Joshua Reynolds's Blog

Editorial

I try not to give writing advice.

I try not to give it, because, inevitably, when I do, it’s full of caveats. And advice with caveats is often like a watered down drink – neither helpful, nor interesting. Other folks don’t have that issue, of course. When I was coming up, I used to see the rising stars and big names of the genre get swamped on message boards and in chat rooms by people eager to learn the secret of their success. They’d dole out blog posts recounting how they’d made it, and the comment sections would froth like a river full of piranha in budget jungle adventure.

These days, there are shelves and shelves groaning beneath the weight of books of writing advice. Podcasts by the hundreds. Booktok reels and Patreon mentorships. Whole sub-industries have sprung up, hawking literary snake-oil. Ten Easy Secrets to Literary Success!

It all makes me cringe a bit – possibly unfairly, mind. There’s nothing wrong with a good how-to book, after all. But one of the first lessons I learned as a young writer was that advice of whatever sort is largely contextual. What works for one person won’t work for another. Too many new writers think there’s a magic button or a cheat code that you can find that’ll propel you to the top of the field.

But no advice will do that. Lord knows, I wish it did. The only real bit of good advice I’ve ever seen is the most ubiquitous bit: to be a successful writer, you have to write. Write well, write badly. Write fast, write slow. It doesn’t matter – just write. Write something, anything. Long or short, poem or story or fanfiction drabble. Just write it. And then write something else. Keep writing until your fingers bleed and your head aches, until your wrists hurt and your back is screaming.

The only way you get better at something is by doing it over and over again. Until you want to do something – anything – else, but you keep at it until you start to figure it out.

To be a better writer, the only thing you can do is write. Everything else is gravy.

Hey, looks like I do give advice.

Reading:

Tales of Occult Britain, ed. Maria J Perez Cuervo. Usagi Yojimbo: Ten Thousand Plums, Stan Sakai. Faunus, No. 52. Key to English Antiquities, Ella S. Armitage.

Watching:

Candle in the Tomb: The Worm Valley (2021). Last Samurai Standing, Season 1. The Mighty Nein, Season 1. Twisted Metal, Season 1. The Elixir (2025). Rippy (2024). Black Friday (2021).

Listening:

L’appel Du Vide (2021), Sadistik. The Revolution Starts Now (2004), Steve Earl.

News

This month has been fairly quiet. November is always a bit of a winding down period, work-wise. Most of my big projects are done by now, or in the editing stages, and the projects for the next year are being finalised. At the moment, I’m mostly working on short stories for a thing I can’t talk about yet, as well as a few one-off short fiction pieces, including a new Baron Vordenburg tale that sees him hunting a manticore on behalf of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company. I’ve also written a few new Artemis Whitlock stories, as well as a new essay on a little-known occult detective. And I completed edits on my last novel of the year, which proved to be a relatively painless process.

New Essay – Nightmare Men

I posted a new Nightmare Men essay for you to enjoy. This month I take a look at Mark Valentine and John Howard’s the Connoisseur.

New Essay – Silver Screams

I posted a new Silver Screams essay for you to enjoy. This month I take a look at the 1952 Finnish folk horror, The White Reindeer.

New Novel – Return of the Monster-Men

Last year, I was given the opportunity to write the novelisation of Mike Wolfer’s comic book miniseries, Return of the Monster-Men, and give it an ending worthy of both the work Wolfer had done, and Burroughs himself. My efforts are now up for preorder, if you’re interested. Hopefully I’ll get to write further adventures for Number 13 – or Otto, as he likes to be called – but only time (and sales) will tell. Order a copy today.

New Novel – Stand at Callenspire

Stand at Callenspire is my first foray into Mantic’s Kings of War setting, and it’s a doozy: elves, halflings and seagoing Neriticans versus a mysterious new foe that threatens all of Mantica. If you enjoyed my Space Marine Conquests novel, Apocalypse, I think you’ll enjoy this one. It’s got a similar vibe to it. Preorder a copy today.

New Review – Monstrous Reviews

I posted some new Monstrous Reviews for you to enjoy this month, including a look at Dog Soldiers (2002) and Screamers (1995). Subscribers can read all of the reviews here.

New Short Story – “The Beauty of the Bargain”

My short story, “The Beauty of the Bargain”, published earlier this year, has been collected in Tales of the Unicorn Clan. It’s now available to download from DriveThruRPG, in either digital or audio format. Grab your copy today!

Reminder – Shadow of the Drowned City

Earlier this year I wrote a ten-part Arkham Horror serial, Arkham International: Shadows of the Drowned City, which followed on from events in the most recent game expansion, The Drowned City. The instalments are listed below. Read them for free, or listen to the audio versions, narrated by Todd Menesses.

Chapter One: ParisChapter Two: New YorkChapter Three: BostonChapter Four: ArkhamChapter Five: Mexico CityChapter Six: AlexandriaChapter Seven: OxfordChapter Eight: New YorkChapter Nine: KingsportChapter Ten: ArkhamMonthly Spotlight“Light of a Crystal Sun”

This is one of the last Fabius Bile stories I wrote. It acts as something of a bridge between the first novel and the second, though you don’t need to read either to enjoy it.

It’s one part ghost story, one part psychedelic science-fiction. I was testing myself with the imagery in this one, seeing what I could manage to convey without bogging the story down in purple prose. Not that I’m against purple prose, mind. But its a dish best served sparingly.

Anyway, if you’re interested, you can still get this one as a digital download via the Black Library website.

Monthly Story“The Conspiracy of Contraptions”

This is another old one. It appeared in a friend’s short-lived literary journal, likely puzzling the intended audience, but I enjoyed writing it. It’s a Baxter Sarlowe story, which means it’s slightly odd and off-kilter. Sarlowe is a character I haven’t gone back to in ages, but I’m starting to wonder why I stopped writing about him. He’s such a weird dude. I may have to go back to him, and see if he’s had any new adventures since I last wrote about him. Enjoy!

The imported electric tea kettle whistled, shuddered, and gave an orgasmic sigh of steam as it reached its boiling point. Baxter Sarlowe gnawed absently on a thumbnail as he watched the kettle’s shame from the doorway to the elegantly understated kitchen. Behind him, the kettle’s owner, a middle-aged woman named Clarke, rubbed her upper arms in agitation. “See?” she said.

“No?” the man said. “Well, yes. And yet, no. So, maybe?”

“Maybe? It just happened! Right there! In front of you!”

“And yet,” he said. Sarlowe was big and odd-looking. Not ugly, but not handsome. His face caught the light wrong and sent rats of worry gnawing at the base of her brain. He could see it on her face. But like most people, she pushed the worry aside. He came recommended, after all.

“And yet what?”

“You tell me,” Sarlowe said, tapping his fingers against the doorframe. His nails were a bit too long-the ones he hadn’t chewed-and went click-click against the painted surface. “You have an hour of my time, Miss Clarke. Use it wisely.”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“No. Nor did I see, smell, or taste anything out of the unusual. Your kitchen is quite bland.”

She flushed. “It’s-I don’t know-buggy!”

“The kettle?”

“Everything! All of it!” Clarke said, shifting uneasily. “It does…things.”

“At night?”

“All the time! Day, night, all of the time!”

“You should probably turn them off then. We’re going green, hadn’t you heard?” He smiled. “I prefer blue, myself.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Sarlowe stepped into the kitchen, hands behind his back.

“I didn’t turn it on! Or off! They do it themselves,” Ms. Clarke said, rubbing her arms again. “They do it all themselves.”

“The future is here,” Sarlowe murmured, squatting in front of the counter, the kettle at eye-level. He reached out and gave it a shove with his finger.

As problems went, it was an interesting one. Most of the time, the things he was engaged to deal with were of a harsher bent. It was his task in trade, and by and large, he enjoyed it, barring a few incidents. He gave everyone the same: a one-hour consultation. Ms. Clarke had used up ten minutes making him watch the kettle. 

The wall mounted microwave came on. Sarlowe turned, looking up at it. The door popped open, swinging back against the wall and the microwave beeped menacingly at him. Maybe those ten minutes hadn’t been wasted after all.

Sarlowe stood, and looked back at the kettle. No water in it. No reason for it to have done what it did. Unless-

The toaster made a sound halfway between a cough and a bark. The microwave beeped again, toneless, and vicious. The power cord seemed to twist in upon itself and the toaster trembled in excitement.

The kitchen as jungle. Sarlowe tensed. The appliances were watching him. The dishwasher gave a burp of super-heated air. The garbage disposal gave a three second grind. The low, warning rumble of a lion in the bush. Sarlowe had never been in the bush, but he watched nature shows on television, and thus felt himself well able to recognize the signs.

The toaster puffed and turned red. Sarlowe dove for the doorway as crumbs of stale toast shot at him. He skidded past Clarke and lay on the floor for a moment. Beneath him, the carpet trembled like something alive. He pushed himself up and straightened the hang of his sport coat without turning around.

“Do I have toast on me?” he said.

“Yes,” Clarke said, reaching up to brush the crumbs off of him. “I haven’t cleaned it in a while,” she continued, apologetic.

“Oh?” Sarlowe said. “I hardly noticed.” Running a hand through his hair, he went back to the doorway and peered around the corner. The appliances sat silently. The microwave had clunked closed, its light off. Even the pipes were quiet. “Hah.”

“So?” the woman said.

“So,” Sarlowe said, eyeing the curtains over the sink speculatively. “Are those new?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything. Nothing,” Sarlowe said, glancing at her. “I don’t know. Are they?”

“Yes.” Clarke sighed, rubbing her head.

“Headache?” Sarlowe said.

“Migraine. Ever since this began,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Sarlowe leaned back against the wall. “Have you ever lost a salt shaker? Or a sock?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple enough question, Ms. Clarke. Sock, salt shaker, pepper mill, matches, lighter?”

“I-maybe, I don’t know!” she said, gesturing sharply. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Has it begun happening more often?”

“Define more often,” she said, exasperated.

“More than once a week,” Sarlowe said.

“I don’t know.”

“What was the last thing you lost?”

“I don’t know!”

“Hah,” Sarlowe said. He turned back to the kitchen. “Interesting.”

“What is? What is going on? They said you could help!”

“Did they? That was optimistic of them.” He looked at her. “Which them?”

“What?”

“Who said that?”

“Who said what?”

“That I could help. I’d like to send them a card. Show my appreciation.” He smiled. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her head. She began to take deep breaths, falling into a rhythm. Sarlowe watched her for a moment.

“Yoga?”

“When I can,” she said, through gritted teeth.

“What about feng shui?”

“What? That flower arranging thing?”

“I’m told they do furniture as well.” Sarlowe knocked on the wall. He pressed his ear to the spot. “Oh, that doesn’t sound good.”

“What? What?”

“Your pipes are incanting. Or gurgling. Or both.” He stepped back from the wall. She stared at him, incomprehension evident on her face. “That’s bad,” he added, for emphasis.

“But-”

“It means that whatever is affecting your kitchen is spreading. Or has spread.” Sarlowe pressed his fingers to the wall and traced them down its length, towards the front door. He stopped at the halfway point, pulled a black magic marker out of his coat, and made a line from the ceiling to the base board. Clarke shrieked. Sarlowe nearly dropped his pen.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping. That is why you asked me to come, isn’t it?”

“By drawing on my wall?”

“On the wall paper, technically.” Sarlowe picked at the join with his thumbnail. “Was it expensive?”

“Very!”

“Oh. Well, if it’s any consolation, it’s probably going to get ruined anyway.”

“Ruined? What? Why?”

“I’ll probably have to put a hole in the wall to get to the pipes.”

“Why are you putting a hole in the wall if the problem is in the kitchen?” she said, very nearly shrieking.

“The problem isn’t in the kitchen,” Sarlowe said.

“It isn’t?”

“No. It’s in the house. The kitchen is just the loudest.” Sarlowe turned back to the wall. “I notice that all of your drapes are the same as those in the kitchen. Have you recently redecorated?”

“Yes,” Clarke said, leaning against the wall. “I did everything. The floors, the walls, the curtains-”

“The pipes?”

“I-yes.” She looked at him. “Yes. I did. They were terrible. Old, copper things from before the turn of the century.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Sarlowe had his pen in hand again and was scribbling on the wall. Overhead, the smoke alarm sequestered in the center of the ceiling gave a desultory beep. Sarlowe paused and looked up. “It’s watching us.”

“What’s watching us?”

“Your house.”

“What? It’s a house, it can’t watch anything!”

“All houses watch their owners,” Sarlowe said, drawing the word ‘HELLO’ in large block letters on the wall. Clarke flinched and turned away.

In the kitchen, the radio began belting out a soft pop hit by Lionel Richie. Sarlowe stuck the marker in his pocket and stuck his head into the kitchen.

“Yes,” he said. The radio switched stations. He looked at Clarke. “Do you happen to recognize that song?”

She stared at him for a moment, pale and silent. Then, “’Why’ by Avril Lavigne,” she said.

“Ah.” He stuck his head back into the kitchen. “Because, I want to discuss a truce, I suppose.” The radio swapped out songs again, dancing on the counter.

“Too Little, Too Late’,” Clarke said. “The Brandy version, I think.” Sarlowe stepped back.

“Yes, thank you. I heard the chorus. Your kitchen has a thing for pop music.” He squatted, running his finger along the edge where the hall carpet met the cool tile of the kitchen.

“Is-is that bad?”

“Bad taste, certainly.” Sarlowe sat back on his haunches. The microwave beeped, but he ignored it. “This tile is new.”

“Yeah. It’s all new.”

“Everything?”

“Mostly just the kitchen, but yes.”

“Huhm.” Sarlowe looked up. He stood slowly, running his hands up the frame of the door. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the changes? Was the house falling apart? Was it a fixer upper, is that the term?”

“Not really, no. It was just old. The pipes worked, but they rattled. Wall paper was hideous. The kitchen was out of date.”

“Why did you buy the house, then?” Sarlowe looked at her, eyes narrowed.

“I-ah-this is going to sound stupid-”

“So?”

She hesitated. Sarlowe made a gesture. “Ms. Clarke, even as we speak, your home is marshalling its forces.”

“I liked the way it felt, okay?” she said. “I just-I liked the way it felt.”

“So, you changed it?”

“I updated it!”

“Ha,” Sarlowe said. “I’m beginning to get the gist. How old was the house?”

“It came with the neighbourhood,” Clarke said. She turned away. “Eighty, ninety years? Turn of the century, the agent said.” She turned back. “Is it haunted?”

“No.” Sarlowe looked up at the ceiling and licked his lips. “Not as such. True hauntings are rare in any event. No. You’ve simply angered the house, is all.”

“Angered the-you can’t anger a house! It’s a house!”

“Yes. I’m quite aware of what it is, thank you.” Sarlowe put his hand on her arm. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere. Away from the-uhm-” He gestured towards the kitchen. The garbage disposal made a long groaning sound as they moved into the living room.

It was, like the rest of the house, a three-dimensional picture from a furniture catalog. On the outside, the house still had its blocky colonial aesthetic, as with most of the houses on Arsenal Hill. Like the others on its street, it stood on the site of an earlier building burned during Sherman’s march to the sea. The entire Arsenal Hill neighborhood was undergoing a renovation these days, as befitted an area that hosted the South Carolina Governor’s Mansion.

Everything was changing. The old giving way to the new. The entire area felt off these days. Houses and streets being gutted, turned into simulacrums of posterity. No wonder it was upset.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Clarke said. Sarlowe sighed. He sat down in a wicker chair that creaked alarmingly and looked around. Clarke sat on a leather couch opposite him. “I paid a lot for this place,” she said.

“I’m sure you did.” Sarlowe glanced at the flat screen television mounted on the wall. “Unplug that, please.”

“What? Why?” She turned to look at it.

“I don’t want it listening. Please.”

Clarke did as he asked, snatching the plug out of the socket. The air vents in the floor clicked in protest.

“You imported most of this, didn’t you?” Sarlowe said, patting an arm rest. “Sleek Asian paraphernalia, combined with European materials, and is that an African mask on the wall?”

Clarke nodded. “I got it in-”

“It’s fake. And tacky.”

“Hey! I-”

“Your house hates it,” Sarlowe said.

“The mask?” Clarke said.

“Everything.”

“You mean my house is racist?”

“No.” Sarlowe’s smile surfaced quickly, then sank back beneath a frown. “Well, maybe. But that’s not what I meant…” He trailed off and sat for a moment, knotting and unknotting his fingers. “Do you smell something?”

“N-no,” Clarke said, looking around.

“Huhm. People excrete souls, did you know that?”

“What?”

“Souls. Soul matter. You’re not an atheist, are you? Because if so, I can find a different metaphor,” Sarlowe said, leaning forward. “Something to do with peanut butter, perhaps.”

“I’m a Baptist,” she said.

“So. No peanut butter, then. Or dancing. Why is that, by the by? Never mind. We – by which I mean people – tend to graft aspects of ourselves onto our surroundings. Our possessions. Psychometry. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” she said, blinking. Sarlowe nodded, as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Wood and stone contain memories. Psychic footprints of all those who have touched them, bled on them, lived in them. Houses are no different. Over time, they develop a rudimentary awareness. Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“It’s not an exact science. Think of it like physics.” Sarlowe spread his hands. “Your house had an awareness of itself. An image of itself. Maybe even several. Different rooms, with different views. Grown over the course of decades, over different owners, and different eras. And you’ve disturbed it. Them.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Clarke said, shaking her head. Sarlowe sniffed.

“But I am. Perfect sense.” He stopped and rubbed his forehead. “That’s why things disappear, you know. Socks, utensils, that kind of thing. Sometimes it’s just carelessness, of course, but other times it’s the place, showing its displeasure. Childish, but there it is.”

“You’re saying my house is mad at me?” Clarke said, her disbelief evident. “It’s throwing a tantrum?”

“Places can be changed, when they’re damaged, or old, or maybe it’s just time. But otherwise, why do you think people leave them alone? Oh, they say they intend to change things, rip up the floor, re-do the walls, but how often does that happen, really?”

Clarke said nothing, and Sarlowe chuckled. He waved a hand. “You gave your house unnecessary plastic surgery. Changed its face, its insides, without its permission and it’s unhappy. All of it.”

“It’s a house!”

He nodded. “Yes. That does not preclude it having feelings, even if it finds it hard to share them.”

“Oh come on!”

Sarlowe said nothing. He sat back in his seat. Clarke bit her lip. The air vents rattled softly.

“I don’t believe this.”

“That’s fine,” Sarlowe said.

“You’re not going to try and convince me?”

“Why should I?” Sarlowe said. “I find arguing about the veracity of my hard-won knowledge tedious. You asked me here. You have forty minutes left in our consultation. If you’d like me to leave…”

“No! God no,” Clarke seemed to deflate in her seat. Then, “How was I supposed to know?”

“Do you still like the way this place feels?”

“I-” She paused, looking around. “Maybe not so much.”

“There you go. Now, the only question is, how do we fix it?”

The television turned on. Sarlowe and Clarke turned. “But I unplugged it,” Clarke said, softly. There was only static on the screen, but if he squinted, Sarlowe thought he could make out movement. Like something stalking towards them from a great distance.

“Huhm,” Sarlowe said, rising slowly to his feet. He waved a hand through the air. “Well, that’s unfortunate. Gas or electric?”

“What?”

“Your stove. Gas or electric?”

“G-gas?”

“We need to get outside,” Sarlowe said, hauling Clarke to her feet. The wall paper rippled suddenly. It bulged, split, and flopped, like savannah grass being parted by the passage of something large. The pipes in the walls began to rattle, low and steady, a throbbing rumble. From the kitchen, came the noise of every appliance chattering in unison.

“What’s going on?” Clarke said, trying to jerk free of his grip. Sarlowe spun her around and they began to back towards the door.

“Keep your eyes open. Move slowly,” Sarlowe said. The ceiling cracked, dust drifting down. The crack widened, like a tiger’s grin as it licks its chops, and began to stretch towards them. The garbage disposal gave a snarl and the carpet hunched like something about to pounce. Clarke began to cough as she fumbled at the door.

“I can’t breathe,” she said, yanking on the door knob.

“It’s turned on the gas and sealed the windows. Get out of the way.” Sarlowe pushed her aside, stepped back, and kicked at the door. It gave a grunt, but held tight. Clarke was coughing harder now. Sarlowe held his hand over his mouth and kicked at the door again. This time it opened. Sarlowe grabbed Clarke and hurled her out. But even as she cleared the threshold, the doors slammed shut. He stepped back, blinking. The air wavered, heavy with gas.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he said, coughing.

The radio was on again, spitting noise. Meatloaf’s ‘I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).’

The house had decided enough was enough. It obviously had a short temper, and whatever curiosity his presence had engendered was gone, replaced by anger. Or maybe it had simply moved up the timetable. Regardless, he had few options at this point, short of burning the whole thing down. When a house went bad, you had to act quickly. Otherwise…well, otherwise didn’t bear thinking about, did it?

For a brief moment, he recalled the nightmare life of the Heart of Dixie motel, and what had almost happened to poor Mr. Pratt. The little man was still in therapy. The carpet curved under his feet, like water being sliced by a shark’s fin. It rolled away, revealing the wood beneath. Like the ceiling, it had cracked and splinter jaws snapped at him.

He jumped over the gash and hit the floor, scrambling to his feet. The wall seemed to boil and strips of wall paper lashed at him as he moved towards the kitchen. He snatched up a chair and hurled it towards the window. Glass scattered over the square lawn in the back and the gas seeped out.

The sink gave a burp and scalding water struck him, soaking through his clothes. He fell back against the wall, shoving the kitchen table out of the way. Blind, he stumbled for the window. Beneath his feet, the tiles rippled and he slipped and fell. The table skidded towards him, striking him, hard.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed a table leg and flipped the entire table over. Clambering onto it, he wrenched a leg loose and struck the floor, scattering loose tiles. Then, spinning, he struck the wall, scraping a swathe of wall paper free.

Everything went quiet. Sarlowe waited, counting to ten. Then, he reached up and tore another strip loose. The sink gurgled, draining. He heard the gas stove click off.

“Huhm,” he said. “Is that what it will take, then?”

The radio switched off. Sarlowe smiled uncertainly. He stepped off the table and tore down the curtains, tossing them out through the broken glass. “How’s that, eh?”

The tiles clattered, echoed by the toaster’s chuff. He froze. Behind him, something moved, passing through the walls and the floor, pacing, watching him with animal electric eyes. He turned slowly. The cabinets and appliances twitched and scratched and if he crossed his eyes and squinted just so he could see a shape made of them all. It crouched in the doorway and in the kitchen, its shape stretched over wrong angles and distances. The pilot lights on the stove top were its eyes.

“I’ll talk to her,” Sarlowe said, softly, his mouth dry. “I’ll show her. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll buy you myself.”

It blinked. The kettle whistled.

“Everything will be restored. Good as new.”

The house seemed to relax abruptly. Appliances turned off and the floor settled. Sarlowe sagged back against the broken window.

Squeezing ineffectually at his drenched clothing, he moved towards the front door, wondering what, exactly, he was going to tell Ms. Clarke.

He stopped at the door, looking around. Something looked back at him from the torn fronds of wall paper, and the pipes rattled softly. He opened the door and left quickly.

“What happened? What was that?” Clarke said, standing on the sidewalk, a cell phone in her hand. “I – I thought about calling the police, but…”

“Yes. I should think a decorator would be more in order, actually.” Sarlowe dripped water on the pavement. “A good one. Specializing in restorations.”

“Restorations?” Clarke looked at him, then past him, at the front of the house. Sarlowe followed her gaze. The curtains on the front windows swished like the tail of a cat. He nodded.  

“Yes,” Sarlowe said. “As quickly as possible, please.”

“But…”

“Ms. Clarke, forgive me if I’m being too subtle,” Sarlowe said, putting his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, but he didn’t remove them. “Put the house back the way it was, please.”

“But I paid…!”

“Yes. I understand. But you’ll pay more in the long run if you don’t. Nod.”

“What?”

“It’s watching. Nod.” Sarlowe made a surreptisious gesture towards the lawn sprinkler that had risen from the grass near their feet. “Homes are like pets, Ms. Clarke. Treat them well, and they’ll never turn on you. Abuse them, and, well…”

“I can’t afford to just re-do everything,” she said, plaintively. Sarlowe shrugged and stepped off the sidewalk, onto the street.

“Then move. Those are your only recourses, I’m afraid. You’ve done far too much for it to just forgive you.”

“But –”

Sarlowe pulled an old-fashioned pocket watch out of his coat and flipped it open. “Our time, I think, is up, Ms. Clarke, yes, my, indeed. Do remember me to your social circle. My business is word of mouth, you know.” He moved away before she could reply, striding down the street, away from the house as fast as his legs could carry him.

At the bottom of the street, he paused and turned.

The house seemed to smile at him.

Sarlowe turned and hurried in the direction of home.  

In Closing

That’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.

But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!

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I expect this one hits different if you’ve ever worked retail in the US on a major holiday. Not just Black Friday, but Christmas, Labor Day, etcetera. Even now, I bear the scars of that time – both in body and mind. To see the doors part, and that cacodemonical crowd hurtle in, intent on bargains that are, in reality, anything but and unwilling to part with a single cent more than they think they ought to pay. They flood towards you, a tide of living, hungering flesh…really, it was only a matter of time until someone turned that particularly American ordeal into a zombie film.

Anyway, I survived my share of Black Fridays, so, obviously, I loved Casey Tebo’s Black Friday (2021) from top to bottom. It’s a fairly brisk film, getting down to business with the precision of an early-bird opening. A selection of quick off-screen kills foreshadows the horrors to come. The gradual mutation of the crowd of unruly shoppers is well-handled; not subtle, but appropriately grisly and gory with some nice practical effects throughout.

Oh sure, there’re no real surprises plot or character-wise, save that Bruce Campbell plays against type for much of the film, but it just works. The characters are all nicely fleshed out with some brief build-up that, if you’ve worked retail, you feel in your bones. And even if we don’t get to know too much about any of them (then, how much did you know about your co-workers?), when one is inevitably picked off, you feel something – even if it’s just relief.

Altogether, the cast, headed up by Devon Sawa as the amiable punch-clock hero, evokes that strong sense of unity mixed with annoyance – or outright disdain – that seems so familiar to the long-term retail worker. Us against them, where ‘them’ is a hideous hodgepodge of every rude, impatient customer ever to darken your register.

There are some standout performances, of course. As noted above, Bruce Campbell breaks from his usual routine to give the audience a somewhat nebbish store manager with a few nice moments of pathos sprinkled throughout. And Michael Jai White is as quietly competent as ever, and gets to pull some nice action sequences utilising a wide array of tools.

Beyond that, there’s not much to it. The ending is suitably dreary, but with some hope for our remaining heroes. But the whys and wherefores of the alien (?) invasion that kicks everything off are largely just background for the more immediate interpersonal conflict between the dwindling staff. Which is as it should be. A zombie film is only as interesting as its survivors, after all. I give this one four angry customers out of five.

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Editorial

For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them.

Ray Bradbury,
Something Wicked This Way Comes

If you haven’t guessed by now, October is my sort of month. A lot of folks say that, of course. Most of them mean Halloween, and I do too, but I also mean October. Autumn. The changing season. When the leaves fall, the air turns cold, and animals run for cover. I feel invigorated. Creative. It’s that desperate hurdle towards the year’s end, I think. It motivates the little grey cells and gets the neurons firing.

Used to be, I’d keep myself inspired by watching a horror movie every day, reading scary books, etc. I had myself a whole passel of rituals, but at some point in the last few years, they became too much like work. Maybe making a special effort to do it all month long sapped a bit of the fun from it, or maybe the fact I have a seven year old who occupies much of my free time has made it too difficult to sit down and just enjoy something. Either way, I stopped. Not consciously, mind. I just found myself doing less of it, until I wasn’t doing any of it. Funny how that happens.

But this year’s different. I’ve been trying to get some of that old enjoyment back. I’m not quite back to my previous levels of thirty-one movies in thirty-one days, but I’m watching some, as you can see below. I’m rereading some old favourites, and trying to get into the holiday spirit. I think it’s working. The words are flowing fast, and the countdown has begun.

Anyway, we’ll see how it goes.

Reading:

A Night in the Lonesome October, by Roger Zelazny. The Night Comes On, by Steve Duffy. What Stalks the Deep, by T. Kingfisher. The Fortress of Solitude, by Jonathan Lethem. Old Nathan, by David Drake. Hellebore, issue 14. Pagan Triptych, by Ron Weighell, John Howard and Mark Valentine. From the Dust Returned, by Ray Bradbury.

Watching:

Dark Winds, Season One. Poker Face, Season Two. Abbott Elementary, Season Four. The Diplomat, Season 3. The Lurking Fear (1994). Salem’s Lot (1979). The Fog (1980). John Candy: I Like Me (2025). Return of the Living Dead (1985). Pumpkinhead (1985). Pumpkinhead: Ashes to Ashes (2006). Pumpkinhead: Blood Feud (2007). Evolution (2001). Dr Phibes Rises Again (1972). Dog Soldiers (2002). Comedy of Terrors (1964). Monster Island (2025). Ghostbusters (1984). Halloween (1978). Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948).

Listening:

Everybody Scream (2025), Florence and the Machine. Various spooky lo-fi mixes. Uncanny: Halloween Countdown (2025), Danny Robins.

News

This month has been a good month, on the whole. I finished my current novel in progress for Aconyte and sent it off to my editor (hi Lottie!), and got some splendid news regarding something that’s been on my bucket list of desired projects – more about that next year. I finished up a few short stories, including a new Baron Vordenburg tale and one featuring Amina Algol. I also started a new Lady Dee story (“A Rising Hum”) and another Artemis Whitlock story, involving a folly at the centre of a hedge maze.

My plan is to spend the rest of the year writing short stories and working on various other small projects. Nothing serious or with a deadline. Just a clear out of some half-finished stuff in my In-Progress file. I’ve got the pieces of about ten stories and/or novellas in there right now in need of either being finished, or being binned. I’d rather do the former, but I’ll settle for the latter.

New Essay – Nightmare Men

I posted a new Nightmare Men essay for you to enjoy this month. This time, I’m taking a look at turn-of-the-century playboy and occultist, Brett Kingsford. Subscribers can read it here.

New Essay – Silver Screams

I posted a new Silver Screams essay for you to enjoy this month. This time, I’m taking a look at 1957’s The Giant Claw, absurd puppet and all. Subscribers can read it here.

New Novel – Return of the Monster-Men

Last year, I was given the opportunity to write the novelisation of Mike Wolfer’s comic book miniseries, Return of the Monster-Men, and give it an ending worthy of both the work Wolfer had done, and Burroughs himself. My efforts are now up for preorder, if you’re interested. Hopefully I’ll get to write further adventures for Number 13 – or Otto, as he likes to be called – but only time (and sales) will tell. Order a copy today.

New Novel – Stand at Callenspire

Stand at Callenspire is my first foray into Mantic’s Kings of War setting, and it’s a doozy: elves, halflings and seagoing Neriticans versus a mysterious new foe that threatens all of Mantica. If you enjoyed my Space Marine Conquests novel, Apocalypse, I think you’ll enjoy this one. It’s got a similar vibe to it. Order a copy today.

New Review – Monstrous Reviews

I posted some new Monstrous Reviews for you to enjoy this month, including a look at Candy Man (1992) and Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948). Subscribers can read all of the reviews here.

New Serial – Shadow of the Drowned City

Earlier this year I wrote a ten-part Arkham Horror serial, Arkham International: Shadows of the Drowned City, which followed on from events in the most recent game expansion, The Drowned City. The available instalments are listed below. Read them for free, or listen to the audio versions, narrated by Todd Menesses.

Chapter One: ParisChapter Two: New YorkChapter Three: BostonChapter Four: ArkhamChapter Five: Mexico CityChapter Six: AlexandriaChapter Seven: OxfordChapter Eight: New YorkChapter Nine: KingsportChapter Ten: ArkhamNew Short Story – “The Silent Span”

I’m pleased to have a story in the most recent SNAFU anthology, SNAFU: Contagion. “The Silent Span” is set during World War I, and finds a lone Senegalese Tirailleur investigating a section of trench-line that has fallen mysteriously silent. Grab a copy of the anthology today!

New Short Story – “Oscula Naturae”

I’m also pleased to have a story in the newest anthology from editor Coy Hall, This World of Vile Wonder. “Oscula Naturae” finds a surgeon investigating a mysterious death at a royal hunting lodge in the forest of Fontainebleau. Grab a copy of the anthology today!

Monthly Spotlight“The Stalls of Wych Street”

This one is still one of my favourites. It’s another prequel of sorts to my Royal Occultist stories, featuring a young St. Cyprian assisting Carnacki in a case involving a missing street, an other-dimensional prison, and a famous thief.

I love stories where I can bring together my various interests – in this case, the missing streets of London, liminal spaces, and the rivalry between Jonathan Wild and Jack Sheppard.

The book is still available in both print and digital format, if you’d like to have a read.

Monthly Story“Abbott and Costello Meet the Creature”

Something a bit different this time around. A few years back, I started writing a series of reviews for monster movies that never were, including Edgar G. Ulmer’s Colossus (1936) and Larry Cohen’s Blacula Vs Sugar Hill (1975). I didn’t do very many – just seven or eight – but I enjoyed writing them, even if only a few people got to read them. I might try and do something with them at some point, maybe write a few more, or even put together a book of them. But for the moment, I thought I’d share one that’s in the spirit of the season, so to speak. Enjoy!

Abbott and Costello Meet the Creature (1956). Starring Bud Abbott, Lou Costello, Nestor Paiva, Ricou Browning, Russell Johnson and Barbara Rush. Based on a screenplay by John Grant and Harry Essex. Directed by Charles Lamont.

Abbott and Costello were on their way out at Universal, and everyone knew it – except possibly the duo themselves, who were still holding out hope that the studio would agree to their new contract terms. By 1955, the writing was on the wall and the pair had come to the end of their time with the studio. Their popularity was waning, largely due to overexposure, and there were rumors that the IRS was sniffing around, hunting back taxes – the sort of trouble that could sink even the most beloved comedy act in Hollywood.

But Universal was determined to squeeze one more film out of the duo – more, they wanted it to be big. Monstrous, even. While it wasn’t common practice for double-acts to be signed for single pictures, Universal was willing to break with tradition in an effort to take advantage of the opportunity it saw before it.

The studio’s pitch was simple – one film, no more, no less, and the studio would pay off the duo’s debts in lieu of the renegotiated contract. Neither comedian was happy with the deal, but they agreed. The old Vaudeville hands were inveterate gamblers, and saw the deal as a roll of the dice. But better to take the offer and have some hope of keeping the majority of their assets – not to mention their homes – than to suffer for pride.

With all parties agreed – however grudgingly – work began on a script. Universal wanted to revive their flailing Creature from the Black Lagoon franchise after its disastrously received 1955 sequel, Revenge of the Creature. The film had been critically panned, but financially successful given its miniscule budget, meaning there was some life yet in what many would come to consider the studio’s last classic monster character.

John Grant and Harry Essex were given the task of coming up with an adequate screenplay. Grant had written regularly for Abbott and Costello, and Essex was the studio’s current science-fiction bag man, making them the perfect team to construct the necessary delivery system for both the duo’s brand of slapstick and the studio-required chills. Charles Lamont was picked to direct – Lamont had headed up the last few Abbott and Costello films, and the duo worked well with him.

The story for Abbott and Costello Meet the Creature picked up a few months after Revenge of the Creature, and, in an interesting reversal from their previous films, saw the duo return as Chick Young and Wilbur Grey, their characters from Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948). The hapless team of Young and Grey are now working as flatboat guides in the Everglades, employed by Nestor Paiva’s jocular Pedro – ostensibly a cousin of the crusty tramp steamer captain Lucas from Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954), also played by Paiva. Russell Johnson and Barbara Rush play the inevitable pair of scientists in search of the Gill-Man, once again portrayed by Ricou Browning. Johnson, who would go on to fame as the Professor on Gilligan’s Island, is the closest thing the film has to an antagonist – at one point even threatening Costello’s Wilbur with a gun!

Despite the setting and characters to link the film to Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, there’s little else to connect the two. No mention is made of the pair’s previous encounter with the supernatural, though at one point Pedro obliquely mentions some trouble Young and Grey had. Just why the decision was made to link the two films is a mystery and one that has obsessed a number of film critics over the years.

The script borrowed liberally from its predecessors – the creature having once again survived a fusillade of bullets only to be hunted and captured by a pair of scientists – but it makes the most of its tight running time. The Gill-Man’s first appearance, sliding out from beneath a mossy log to do battle with an alligator threatening Costello, is both eerie and striking. Browning, as always, imbued the creature with a raw vitality that made it stand out amongst its peers. Costello, once again, is the only witness to the film’s monster for much of its runtime, which allowed for the expected mugging from the comedian as he is first pursued through the Everglades by the creature and then attempts to guide the others to its lair.

Like its predecessor, Abbott and Costello Meet the Creature heavily weighted its sympathies towards the monster. The Gill-Man very clearly desires to be left alone, but such is not to be. A subplot involving the building of a restaurant ensured a ready supply of victims for the agitated monster to throttle, eviscerate and otherwise brutally kill. In one memorable scene, the Gill-Man stealthily drags a night watchman off of a dock – a singularly brutal moment lent extra tension by the decision to eschew any musical accompaniment. The scene unspools in total silence, save for the slap of water and the muffled cries of the creature’s unfortunate victim. 

Surprisingly, the film holds the record for highest body-count of any of the classic monster features, with the Gill-Man slaughtering a total of thirty on-screen victims – the majority in a surprisingly brutal nighttime assault on the aforementioned building site.

The film was released in 1956 to charitable reviews and financial success, with some calling it a return to form for Abbott and Costello. The pair departed Universal on good terms, but nonetheless formally dissolved their partnership in 1957 after the failure of their independent films, Dance with Me, Henry, and The Colgate Kid.

A fourth Gill-Man film, The Creature Walks Among Us was rushed into development for a 1957 release, and, despite a meagre box office take, was soon followed by the infamous fifth and final Gill-Man film, The Creature Lives in 1959, which saw the Gill-Man employed as an anti-Communist weapon in Cuba.

These days, while Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein is the more beloved of the pair, Abbott and Costello Meet the Creature is considered the true book-end of Universal’s classic monster era. It revitalized the careers of all three headliners to some extent, and proved to be a successful gamble on the studio’s part. But never again did a Universal monster permeate the pop-culture consciousness.

In Closing

That’s it for this month. If you made it this far, thanks for giving it a read and possibly even subscribing. I hope you enjoyed this back-to-basics newsletter. Check back next time for more new releases (hopefully) and a new (old) monthly story.

But for now, to paraphrase the estimable Carnacki – out you go!

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