thinking she’s a witch – I actually thought maybe she’d gotten possessed as well! I was gaslit! Well done, legit Pearce, well done.

The final scene of the book was also a masterpiece. Mina is in the hospital, her fiancé leaves her. Then someone lets Mina know the old man survived and is in the same hospital. She goes to him and smothers him too, her last words to him “good riddance.” Genius. So satisfying and takes you full circle.

Seriously. Absolutely loved this book.