As if the wind knew something before we did.
There’s a stretch of road in every reader’s mind: long and low, where the sky presses too close and the landscape feels like it remembers more than it should. That’s where Ringrock lives. Stephen Barnard’s latest novel isn’t a tale that creeps up on you. It barrels in, headlights flickering, secrets jangling in the trunk, daring you to keep up.
On its face, Ringrock is a fast-paced supernatural thriller with enough shadowed corners and sudden turns to keep even the most caffeine-addled reader (me) burning through chapters. Barnard knows how to write movement - not just action, but momentum. The plot doesn’t so much unfold as it snaps open like a bear trap. The mystery at its heart, built on small-town legends and the strange humming unease is magnetic, if sometimes a touch too tidy.
It’s in the tone where the book straddles an uneasy line. At times, Ringrock leans toward the voice of youth: not childish, not unskilled, but filtered through the lens of someone whose bones haven't yet learned to ache when it rains. There’s a YA-like immediacy to the characters’ reactions, their righteous certainty, their hunger to fix things with just enough rebellion and heart. That’s not a flaw, exactly. But for a reader just south of forty, it sometimes dulled the weight of the stakes.
Still, Barnard earns his ghosts. The foreshadowing is measured, never wagging its finger. Even the more predictable turns don’t feel cheap but inevitable, like watching a coin flip in slow motion and already knowing which side it’ll land on, yet still hoping you’re wrong.
The novel’s premise - the titular Ringrock and its eldritch pull - is compelling. It's where Barnard lets his literary instincts stretch out, brushing up against allegory without falling into over-explanation. There are glimmers of real depth in the way the story pokes at themes of inherited trauma, of place and memory, of how easily a town can turn into a trap. I wanted more of that: not more pages, but more resonance. There’s a version of this book in my head that lingers like woodsmoke, but Ringrock lingers like engine heat.
Would I have given this five stars if I’d read it in my twenties, with more recklessness in my blood and fewer books behind me? Probably. But that doesn’t mean the book isn’t good. It’s solid: well-built, sharply written, and confident in its mythos. It knows what it wants to do, and it does it with style.
It just doesn’t haunt me. Not quite. But it could have. And maybe, for some readers, it still will.