Michael Marshall's (AKA Michael Marshall Smith) "Straw Men" trilogy falls into the thriller category, but the books are so dark and disturbing they might also be considered as contemporary horror. There's also a weird, if not supernatural, vast-conspiracy-against-all-humanity theory that spooks them up somewhat. The third of three (following The Straw Men and Upright Man), Blood of Angels features ex-CIA operative Ward Hopkins, his now-girlfriend FBI agent Nina Baynam and, eventually, ex-Los Angeles police detective John Zandt. They are fighting the murderous Straw Men, an ancient brotherhood that feels humanity went haywire with civilization and sees killing as many members of it as possible as its duty. One of its most effective operatives is Paul, a twin who Ward never knew existed until his parents were murdered back in book one. At the end of book two, Paul was safely ensconced in prison, but springing a federal prisoner is nothing for the Straw Men. On the east coast, a deceptively mild-mannered Florida tourist photographer is set on a shady mission by the man he thinks of as the Forward Thinking Boy (Paul, of course). Across the country, So-Cal rich kid drug-dealer Lee John Hudek is drawn into bigger and more deadly things than supplying pills for his pointless peers. Ward and Nina's rural respite in the Pacific Norwest comes to an end when Nina is pulled back into FBI work to investigate a possible female serial killer in Virginia. The three story lines are braided into a quick-burning fuse of a standalone novel that's nearly impossible to stop reading. Marshall's fluid writing is several notches higher than that of the average thriller and there's more than sheer entertainment here, too. The novel is, to some extent, a meditation on the meaning of death and, more obviously, cannot help but consider a world where organizations of killers who delight in death and destruction are not fiction. The first of this trilogy was praised by Stephen King as a "masterpiece"; this one may be even better. (CFQ Vol. 37, Issue #8) xwidget_64_Blood of Angels • • • Note: The first two books of the series are The Straw Men (2002) and The Upright Man (2004) (known as The Lonely Dead in the UK). As Michael Marshal Smith, the author's works include the collection More Tomorrow and Other Stories (2003), and novels One of Us (1998), Spares (1996), and Only Forward (1995).   

[Great modern horror is not always labeled as "horror". You'll probably find this one shelved under SF. Of course, it is also a dark mystery/thriller, and horrific...] xwidget_65_Spares Anyone reviewing Michael Marshall Smith's cross-genre novel Spares is apt to fall back on a variety of comparisons. And they are all accurate -- Spares does evoke hard-boiled detective writers like Jim Thompson and Raymond Chandler; Philip K. Dick and his cyberpunk descendants; the filmic atmospheres of A Clockwork Orange, Chinatown, and Blade Runner; even the humor of Douglas Adams. But to do so does a disservice to Smith, who deserves credit for his own unique imagination, skill, and this wonderfully diverse novel. Spares is told in a poignant first-person by Jack Randall, an ex-cop, ex-soldier, ex-husband, ex-father, ex-member of the human race, and ex-addict -- except there is no such thing as an ex-addict. At the outset of the novel he's come back to his former home -- New Richmond, Virginia: a 200-story flying megamall that has been "grounded" for 83 years due to technological failure compounded by bureaucratic ineptitude. Jack's brought seven "spares" with him that he rescued from a "farm" that, shattered and drug-addled, he found himself in charge of. Spares are clones who exist only to provide spare parts -- skin, eyes, organs, limbs, faces -- for their legally "human" counterparts. Jack has treated the spares as humans -- teaching them to communicate, to actualize their emotions, and allowing them to think for themselves -- and is attempting to save them from the system that exploits their bodies and ignores their minds, feelings, and souls. In New Richmond Jack becomes embroiled in a deadly mystery involving denizens of both the underworld and overworld, his ex-partner, a former enemy, and The Gap -- the surrealistic ex-war zone born from a virtual world that had "grown too heavy and sloughed off the wires and coalesced into something solid." Smith's future noir world of urban decay is one in which computers create their own programming and are sometimes more human than the humans. protagonist,The society is a plausibly corrupt extension of our current era with The Gap an obvious Vietnam allegory. And, of course, it is all the more chilling because we can so easily believe it. Smith falters in his culture only in one respect: his emphasis on class stratification is devoid of any racial overtones whatsoever -- as is the case in most SF. But, like the best SF -- and hard-boiled detective fiction -- Smith provides compelling philosophical and sociological underpinnings along with his energetic action. For all the other comparisons, Spares reminds me most of John Shirley's early cyperpunk novel City Come A Walkin', and Jack Randall is reminiscent of the flawed heroes in Shirley's work. Like Shirley, Smith writes of dark things in dark worlds where the horror -- disturbingly familiar no matter what the trappings -- is often found within our own souls. Spares could easily become a classic cherished by readers, argued over, dissected and discussed for years. And because it has been optioned by Steven Spielberg's DreamWorks SKG it has a chance of becoming more than a cult classic. Whatever Spares becomes -- it is required reading now. -- Paula Guran

Debut novelist Cherie Priest sets out to update the Southern gothic and although it's a not entirely successful effort, it's definitely an enthusiastic one. Multiracial, cool, gorgeous Eden Moore is a heroine so full of spunk that she verges on the obnoxious at times but, like the novel itself, she possesses a certain undeniable charm. Unlike her literary predecessors, who couldn't manage much more than screams and faints, Eden handles everything with aplomb. From a seeing the dead to a determined, if ineffective, stalker-cousin with murderous intent to revelations of rotting incestuous family roots to an over-the-top supernatural finale set in the middle of a swamp -- Eden can handle it. Priest is most effective as a writer when describing Eden's youthful ghostly encounters with eerie panache, but with sequels in the offing she may stick with Buffyesque supernatural butt-kicking rather than more nuanced chills. She has obvious potential no matter what path she takes. (CFQ Vol. 37, Issue #8) xwidget_63_Four and Twenty Blackbirds  

xwidget_62_Silver Screen Anjuli O'Connell has a perfect memory, but no confidence in herself -- knowing, afterall, is not understanding. Roy Croft is undoubtedly brilliant and knows everything -- "how the pieces fit together, and how they don't." They both work for OptiNet, a vast multinational that owns the worldwide communications network and the artificial intelligence, 901. Eccentric Roy, despite his involvement with extremist political groups fighting for AI liberation, is too valuable a programmer not to employ; Anjuli is a top expert in AI psychology. Roy turns up dead and OptiNet is quick to call it suicide. Just before he died, Roy filed against OptiNet with the Court of Human Rights in an effort to prove that 901 is a being in its own right. This is puzzling in itself as he was aware a move like that would doubtless lead to 901's "death" rather than its liberation. He also left a series of cryptic messages for Anjuli that may be luring her into an insanely dangerous game for his own warped purposes or leading her to an important truth. The storyline runs through mystery/thriller territory as Anjuli seeks answers and, finally, a mysterious Source must be found and recovering it requires a solo mission into a super-fortified pseudo-abbey in experimental biomech armor. But that is far from all. Robson's debut novel may be imperfect, but it's astonishingly full of imaginative imagery and stylish writing. First published in the U.K. in 1999 it is belatedly arriving in the U.S. only after two subsequent and even more-accomplished novels. Provocative and unique, Robson is stellar talent of the first magnitude. (CFQ Vol. 37, Issue #8)  

xwidget_61_20th Century Ghosts   This may be your first encounter with a writer named Joe Hill, but it most certainly will not be the last. This remarkable, not-to-be-missed debut collection may well herald the beginnings of a notable career. Christopher Golden, in his introduction, refers to Hill's stories as "subtle", but they are more noteworthy for their perfectly eloquent lucidity than understatement. Often laced with nostalgia reminiscent of Bradbury and graced with the irresistible imaginative tug of Stephen King at top form, Hill's stories are more skewed and surreal than either writer's and usually fall further into weird. "The Cape" even lulls you with Bradburyian charms then gleefully skewers you with Kinglike wickedness. Hill also has a knack for reviving the jaded sensibilities of the veteran horror reader. The title tale is a ghost story that delivers the unexpected for those who have read plenty of ghost stories and think they know what to expect. The burned-out editor of an annual anthology discovers an astonishing story and its distressing author in "Best New Horror". The ending may be inevitable, but the tale still entrances. In the accomplished novella, Voluntary Committal, two teenage boys deal with the reality of a terrible accident. Reality may be mutable and memory can be sealed "behind a wall of carefully laid mental bricks," but such a wall may not last forever. In the fabulist "My Father's Mask", a family visits Masquerade House, a place where it's always Halloween, surrounded by a deep dark woods "where grown-ups cannot go." "Pop Art" can be labeled as "magic realism", but it is also a moving yet humorous story about friendship and death. Joe Hill. Read him. (-- First published in Fantasy Magazine #1, November 2005)  

xwidget_60_Beyond Black There's a place between skepticism and belief, between the known and the unknown. You sit there comfortably while you glance over your morning paper and read your horoscope or an article on a "haunted house". It echoes with phrases like "harmless fun," "I don't take it seriously, but..." "of course there's nothing to it," and "my great-grandmother used to say..." It's where hotels build their thirteenth floors and where the coins you toss into wishing wells land. But it is also a disturbing location. The pinch of spilled salt you throw over your left shoulder "just in case" lands there. Paths crossed by black cats and walking routes under ladders might lead you there. It's usually a place of minor trepidations and disregarded terrors, but the gods we fear dwell there, too, and damnations we dread lurk within it. Hilary Mantel's Beyond Black plops you right down into the middle of that place between what you know and what you don't know and has you laughing at irrational absurdities while being chilled by absurd irrationalities. The author makes you laugh and shiver simultaneously. The title could describe her humor -- "beyond black". It is, in fact, so dark that it enlightens. Mantel's characters, even in minor roles, are astonishingly vivid. Vile, charming, cruel, kind, mundane, weird, dead or alive -- they will remain with you longer and more distinctly than some of your blood relations. Alison is a psychic -- "a professional psychic, not some sort of magic act" -- who plies her trade both privately and publicly in the counties surrounding London. It's a lucrative profession, but she experiences almost constant physical and mental anguish due to her life-long dealings with "airside." The dead are a bothersome, nattering lot and her "spirit guide" is a lecherous, vulgar lowlife named Morris. Her childhood was abysmal and lacking in even the slightest of comforts; as an adult she offers an odd, but genuine, comfort to others. Alison is a "woman of unfeasible size...soft as an Edwardian, opulent as a showgirl." When she leaves a room you feel her as "a presence, a trace." And she is in need of both personal and business organization. Colette is thin and so colorless she barely notices herself. "When I'm gone I leave no trace," she thinks. Alison says that when Colette has been gone an hour or two, "I wonder if I have imagined you." She's also efficient: "sharp, rude, and effective." Other than lewd specters, Alison has no real relationships with the opposite gender. Colette is divorced from a man nearly as insipid as she. Since the bland couple had no friends, they invited everyone they knew to their picture-perfect, utterly empty wedding and the marriage was over before the ceremony was paid off. The final push out of matrimony came when Colette phoned and spoke to her mother-in-law -- who she consequently discovered had been dead for a number of hours at the time of the conversation. There's always the chance, she admits, it might have been a wrong number, but her life is so meaningless even the thought she might have communed with the dead gives it meaning and she starts seeking out psychics. It turns out that Colette hasn't a whit of psychic power -- even reading Tarot cards is beyond her -- but she does become Alison's personal assistant/business partner. She gets Alison's affairs in order and her career on the right track. Colette doesn't quite believe in the paranormal, but like most of us she can "entertain simultaneously any number of conflicting opinions." When "[f]aced with the impossible", Colette's mind "simply scuttle[s] off in another direction." Colette learns much of the psychic biz -- Mantel skewers the "Sensitives" with sparkling satire -- is fakery and flimflam. Alison uses such techniques herself, but not to defraud. She smoothes uncomfortable truths and conveys soothing messages to her audiences and clients rather than passing on the lies and confabulations of the perfidious, selfish, trivial, generally clueless dead. Although she doesn't particularly believe, Collette cannot deny Alison's abilities. Colette believes enough to be frightened of the afterlife as Alison paints it: ...the bewildered dead clustered among the dumpsters outside of burger bars, clutching door keys in their hands or queuing with their lunchboxes where the gates of a small factory once stood... There are thousands of them out there, so pathetic and lame-brained they can't cross the road to get where they are going, dithering on the kerbs of new arterial roads and byways... they follow [Alison home], and stat petering the first chance they get. They elbow her in the ribs with questions always questions; but never the right ones. Always, where's my pension book, has the Number 64 gone, are we having a fry-up this morning? Never, am I dead?...   Collette also probes and prods Alison with questions in pursuit of material for a book she intends to produce. Dead voices and strange noises play havoc with the recordings of the interviews, but the dialogues also force Alison to begin confronting her past, much of which is unclear to her until Colette forces her to talk about it. Even before we know the entire story it's a past nasty enough to establish a possibility (never voiced by characters or author) that Alison's supernatural abilities might stem from psychosis rather than psychic connection. Spirit guide Morris, in fact, was one of a murderous band of thugs who dominated Alison's unspeakably brutal childhood. As Alison recalls more of her childhood, Morris's dead but still villainous mates seem to be reassembling to further torture her. The women escape the "fiends", as Alison calls them, by moving to a spanking new house in a new upmarket development full of families and minivans. (Realty, new construction, suburbia and its inhabitants are all impaled on the spike of Mantel's sardonic wit.) Despite everyone thinking that Alison is some type of weather forecaster and that the women are a lesbian couple, the move brings Alison temporary respite from the fiends. But Colette, ever more controlling even as she occasionally feels unappreciated, increasingly sees her life as a dead end. No new man has entered her life in the seven years she's spent with Alison. Paying but pointless punters and kooks, Al's fellow Sensitives -- who disdain her as much as she disdains them -- surround her. Her ex, Gavin, tells her he is dating a model. Meanwhile Alison remembers more and more of her dreadful early days and the dead fiends, their fiendishness now even more enhanced, are drawing nigh and bringing death with them. There's more here, too, than a mere narrative. Mantel piles opposites on top of dualities, offers scathingly true observations on modern life, and shapes an overall metaphor for England circa 1997-2004. Surprising, unsettling, deeply subversive -- one cannot but wonder if Mantel's literary cohort will completely appreciate what a dark marvel this novel is. Readers of Peter Straub, Ramsey Campbell, Graham Joyce, and Elizabeth Hand, will, however, recognize Hilary Mantel as beyond brilliant.

xwidget_48_The Overnight What could be more innocuous than a bookstore? Modern chain stores are designed to exude a safe welcoming feeling for the customer. They are a safe haven for the reader--aren't they? How creepy can a modern shopping complex get anyway? The masterful Ramsey Campbell can make it quite creepy, thank you, and he also turns the cozy embrace of a clean, well-lighted book emporium into a place of terror. Perhaps, as a booklover who got her wish of receiving plenty of free books only to realize that such largesse becomes a problem in itself and thus occasionally feels threatened by stacks of tomes, I can identify more closely than most with The Overnight. And, too, like Campbell, I sojourned briefly at a Borders bookstore. But I'm sure that even if books have never been anything but your friends and bookstores only benign, you'll still be rewarded with this delightfully disturbing novel. Campbell combines wickedly insightful wit, a wise understanding of human nature, awesome prose, a rich evocation atmosphere of fear, and, well, retail experience to create yet another modern masterpiece. Right. The man seems to write masterpieces as easily and frequently as a politician lies. Adding to that achievement is his ability to write, at least lately, entirely different "sorts" of books each time. No one, with the exception of Peter Straub, evolves his horror so readily or so well. The Overnight is also an extremely accessible novel, a true "page-turner," and would serve as an excellent vehicle to attract the masses. In fact, of all Campbell's novels in the last ten years, this one could stock the mass market bins just as well as it pleases elitist horror snobs like me. Not only does The Overnight succeed as horror, it's a sublime satire of the modern workplace. The plot centers on Texts, a newly opened, Borders-like American chain store in the not-yet-completed Fenny Meadows Retail Park on a highway between Manchester and Liverpool. For Woody Blake, the store's American boss, it's a chance to prove himself in his first position as a branch manager. His staff is competent, but like any group of diverse personalities in an intense work environment, there are small irritations and minor disagreements. Woody's gung-ho, team spirit retail attitude --"Everything's good or we wouldn't sell it." -- would be annoying in a U.S. store, in England it is even more so. Campbell deftly shifts the point of view from one character to another with each chapter. As we get to know the employees we also become aware of small incidents that, in isolation, are meaningless. Together they are ominous and eerie. Only the reader, of course, gets all the data -- the odd draft, the disordered, damaged, and often grimy books, fogged videos, a constant feeling of being watched, clammy walls, an elevator (or, rather, lift) with a mind of its own, a blur here, a computer glitch there. Only the perpetual fog outside that never seems to dissipate is obvious to all. Nothing much is right, although nothing seems hugely wrong until Woody gets the first month's numbers: the Fenny Meadows Text is setting new records for nonperformance and the big guns are heading over from New York in less than two weeks. Woody decides the answer is to push even harder and to have everyone work all night before the inspection to make sure everything is in tip-top shape. One of the employees is run down in the parking lot but Woody's only real concern is the store. Wilf, a former dyslexic who is now a voracious reader, loses his beloved ability to read. A perfectly copyedited store flyer keeps turning up with an embarrassing a mistake in each batch printed. A reading group and author's signing go spectacularly awry. A local author hints that Fenny Meadows has a peculiar history. Each of the thirteen (hmmm...) employees -- Agnes, Angus, Connie, Gavin, Greg, Jake, Jill, Lorraine, Madeleine, Nigel, Ray, Ross, Wilf -- are distinct right down to their individual modes of transportation. At the same time, they realistically match the "type" of individuals who work in such stores whether it is located in Cheshire or Ohio. Campbell plays them both in ensemble and in isolation as what should be small problems grow large, relationships lose the veneer of politeness, normal conversations begin to drip venom, prejudices become more pronounced, the overnight looms like Doomsday, and everyone is expected to smile, smile, smile. Chapters overlap one another, layering viewpoints, impelling the action, and the reader becomes almost another character in The Overnight -- mute, unable to scream out a warning, brimming with dread, certain that nothing will turn out right in the end, but still hoping it will. What's behind all the nasty goings-on? Campbell makes it plain by the end, although he wastes no exposition on explanation. Whether The Overnight is an extremely well done variation on a standard supernatural trope or something else is a question I'm still debating with myself. Not that it matters. What does matter is that Ramsey Campbell, for all his previous accolades and acclaim as a master of horror, is a writer very much in his prime. The Overnight is not only another dark jewel in his uncanny crown, it is one of its most wondrous gems. (from Cemetery Dance #52) • • • Other novels by Ramsey Campbell reviewed : »» Darkest Part of the Woods by Ramsey Campbell »» Ghosts And Grisly Things by Ramsey Campbell »» Nazareth Hill by Ramsey Campbell »» Pact of the Fathers by Ramsey Campbell »» Silent Children by Ramsey Campbell

"We're the lucky ones," says an inhabitant of a madhouse. "We are, because we're what people call mad or whatever they say we are these days. They don't know that it means we'll be readier than they are. We're already on our way, so it won't be as much of a shock."   xwidget_47_The Darkest Part of the Woods   Allow me to introduce the main characters-- Dr Lennox Price: An American academic and authority on mass hallucination and popular delusion. Back in the "druggy sixties, he "proved" (with his book, The Mechanics of Delusion) that fringe beliefs interdepend with the more mainstream and skepticism is the result of the same psychological mechanism that produces the very beliefs it questioned. He came, originally, to the Brichester area to prove that the odd stories locals told of what they saw in the Goodmanswood were the result of a mutated lichen. Evidently Dr Price's contact with the hallucinogenic symbiotic organisms drove him to insanity some years back. He became obsessed with the woods and is now a resident of the Arbour, an institution for the mentally unstable. Dr Lennox is not the only "casualty of the sixties" with connections to the woods at the Arbour. These others as a leader of sorts recognize him. Margo Price: An artist popular enough to have her paintings collected in a glossy coffee table art book. Not long after coming to England with her husband, she produced an enigmatic Escher-esque painting that became ubiquitous adornment for many dorms and lofts of the 70s. Margo's art is all about making the viewer look again, presenting more than initially meets the eye. Heather Price: The elder Price daughter. Capable, stable, the one who handles things, and the single family member who "lacks imagination." She has a longtime job at the local university (which had also employed her father) as a librarian. The other members of the family create books, she catalogs and properly shelves them. Although now long estranged, she married, of all people, an accountant. Their union produced -- Sam: A 22-year old recent university graduate with a degree in English literature who works in an about-to-go-under sf/f/h bookstore. Sam is very much a modern young person, although many readers may not recognize just how iconic he is. Bright, well-educated, appreciative of family rather than rebellious, underemployed, and a bit lost. Except Sam is a bit more lost than he or anyone else realizes. Sylvia Price: The younger Price daughter. The one who could leave the nest because Heather stayed. She has collected folktales for at least one published book The Secret Woods: Sylvan Myths and she's been off, evidently pursuing her bliss and another book, to the Americas. Her welcomed return to her family is complicated by a joyously accepted, but somewhat mysterious pregnancy. She is also becoming as obsessive about the woods as her father and begins to gather the information that will explain the unexplainable. Book CoverHome turf for the Prices is Woodland Close, a suburban neighborhood of the small city of Brichester in England's West Country. (Yes, this is the same fictional Brichester Campbell visited before in his very early tales. Back then it was a depressing urban landscape. It seems much more pleasant now.) Woodland Close, a mixture of old English village and newer residences, is situated on the edge of Goodmanswood, a dense forest that dates back to the Roman era. The woods lie between Brichester and Woodland Close and have, for the first time, lost a part of itself - despite local protest - to a motorway bypass. Sam , one of the activists trying to protect the trees, suffered broken ankle from a nasty fall. He still limps. There you have it. What happens next is pure dark magic. Campbell takes these characters and, word by word, reveals them and the story. Although some of their dialogue seems, at first, enigmatic, you quickly realize each always tells the truth and that the supposedly illogical utterances of the "insane" and those descending into insanity are quite logical and just as true. While making each character an individual whole, the author exposes the geography of the pervasively supernatural nature surrounding them. Over and over Campbell describes the trees, the woods, the environment in creatural terms. They are insect-legged, have fingers full of panic, reptilian claws, and even greyish tentacles; they swarm, their leaves become messengers. Humans are described in sylvan terms: quiet as a tree stump; sleeping like a log, like a piece of wood with no ideas; stiff and frail as a bundle of sticks; unresponsive as a tree trunk. Every word, every space between becomes a part of a complex incantation. Names are full of meaning. Language is marvelously significant. Like Margo's art, we are compelled to look and look again at the pictures the pages present. Books are just one symbolic metaphor Campbell develops and embellishes. The main characters are all involved with books, they write them or plan to write them or work with them or sell them in a world that, as we all well know, places little importance on the written word. Books are of a more than dual nature. Books are rational and reasoned but are also magical and irrational. They are sources of enlightenment and at the core of the darkest doom. Hidden and unknown, common and well understood, they can be turned into series of zeros and ones; they are hand-crafted and singular. Books are clean and neat, they supply entertainment and knowledge; they are decaying stinking things that lead to horrors so abhorrent the human mind cannot conceive them... Revelations are made. Horror crawls forth and becomes inevitable. The world is turned upside down. The Prices and we must accept the impossible and enter a new reality. There is resistance, but no way of escape. The Prices become outcasts in a world where even the most ordinary becomes laden with portent and dread . (In one small but brilliant bit of business, Campbell transforms three mundane women in a small grocery into a trio of weird sisters of Shakespearian proportion.) We survive. Some of us do anyway. But the world is no longer the same. Literally. That's what happens when we are truly disturbed and more than discomforted by, well, it's just a book now isn't it? As for reassurance -- we're left with damned little. "We're the lucky ones," says an inhabitant of a madhouse near the end of Darkest Part. "We are, because we're what people call mad or whatever they say we are these days. They don't know that it means we'll be readier than they are. We're already on our way, so it won't be as much of a shock." Ramsey Cambell's been dabbling in the non-supernatural with his last three novels. He returns to it with an unparalleled potency and power. This one's a classic, boys and girls. Someday you'll be pretending you were perspicacious enough to recognize The Darkest Part of the Woods as such back in '03. Don't lie to posterity. Make it true. An Addendum: I'm amazed (considering TDPW came out over a year ago in limited hardcover in the UK and has, therefore, already gone through one round of review) that so few others have seen it as the Supreme Art that it is. Then I thought of a few reasons: This is Ramsey Campbell. Of course it's good and maybe even great. Fulfill our high expectations, sir! Thanks very much. What's next? Campbell makes the assumption that the reader is intelligent. This assumption means you may have to actually read and understand most every word of an incredibly unified whole. This assumption further means that you understand those words and have a respectable appreciation of the English language. This assumption also means that you can recognize and savor some splendid intricacy. Amongst the infinite variety on the menu of horror, this is haute cuisine and a lot of folks have a palate dulled by too many Quarter Pounders with Cheese. -- from Cemetery Dance #48

xwidget_44_Ghosts and Grisly Things Originally released by small British press Pumpkin Books in 1998, Ramsey Campbell's short story collection GHOSTS AND GRISLY THINGS was largely overlooked. Now, published in hardcover from Tor, perhaps it will gain some well-deserved attention. The collection features stories written as early as 1974, as late as 1994, and one initially published in 1998 in the British edition. This newest story, "Ra*e," stands as an example of just how adroitly Campbell wrings effective twists of terror from modern life: A 14-year-old goes out dressed too suggestively for her father's tastes. She goes missing. The suspense builds, is tragically relieved and is then replaced with a growing rage and need for revenge. The culprit is discovered, but not without a final emotional turnaround. "Between Floors" turns an elevator and its lugubrious attendant into a haunting little tale. An aging couple deals with "progress" in "The Sneering." The monster in "The Dead Must Die" is a religious zealot out to destroy the Undead -- those who do not share his convictions. Campbell is, frankly, not for the unintelligent or those who want formulaic chills. But for those who appreciate fine prose and disturbing stories, Campbell can't be beat.   xwidget_45_Dystopia: Collected Stories Richard Christian Matheson's stories are haiku-like in their brevity. Economic, elegantly succinct, often darkly comic, they slice directly to your soul with surgical precision -- surgery performed with no anesthesia. In lesser hands, the drop-dead endings, the staccato sentences, the ironic twists would simply not succeed. But for Matheson, they become unique and effective style. Even when taken to the nth degree -- as in "Vampire" a short-short written entirely in one-word sentences, or the literal list of 25 "Things to Get" -- it works. Even when "cute" -- the intensely paranoid "Wyom...", "Graduation" is a series of gradually disconcerting letters from a son away at school, "Obituary" is just that, "Conversation Piece" is a "transcribed" Q&A; session -- it works. But Matheson can also be ambiguously poignant and insightful ("Who's You in America"), make modern cinema metaphoric ("City of Dreams"), re-create the history of a fictional rock'n'roll band with vivid snippets of pseudo-journalism ("Whatever"), and explore the aberrant ("Region of the Flesh," "Mutilator"). Matheson's short stories have been appearing in anthologies and magazines since 1977 and he's published a single novel, CREATED BY (1993). This new omnibus should serve to introduce him to new readers and as well as confirm his rightful place as one of the best writers of modern dark fiction.   xwidget_46_The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 11 Now in its eleventh incarnation, I don't know how many volumes of this I've reviewed in the past few years. However many it is, I've consistently praised it. So, to sum up: 1) Although the exact number of pages and stories vary a bit from year to year (this year it's 21 stories in 572 pages), MBBNH is a steal at $11.95. Especially considering you also get a summation of the horror year (1999 in this case), "useful addresses," and a comprehensive "necrology." (On the other hand, I wish there were a matched set of the series nicely done in hardcover. These are anthologies to treasure and fat paperbacks do crumble after a bit.) 2) Editor Jones continues to select some of the finest examples of both established authors and those less well known as well as introducing relative newcomers. 3) Reviewers (including me) have accurately used the following adjectives to describe MBBNH: outstanding, indispensable, essential, comprehensive, terrific, stellar, definitive, excellent.... Longer paeans have included, "credited with having a hand in keeping horror itself alive..." "inspired mix..." "If you buy one horror anthology a year, make it this one. Every. year." "It's people like ... Jones who keep the genre alive and maintain a lofty level of quality in the field." As you can see, practically everything has been said. It's all true. But one so hates to be repetitious. 4) What more could you possibly want? Buy the damned thing and be grateful that Robinson (the UK publisher), Carroll & Graf, and Stephen Jones exist.

xwidget_43_Nazareth Hill   With Nazareth Hill, Ramsey Campbell constructs a flawlessly plotted, wonderfully written, superbly scary haunted house story that doesn't shy away from the supernatural, but intertwines it with the psychological to produce a richly rewarding read. Amy is a typical teenager -- imperfect and challenging -- whose mother died when she was a child. She lives with Oswald, her controlling father, in a newly renovated building, Nazareth Hill. Strange things begin to occur. Amy realizes she was frightened by something she saw at Nazareth Hill as a child. Spurred by the discovery of an old Bible used as a diary by a former inhabitant, Amy seeks to discover the truth as her father becomes increasingly irrational. Nazareth Hill is a nasty place and it seems to infect Oswald with its evil. Campbell melds familial conflict with heart-stopping shocks and wraps it all up in a milieu of madness -- essentially dealing with themes that he has always used well in his writing -- but managing, with Nazareth Hill, to unite those themes into a masterwork of the macabre. -- Paula Guran

xwidget_42_Pact of the Fathers   Ramsey Campbell has long been acknowledged among those who know modern horror as a true master. Despite his critical success, he remains largely and unfortunately unknown to the mass audience. If given the chance, his latest novel--PACT OF THE FATHERS -- would probably win those masses over. It's a delicious updating of that venerable crowd-pleaser, the gothic novel. Whether dealing with the psychological or the supernatural, Campbell has endeared himself to horror fans with a convincing and chilling grimness. His realistic portrayals of the horrors of urban and personal disintegration force the reader to consider that which is too disturbing to consider. But, let's face it, this is not the stuff (usually) on which best-sellerdom is launched. With PACT OF THE FATHERS Campbell loses none of his literary touch, but abandons much of his trademark grimness in this gothic romp. He takes what is far from his strongest plot and turns it into a compelling page-turner keyed on winning characterization, deft dialogue, and the occasional surprise. Daniella Logan is the university-student daughter of film mogul Teddy Logan. Logan, an American, started his movie empire in England with a series of Hammer-type horror flicks. He later turned to "uplifting," crowd-pleasing dramas often derived from Biblical tales. Teddy dies suddenly in an automobile accident while driving under the influence of alcohol -- even though this is one bad habit Logan was never known to indulge. The evening after the funeral, Daniella visits her father's grave and discovers a group of black robed men arrayed it and performing some weird ritual. coverDaniella is a contemporary gothic heroine, of course, not some defenseless heiress locked up in a castle. Although she is an heiress of sorts, she's independent, spunky, intelligent, lovely, and a modern incarnation of Nancy Drew determined to discover the meaning of the assembly at the grave. She soon discovers other mysterious clues and determines to discover more. Before it's all over, Daniella -- in pursuit of a missing box, a similarly missing book, and answers about the grave-group -- has life-threatening encounters in the family mansion, discovers her potential inheritance may have been squandered by some poor financial judgment on her father's part (of course, should she die before attaining the proper age, there are other inheritors), is either avoided or ignored by the police and her father's circle of successful friends (the single helpful soul meets with extremely foul play), discovers a strange dagger at her father's grave, is threatened by a bunch of punk girls who hang out at the cemetery, and (back in that family mansion) has the dagger disappear on her, winds up in jail for assaulting a police officer, and is incarcerated against her will in an insane asylum. She also meets up with Mark, an independent, spunky, intelligent, handsome modern incarnation of -- well, not Ned Nickerson. Think Bob Woodward as a cool movie journalist rather than with a political beat. Sparks fly but are quickly doused when she learns his true identity. After a thrilling escape from one of her tangles, she flees to a Greek Island and takes refuge as the guest of the aging but still glamorous Nana Babouris. Teddy made her a star and Nana made Teddy a successful producer. Campbell inserts chapters concerning the island-sojourn in the midst of those with linear progression, thus heightening a sense of suspense. On the off-chance that Tor/Forge changes the cover copy that gives the book's main secret (although the title itself is something of a giveaway), I will go no further. (Although I suspect you and I would have figured it all out fairly early anyway.) Suffice to say the robed assemblage are indeed a wicked bunch and their supposedly ancient beliefs involve murderous suppression of the present. Okay, the plot is far from Campbell's strongest and PACT has more in common with Barbara Micheals/Elizabeth Peters or Daphne DuMaurier (and that's merely a comparison, not meant as disparagement to any of the three) than anything the author has done before -- and it's all marvelous. Daniella is delightful and you can't help but care about her. Moreover, the melodrama has enough real drama to carry a terrifying message: that humans can convince themselves of anything when it comes to satisfying their greed, even that their innocent victims -- since they are sacrificed with love -- go straight to paradise and the most sacred of relationships can be profaned. A Campbell novel is always a treat -- they just come in a variety of flavors. The nail-biting taste of psychochildkiller Hector Woollie in SILENT CHILDREN the haunting supernatural tang -- spiced with a sprinkling of social and domestic trauma -- of NAZARETH HILL, etc. PACT OF THE FATHERS is a bit more over-the-top of the boiling gothic pot than you (oh devoted reader of dark fiction) might expect from the author, but you'll find it a deliciously savory stew. And, with any luck, a larger audience will slurp it up, too. -- Paula Guran, originally appeared in Cemetery Dance #37

xwidget_38_Silent Children Many good writers could have made a decent thriller out of this plot: After his murders are discovered, a crazy child killer fakes death. Successfully disguised, he returns even more demented than ever and soon two more children disappear. In the hands of Ramsey Campbell, however, these bare bones of plot are magnificently fleshed out into a masterpiece of psychological terror. There are moments of suspense that literally sent my pulse racing and caused my breath to catch. If Campbell can do that to a jaded old horror reviewer like me, well... Part of the genius lies in Campbell's ability to contrive and covey convincing characters. Leslie Ames, a divorced mum who works in a music shop, is practical, caring, sexy, maternal, and altogether believable. Her son, Ian, is an adolescent male with all the complexities, misfortunes, loneliness, and hope inherent in the age. They decide to move back into their home in the London suburb of Wembley, a domicile they deserted when the body of a little girl was discovered buried under the concrete of a remodeled kitchen floor. The murderer, a contractor named Hector Woollie, knowing this crime and other child-murders had been discovered, has supposedly drowned himself. Although the child's body is long gone, lurid press coverage -- written by wheelchair-bound reporter Verity Drew (a minor, but well-drawn character) -- has turned the house into a "house of horror" they can not sell. Jack Lamb, an American horror writer enters their lives as a boarder and supplies a romantic spark for Leslie as well as a strong male role model for Ian. Jack's novels inspire the boy to try his hand at horror writing. (An activity that just leads to more grief for Ian.) But we have a monster drawing nigh. Like all monsters, Woollie never sees himself in that role. He simply loves children and can't stand to see them abused by their parents. Woollie merely sings them to sleep, you see, to give them permanent peace. We never sympathize with Woollie, but we begin to see his point of view. That in itself is, of course, terrifying. Lamb is a horror writer who, for reasons we learn in the course of the book, questions whether he himself is innately evil. (At a climactic point, the villain murmurs, "Like horror do you? I'll show you horror.") In the case of Leslie and Ian, the world begins to condemn them as monsters, even though they are the victims. Is the world more horrific than the monsters it creates? Is fictional horror somehow as harmful as real horror? Can situations implicate us in evil? Is anyone truly innocent? As with most of his work, Campbell asks higher questions and delves into deeper levels: ultimately, that's what sets the master writer above the hack. SILENT CHILDREN is half gone by the time anyone is put in real physical jeopardy. When it happens, the victim is Charlotte, the daughter of Ian's father's new wife Hilene. (More multidimensional supporting characters.) She goes missing and Ian stumbles upon her and her captor. He must use all his wits and considerable imagination to try to keep them both alive. Another cliche? Not with Campbell. There are no comic-book heroics here. Just real kids in real danger and suspense so thick you can smell it. And in the end? As one character discovers: "Life wasn't a story unless you made it into one." Which is just what Campbell does, and does so magnificently.   xwidget_39_Indigo Any artist will tell you there are seven colors of the spectrum. A physicist, however, will explain there are only six colors in the spectrum. Indigo does not exist. Look for it. You'll find blues and violets. Where is the fugitive color? Maybe it DOES exist, but can only be seen if you know how to look for it. Graham Joyce takes this idea and turns it into a fascinatingly original dark surrealistic fantasy thriller. (Try putting that label on a spine.) Jack Chambers, an ex-bobby who now is a London process server, travels to Chicago to execute his father's will. Wealthy, manipulative, eccentric, and hated by his son, Tim Chambers has left a manuscript, INVISIBILITY, A MANUAL OF LIGHT, that Jack must publish. The paternal Chambers believed indigo exists -- as a color, a door of perception, and the pathway to invisibility; his book is a guide to finding it. Jack will be well-rewarded for his execution of this and other provisions of the will, but the most of the estate will go to his half-sister, Louise, and a mysterious artist, Natalie Shearer. Jack is immediately incestuously attracted to Louise and the sexual tension is intense. They eventually travel to Rome in order to find Natalie and sell a house there. When Louise returns to Chicago, Natalie -- an ex-lover of Tim's -- relieves Jack's pent-up libidinal frustration as they enter into an odd affair dominated by the search for indigo. Murder and further intrigue intrude as well. Joyce provides the entire self-training manual and it's convincing enough that readers will find themselves wondering if they, too, can discover the fugitive indigo. Will Jack find it? Are there invisible forces at work? Will forbidden love become acceptable for the sibling soul mates? INDIGO, propelled by its rich atmosphere rather than action, is as seductive and beguiling as its premise.   xwidget_41_DeadTimes The year is 1825 and 110-year-old Mae Johnson, the offspring of a Caucasian trapper and the only daughter of a Hopi snakepriest, makes a deal with the devil that gives her eight additional lives. Not that they are particularly happy or long lives. After all, we are dealing with the Dark One here. She first becomes Rachel, a young woman who died in childbirth in 1691 and winds up involved in the Salem witch trials. Myra, a murdered black woman in 1943 Louisiana is her next life and Mae/Myra and she's possessed by the need to find her own murderer Navarro bogs down a bit when she takes Mae into her next two lives/deaths involving vampires in the year 1585. As Nathan Carter, a black man in 1961, Mae must deal with racism then is reborn in the same year as a white racist. Next stop is in the body of Will, a twenty-something 1986 Chicago yuppie afflicted with AIDS. Her eighth life is that of a murdered L.A.street whore, Perdita. As long as you can accept deals with demons, Indian curses, and that a woman born in the wilderness in 1715 can instantly adapt to such varied situations, DEADTIMES is a entertaining read. Mae, in whatever personification, faces the dark cruelty humans inflict on one another time and again and Navarro effectively conveys that horror. Only when she leaves this motif and introduces melodramatic pseudo-medieval supernatural evil does she falter. Otherwise, it is a genuine page-turner.