It’s the off-season in the seaside resort town of Blackpool, where Tommy never imagined he would return. His relationship has broken down, so he returns home to keep an eye on his widowed father. While counting down the hours before attending the funeral of a well-loved friend, a mysterious group turns up on the seafront. One by one, the locals are entranced by their presence until Tommy and his father can no longer resist the allure.

Tommy soon discovers a secret desire his father has been harbouring for his entire life.

A story of what it means to be family with a light touch of magic and healing.

A quiet, wonderful, eerie addition to Wild Hunt Books’ outstanding “Northern Weird Project,” Jodie Robins’ “The Off-Season,” is a novella that reminds us to live in the present. With the backdrop of Blackpool (the most charmingly bedraggled seaside town in Britain) during, funnily enough, the off season, Robins’ writing is dripping with a distinctly northern ennui and a postcard melancholy. Gorgeously and mindfully written, “The Off-Season,” says a lot, despite being very little, and like this reviewer,  is oh so Northern. With some masterful character work, and an atmosphere so vivid you can almost smell the vinegar, this series continues to delight me.

We follow Tommy who moved back to Blackpool to be with his father Al. A tourist hotspot in the summer months, once the Big One closes for the off-season and the weather turns things are quiet. The morning of Joe’s funeral, Tommy and Al are in Pat’s cafe, along with David and Mark, Alicia, and B&B owners, Sheila and George. The frosty atmosphere, in anticipation of what will undeniably be a somber affair, shifts however when the charabanc appears, and out of it hop a strange group indeed. 

There was a particular thrill for me in the pages of “The Off-Season,” considering I have personally been jostled senseless by “The Big Dipper,” and had the shit scared out of me by the haunted house next to the entrance. That being said, for the bulk of the novella the Blackpool Robins writes about is one that most will find alien. A Blackpool not of hen dos and hot dogs but of peeling paint and shuttered buildings. There’s a real bleakness in the opening scene, where we meet the clearly rather bored cast. A coastal malaise, a drabness that radiates off of the page, a weariness and tedium within each of the characters during the off-season. This is however quickly juxtaposed by an almost jarring vibrancy, noise and lights and performance. Robins’ command of setting is genius, and almost puppeteer-like, twisting and sagging and shimmering and pivoting. 

Of course that’s something that refers directly to the title, and the big metaphor. What I took from this novella is that we are stuck in the present, so we may as well live in it. “The Off-Season,” reminded me that all good things, take the on-season, or relationships, or anything really, must come to an end- and that’s not necessarily a pessimistic message, but a reminder to appreciate what I have now, dance in the rain instead of waiting for the sun- resist the tide. YOLO, as I believe they say. 

A story that is reassuring and sinister in equal measure, depending perhaps upon how you’re feeling on the day, Jodie Robins’ “The Off-Season,” is a must read. Delightfully strange and strangely tender- it sure is weird up North.

Sixteen-year-old Harper has decided to run away from home after she has another blow-out argument with her mother. However, her two best friends, little sister, and ex-boyfriend all stop her from hitchhiking her way up Route 80 in Wyoming by joining her on an intervention disguised as a road trip. What they don’t realize is that Harper has been marked by a very unique serial killer who’s been trolling the highway for the past three years, and now the killer is after all of them in this fast-paced and deadly chase novel that will have your heart racing well above the speed limit as the interstate becomes a graveyard.

An oily, high-velocity serial-killer novel that reeks of burnt rubber, transmission fluid and… cinnamon, “Killer on the Road,” is a blood-slicked fast-paced chase through Wyoming. A gritty road-side story in which things go from bad to worse to worse again, “Killer on The Road,” features a stellar (really quite charismatic) antagonist, an awkward but tender dynamic between its two leads, and a whole bunch of angry truckers. With Stephen putting pedal to the metal (with a full tank) and throwing us into gear from the very first chapter, and a total page count of only 250, this one makes for an easy (yet stressful) read. Needless to say, I’m thrilled that this pulpy, poetic, propulsive pressure cooker of a novel is finally in print, ready for the out-stretched, grease-streaked hands of readers everywhere. 

We follow Harper, who after an argument with her mother has found herself wandering the side of Route 80, looking for a ride. Whilst she’s given warnings and a bottle of water, she has no luck until her pals Jam and Kissy, accompanied by Harper’s ex Dillon pull up in a borrowed car and insist she hop in. She does so, just before her mom drives past, and the group just about avoid being spotted. What they don’t clock is that Harper’s little sister, Meg, is now in their backseat. Harper’s straight-forward escape becomes messier yet however when, marked by “Bucketmouth,” the group are chased down the interstate, leaving bloody, flaming messes in their wake. 

“Killer On The Road,” is an excellent slasher, and for the most part, that’s down to Harper. She is an embodiment of teenage defiance and rebellion, fiercely protective of those that she loves, as well as quick with a quip- the perfect final girl. A slasher does, of course, need an iconic antagonist to go with, and Jones absolutely achieves this with “Bucketmouth.” As far as villains go, Bucketmouth is a unique one, for reasons (I’ll keep secret) beyond his charisma. It’s a slasher that is different enough to warrant being written, and of high enough quality to sit proudly next to SGJ’s revolutionary work in the sub-genre: whilst retaining the bones of a classic slasher, Jones has created something mean, lean, lethal and original.

It will come as no surprise to anyone even orbiting the horror genre that “Killer On The Road,” a slasher from Stephen Graham Jones, (the greatest thing that has happened to the slasher in recent memory) is pretty damn good, but that didn’t stop me from being shocked at just how damn good it was. It’s got grit and guts and I for one, wouldn’t mind a sequel…  High-horsepower, roadside Americana, vehicular horror, “Killer On The Road,” is a story you will feel in your bones and your brake pads, and a reminder as to why SGJ is our reigning slasher laureate.

It begins at night. People vanish from parks and city streets. Then in broad daylight, they’re dragged screaming into the woods, into the water, into the sky. People take refuge in their homes, but still the invisible creatures come, ripping people away from their horrorstruck loved ones. Spouses. Parents. Children. Nowhere is safe and no defense can stop them. Because nothing can save you from what you can’t see.

High school teacher John Calhoun loses his son the first night. A day later, they take his wife. For two months, he and his thirteen-year-old daughter manage to survive, but in the end, she is abducted too. In John’s darkest moment, he meets a motley group of survivors who have a secret: a near-fatal car accident has given one of them the ability to detect what normal human eyesight cannot.

The survivors believe they can replicate the brain injury that will enable them to see the creatures. To discover how they’re invading our world. To fight them. Desperate to save his family, John volunteers. And after the veil of invisibility is lifted, he and his new friends will risk everything to achieve the impossible: enter an alien world and bring their loved ones back.

A novel about aliens that allows us to glimpse the best and worst of humanity, Jonathan Janz’s “Veil,” is an action-packed, nerve-fraying, brain-sizzling, sci-fi horror triumph. I only started reading Janz about 5 months ago, and this is my fourth by him so far- it’s also the fourth time that he has blown me away, this time, literally to another dimension. I’d read the man’s shopping list. Gorgeous writing delivered alongside break-neck, whiplash-inducing pacing and one of my favourite protagonists, well ever, “Veil,” is a novel full of heart and love and hope- for people, for stories, for humanity to do better- and I for one would like to see not only a sequel (PLEASE Jonathan, make it so) but also a movie. Coming September 16th from Blackstone Publishing, “Veil,” is a smooth blend of King’s “The Mist,” with Lebbon’s “The Silence,” with Star Wars, and it is sure to frazzle the synapses of nerds everywhere. 

We follow John Calhoun, a biology teacher, a book-store owner, and most importantly, a father and a husband. These are relationships that are strained, with his wife Iris due to their finances, and on that fateful evening, with his son Sam because of the curfew he’s imposed upon him. These very domestic tensions give way to something far bigger however, when Sam storms off around a corner, and vanishes completely. As more and more people go missing, seemingly from the face of the earth, as lockdowns are imposed and conspiracies are created, it becomes increasingly unlikely that Sam has simply run away from home, and increasingly unlikely that he’s coming back anytime soon. 

The action scenes Janz writes are truly something else. Otherworldly (if you will) denotations of tension and character, of nerve and nerve-ending. A horrifying, cloying motorway scene reminiscent of that from C.J Leede’s “American Rapture,” a truly tense home invasion, and a very claustrophobic underground brawl, are just a few scenes that jumped out, amongst others. Janz’s pulse-pounding, propulsive writing that is as tightly choreographed as it is sweat-inducing, makes for a reading experience that is paced like a heart-attack and about as relaxing as a root canal… it’s just how I like it.

There’s one scene in particular I have to highlight though, which takes place in the parking lot outside Aldi. What struck me harder in this passage was not the inter-dimensional threat overhead but the humans beneath it. Having, like most, had to sit in my home and watch COVID-era videos of super-spreader protests against masks and vaccines, of people fighting over toilet roll and bashing each other with cans of food, this chapter in particular, clearly shaded by that same experience, horrified me the most. The grotesque selfishness that blooms when humans are cornered and unchecked, and the self-interested acts of many of the characters, really does hold up a mirror, and what’s reflected in it, at times seems far more monstrous than any alien invader.

That’s not to say that the alien invaders are not absolutely terrifying too. In the first half of the novel Janz does something genius. King did it in “The Mist,” and Malerman did it in “Bird Box,” and that’s withholding the visual element. Yup, the aliens are invisible. Having people abducted, snatched off of the ground, is deeply scary anyway, especially for our protagonist as a father, but when the only inclination that this is coming is a thrumming, vibrating sound, and a nasty smell, well that’s a whole bunch scarier. The reader is forced to fill in the blanks, populate the void, with our imaginations, and when the curtain, or indeed the veil, is pulled back- it is of course far ghastlier than we thought. 

What I fear I’ve done is presented this book to you as one that is about inter-dimensional kidnappings and the failings of humanity, and whilst both of those things are apparent in “Veil,” as I suggested in my introduction, it’s a book with a beating, human heart at its core. John Calhoun is a wonderful man, a wonderful dad and a wonderful protagonist, flawed, human, but unwaveringly decent. With explicit references to his love of King and “Providence,” by Caroline Kepnes (which I, along with the majority of readers certainly appreciated) I can’t help but wonder if this character is so well-developed and fleshed-out, because… John is Janz. John and the gaggle of good guys he befriends serve as a reminder that amongst the selfish and uneducated, there is such greatness within the human race, and that we are right to expect far better from it. 

A truly masterful novel, that is about what it is to endure as a father and a human being, Jonathan Janz has yet again demonstrated that he can write just about anything. I feel it’s high time we let him write just everything. Novels, manifestos… screenplays. Somebody call Hollywood.

They’re feeding on you too.

A father returns from serving in Vietnam with a strange and terrifying addiction; a man removes something horrifying from his fireplace, and becomes desperate to return it; and a right-wing news channel has its hooks in people in more ways than one.

From department store Santas to ghost boyfriends and salamander-worshipping nuns; from the claustrophobia of the Covid-19 pandemic to small-town Chesapeake USA, Clay McLeod Chapman takes universal fears of parenthood, addiction and political divisions and makes them uniquely his own.

Packed full of humanity, humour and above all, relentless creeping dread, Acquired Taste is a timely descent into the mind of one of modern horror’s finest authors.

You can only come out with so many amazing songs, or indeed write so many outstanding short stories, before it’s time for a “best of.” Clay McLeod Chapman’s “Acquired Taste,” which could alternatively have been called “CLAY GOLD,” or “NOW that’s what I call Clay McLeod Chapman,” is just that. A bloody, minor-key mixtape of the greatest hits, from one of the greatest voices in horror, this collection was absolutely “my jam.” It releases September 9th from Titan Books, and in the meanwhile dear reader my advice is to avoid weird-looking marshmallows, buy your breast pumps brand new, do not under any circumstances put your tongue anywhere near an axolotl, and put your pre-order for this one in now.

Eclectic does not quite encapsulate “Acquired Taste.” Absurd in some areas, with demon hammers and salamander worshipping nuns, whilst being truly vile in others, I’d be delighted to talk you through a few of my highlights.

I’d like to start with two that were already favourites if that’s quite alright with you. “Baby Carrots,” and “Knockoffs,” were both initially released as “Chapman Chapbooks,” with Shortwave in 2023. If you have a real hankering for them right this second, you can order them here and here respectively. “Baby Carrots,” follows a narrator who is not haunted only by his imminent separation from his wife Emma but also by a bag of baby carrots- his son’s favourite snack. Whilst I was once partial to the little guys, especially when dipped in hummus, Chapman’s descriptions of them writhing and slithering (yup, mhm) have truly put me off- I have been a baby carrot celibate for the past few months. 

“Knockoffs,” is arguably better yet. If you look deep and hard enough, beneath the tie-dye, it offers excellent commentary upon the internet and consumerism and the toxic symbiosis between the two. It follows an infestation of “Tubby Wubbys,” who wreak havoc upon our narrator, and his home- which becomes ground zero for a neighbourhood-wide plush and plastic pandemonium. I’m afraid if you’re a Labubu owner, you may be particularly eager to jettison it into the nearest incinerator. Both stories are silly and strange, but also, surprisingly insightful, and I’m hugely excited that they’re being republished here so that more hungry, terrified eyeballs can be roved over them. 

Whilst those two happen to be heavy on the charm in addition to the horror, let me assure you, many of these stories have a distinct nastiness to them. In his collection “The Poorly Made and Other Things,” Sam Rebelein has a story called “10PM on the Southbound 6,” which I believe, in a moment of polite understatement, I called “completely uncalled for,” and “undeniably foul.” These very same feelings resurfaced when I read “Pick of the litter,” in which our narrator describes the scene at a playground. All is well until the punchline (that can only be described as CRUEL Clay McLeod Chapman) is delivered. I still loved it. The same could be said about “Posterboard,” (a story that to my knowledge is brand spanking new) in which we read from the perspective of somebody attending a rally. Whilst commentary on obsessive ideological passion and hyper-partisanship were expected, its conclusion was certainly not. More devious work. 

Fans of “Wake Up and Open Your Eyes,” (which I’m assuming is everyone who has read it right?) will be delighted or disturbed to learn that the nightmare did not actually begin with a voice mail to Noah Fairchild. It started way earlier, with a short story called “The Spew of News,” published originally in Andrew Cull and Gabino Iglesias’ “FOUND,” in 2022. The beginnings of what turned out to be an excellent novel are hardly humble, but fascinating to read in retrospect. The themes of political division, media rot, and ideological cannibalism remain, (as well as the excellently named “Fax News,”) but this time the horrors that unfurl are shorter and distinctly more Cronenbergian- as well as inflicted upon an unnamed narrator.

As much as I’d love to gush more and spoil each story one by one, nobody wants that, so some quick fire favourites it is then… Emily C. Hughes described “Debridement,” as one of the most upsetting short stories she has ever encountered in her life, in an episode of Robb Olson’s “The ARC Party,” and I’m inclined to agree. “Hermit,” is like a sinister crustacean-centred “Ratatouille,” that made my skin crawl. “Nathan Ballingrud’s Haunted Horror Recs,” is the best written inside joke I’ve ever read, I’m now quite scared of Nathan Ballingrud. “Our Summer in the Pit,” is a kids on bikes “Stig of the dump,” meets “The Troop,” gnarly body horror that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. 

Ranging from ear-collecting serial killers to comic book demons, each of these 25 stories, like the rest of his body of work, was unmistakably written by Clay McLeod Chapman. Twisted, tender, deranged, Chapman has a singular voice that is strange and weird and beautiful, and does not falter throughout. What I suppose I’m trying to say, dear reader, is that, truly, earnestly, it is a privilege to be a horror reader who exists at the same time Chapman is writing. Go forth and acquire taste.

Birdie lost everything when her son died. Now, on track to rebuild her life, she has to evade her abusive partner Russ’s rage and manipulations while also worrying about a home-invading serial killer that has descended on her community. Told through multiple POVs, from a decomposing murder victim to Birdie’s day-to-day battle with domestic violence and grief to the horrific crimes of the killer, Shoot Me in the Face on a Beautiful Day will shock, disgust, and break your heart as the dark secrets unfold and Birdie does whatever she feels is necessary to protect the ones she loves. ​

Emma E. Murray is one to watch. Her second, excellently named, novel “Shoot Me In The Face on a Beautiful Day,” is yet another sickening, but beautifully done, piece of work, and further evidence that she is carving out her own bloody, exquisite space in the genre. Raw and tender, and bruised and bleeding, in her latest, out August 26th from Apocalypse Party Press, Murray allows us to glimpse the psyche of the very worst humankind has to offer, and the woman who stays with him. A novel about abuse, desperation, devastation, and what people will endure for what they’re convinced is love and survival, just like her debut “Crushing Snails,” this is a piece that refuses moral binaries and revels in the deeply uncomfortable spaces between. Emma continues to wade deeper into the murky waters of transgressive fiction, and I plan on diving right in after: her writing is something I’m ready to drown in.

We follow Bernadette or Birdie whose content family life crumbles in an instant. When she hit rock bottom, grieving a child and the wreck of her marriage, it was Russ who was waiting to pick her up. The man has a temper, and the lows are low, but the highs? He’s steady, attentive, attractive, and always there. Apart from when he storms off after an argument, only returning in the early hours. But still. Her friend Juliana seems to see something that Birdie can’t, something more sinister than a little hot-headedness and jealousy, and when a police sketch for a rapist and murderer, with Russ’ cold blue eyes begins to circulate, she’s quick to clarify her position- but Birdie, of course, knows better. 

There’s a lot going on. We are given the genuinely distressing perspectives of various women targeted and attacked, most in their own homes. The truly unimaginable horror that is endured, and repeated violations of the sanctity of the home, a refuge, and against the body, create an element of real, explicit horror.

 The bulk of the story follows Birdie and her relationship with Russ, which is in many ways much harder to read. I’d be lying to you if I said that this element of the story isn’t repetitive. It’s quite literally, and deliberately, a pattern of conflict and forgiveness, in which, each time, there is greater violence, and then greater justification and faster reconciliation. An up-close, intimate examination of a love that is corrosive and confusing and consuming, this element of the story is deeply upsetting, and is written in a way that can only be lived in.

Finally, perhaps more interestingly we read the lament of a decaying body, waiting to be found, longing for closure and grief- it’s something a little different, and is where the bulk of the most viscerally repulsive and unapologetic horror lies. Body horror aside, it’s also an examination of how unanswered questions can haunt, and a literalisation of how the female body is objectified, disrespected and becomes significant only when cold.

The three strands intertwine into a gnarled, complicated, bloody mess. An emotional, physical and structural anatomy of violence, with one man and its centre. Murray highlights just how difficult it is to break from a cycle of abuse, how so often women are spat at and catcalled and stalked, allegations that nobody takes seriously until it’s far too late, and exactly why so many would choose the damn bear every time. 

Emma E. Murray continues to astonish with the caustic, exquisite literature she produces, and “Shoot Me In The Face on a Beautiful Day,” is a searing, worthy addition to her remarkable body of work. An uncomfortable, and limit-pushing but important, gorgeously-written, viscerally-felt read, I am in a constant state of craving whatever Emma is putting out next- and you should be too. 

Captain Evangeline Coarse is halfway through her journey home from war when her ship loses power and she’s left floating in the dark. Now, she must find a way to survive not only the cold loneliness of space, but also the maddening stink of one hundred thousand war-corpses in the hold. 

I’ll level with you, having read both “Edenville,” and “The Poorly Made and Other Things,” by Rebelein, I went into “MEATSHIP,” aware it would probably be a little weird. It’s also called “MEATSHIP,” which felt like at least a subtle indication that what was to come might be unhinged. Maybe that’s just me. Even with my expectations primed, Sam found a way to once again frazzle my brain in the most gloriously foul way, with just how absurd this rotten, bio-mechanically nauseating gem of a story is. It packs a cosmic punch and an other-wordly stink. A smelly sci-fi horror that can only be described as truly, deeply strange, “MEATSHIP,” does a lot in its slim page count, commenting on how not to do parenthood, legacy and the emptiness of space. Rapture Publishing are putting this one out June 24th, and you’d be a fool not to treat yourself, and order it here. 

I’ll tell you a little about the plot, although I have to say, if you’re not already sold… because it’s a sci-fi horror called “MEATSHIP,” (one word, all caps of course) then you’re probably not the implied reader. It’s exactly as surreal and squelchy as it sounds.  We follow Captain Evangeline Coarse who is flying the WBMC CHARRON during the war with the Far-Giants. You’re following right? Her role as the captain of a death ferry is essentially to return human corpses back home, which sounds grim but rather noble and rewarding… until something goes wrong, the lights go out, and the dead bodies in the hold start to decompose. 

As I said, this is a story with a whole miasma (if you will) of good stuff packed into it. There’s a whole lot of meat on its bones. There’s pointed commentary on the atrocity of war- the government sucks, patriots die, nothing is resolved- even on an intergalactic scale. Beyond the warfront it discusses the pressures exerted upon us by parents, and the detrimental effects that can have in trapping people in careers they hate, corroding their self-worth and creating ludicrously high standards. It also highlights that appearances aren’t always what they seem, and that often truths are sinister. But amidst all that unpleasantness, it goes to show that we as individuals control our own fate, and we can end up on the right side of history, should we choose to be. 

I haven’t been able to smell anything since I got COVID nearly 5 years ago. I’d like to personally thank Sam Rebelein for the realisation that should I ever find myself upon a space ship of decomposing bodies, I am uniquely suited to survival. Silver lining. I digress. Truly an unforgettable read, if you’re looking for something short and full of stink, something potent and pungent in equal measure, hold your breath, and dive into “MEATSHIP.”

Private Cyril Bagger has managed to survive the unspeakable horrors of the Great War through his wits and deception, swindling fellow soldiers at every opportunity. But his survival instincts are put to the ultimate test when he and four other grunts are given a deadly mission: venture into the perilous No Man’s Land to euthanize a wounded comrade.

What they find amid the ruined battlefield, however, is not a man in need of mercy but a fallen angel, seemingly struck down by artillery fire. This celestial being may hold the key to ending the brutal conflict, but only if the soldiers can suppress their individual desires and work together. As jealousy, greed, and paranoia take hold, the group is torn apart by their inner demons, threatening to turn their angelic encounter into a descent into hell.

I often talk about the first line of the books I read, because first impressions are important, and I’m here to tell you that the first sentence of Daniel Kraus’ “Angel Down,” is particularly memorable, as it’s also the last, and even then is incomplete, not unfinished or forgotten, but never-ending, 

and, let me tell you, 45 seconds into trying to write even this one review as a continuous sentence (some completely unnecessary and self-flagellating homage) that what Kraus has done is quite the feat, and I’m aware you’d perhaps like to know what the damn thing is about, or the themes, and that will come later (albeit with significant grammatical difficulty) but what you really need to know right now is that “Angel Down,” is the most literarily ambitious, beautiful, biblical, wholly unholy, horrifying torrent of cosmos and violence and militarised trauma that I’ve ever had the simultaneous joy and horror of laying my eyeballs on, and that they nearly melted in my sockets, impressive doesn’t cut it, and if you are looking for something new and different and truly repulsive, but so full of introspection, “Angel Down,” is indeed the book for you- it’s out July 29th from Titan in the UK (thank you for my ARC) and Atria Books in the US, and it’s a poetic obliteration that you should surrender yourself to,

and yes I’m really keeping going with this, so buckle in, we follow Private Civil Bagger during The First World War, who along with rest of the dregs of his division, are sent to stop the mysterious shriek coming from no-mans-land, and what they find is beyond comprehension- not the wounded soldier or flaming goner that they anticipated, but a fallen angel, and of course the group’s first priority is to transport her to safety (rather than the decidedly more straightforward bullet through the head or slit throat they anticipated) and yet despite this seemly good-natured act, each of the men also has an unwavering need, a real selfishness, vying for the creature’s attention and adoration and possession, perhaps even going insane for it, and not one of them is ready to meet God, especially in the mud, 

and of course war and conflict is a perennial stain ripe for critique, yet “Angel Down,” does not care for military manoeuvres or eradicating the Nazis so much as it does for human nature more broadly- it’s less about the conflict itself and more about the people in it, their inherently flawed nature, their cowardice, their selfishness, their utter scumbaggery,

and really with all this in mind, is it any wonder that despite the atrocities of The First World War, that we proceeded to get ourselves into another only twenty years down the line, a vicious cycle of bloodshed and loss and trauma that the novel reflects grammatically and structurally too, the seemingly endless nature of human conflict reflected in the single looping sentence that is “Angel Down,” in its entirety, 

and yet that rather pessimistic but well-earned view of human nature is perhaps offset slightly by the quiet faith Kraus seems to have, not in humanity at large, but in you, the reader, the person holding the book, a belief in the intelligence, open-mindedness and perseverance of those who pick up this novel, because whilst I hate to assume (it makes an ass of u and me) I feel pretty comfortable telling you that this isn’t a reading experience you’ll have had before, and it may take you a moment to adjust to- I know it did me, but once you manage to sync yourself with it, and you will, you’re swept into something truly magical, that transcends the traditional reading experience entirely, with prose to die for, some truly, jarringly visceral imagery, blood, wings, mud, fire and that propulsive, polyphonic structure, that single breath that carries you from the first page to the last,

and I suppose before I take myself off to wallow in the inevitable, impending bookish hangover, I should implore you to not be deterred by my rambling stream of consciousness, this ridiculous, delirious string of words I’ve decided to spew onto the internet on a Thursday afternoon, because Kraus’ “Angel Down,” is not only more coherent and deliberate, but it has also unmade me in a way that words can’t express, it just about razed me: scorched a hole in my centre and left something humming there- it’s quite the revelation.

In 2008, a serial killer known as the Cajun Cannibal brutally murders and consumes the flesh of eight people in a small Louisiana parish. With law enforcement closing in on him, he takes his own life before he can face the inside of a courtroom.

Ten years later, when forensic psychiatrist Dr. Vincent Blackburn discovers he and the Cajun Cannibal are more closely connected than he realized, he begins a case study into the sociopathy behind the killer’s grisly deeds, only to find a torrent of small town politics, interracial family dynamics, and whispers of the supernatural muddying once clear waters. 

When copycat killings start anew, Vincent is thrust into the center of it all, putting his life, his family, and his own sanity at risk. As monsters—both figurative and literal—begin to manifest, Vincent discovers that untangling the truth from the lies is only the beginning of his nightmare.

A southern-fried, speculative sensation, N.L Lavin and Hunter Burke’s “Of Flesh and Blood,” is a well-seasoned slab of Cajun horror, simmered low and slow in the Louisiana heat. This horrifying gumbo of small town politics, local folklore and Acadian culture is of course, essential reading irrespective of whether you’re down on the bayou, or, like yours truly, a completely oblivious and woefully under-qualified Brit nearly 5000 miles away, whose point of reference is seafood boil and hot sauce. A novel that reads like true crime “Of Flesh and Blood,” is brooding and blistering and who’d have guessed, bloody. Complete with a complex cast of characters, and more twists than a bowl of fusilli in a tornado, this sinewy triumph (along with the Cajun Cannibal, so watch yourself) is out June 10th from Titan in the UK (thank you for my ARC) and Crooked Lane Books in the US.

We follow Dr. Vincent Blackburn, a psychiatrist studying the murders of the infamous Henri Judice, better known to the public and tabloids as the Cajun Cannibal, in 2008, 10 years down the line. His research raises a whole host of pressing questions. How was Judice able to kill so many, for so long? How were so many signs missed by the local sheriff’s department? In fact, the more Blackburn looks into it, the flimsier concrete answers become. Unclear motives. Muddled timings. Tampered evidence. No longer believing the narrative that Judice was a psychopath, Blackburn’s own mental (and physical) health is put in jeopardy. Was he really a cold-blooded monster? Or just a convenient one? Could it really be that the world is wrong about the identity of the Cajun Cannibal… or is blood thicker than water?

“Of Flesh and Blood,” drags the reader boots first into this tangle between academia and ancestry. It’s a situation that can only be described as awkward. Blackburn initially approaches the case of the Cajun Cannibal with a textbook detachment, the way one might examine a specimen under glass, having been trained to reduce trauma to neat conclusions and thesis topics. Theory quickly crumbles under the weight of blood however, and what he finds is not easily filed away. It’s this that makes “Of Flesh and Blood,” so much more than a piece of crime fiction with horror trappings. An autopsy of not just the mind of an *alleged* killer, but the place he grew up in and the family that raised him, Lavin and Burke discuss small town trauma, politics and memory, and various other flaws beneath that Southern charm.

The road that Burke and Lavin veer down is not simply unexpected but unpaved, unlit and flanked by dense South Louisianan woodland. What starts as a tightly wound, procedurally uneasy thriller, gradually unfurls into something far stranger and older. There’s a central piece of regional folklore I wasn’t familiar with, and am now deeply obsessed with. This element is expertly deployed, not with a crash of thunder but a subtlety and restraint that makes it less of a shocking revelation and more of a slow, inevitable unearthing- despite its fantastical nature. And the ending? “Of Flesh and Blood,” will leave you pacing, and channelling your inner True Detective. Masterfully done. 

If you like a calm, tidy reading experience, in which every thread is neatly tied and no blood gets on the carpet, “Of Flesh and Blood,” is simply not the book for you. If however you prefer your fiction fried dark, seasoned heavy and served with a side of the paranormal, you’re in for one hell of a treat. A narrative that writhes and twists and bites, and offers not one single easy answer, if you come armed with a corkboard, some red string and a strong stomach, you’re guaranteed to have a wonderful time. Compulsive, confounding and completely unforgettable, it’s safe to say that the weekend (I couldn’t help but binge-read) I spent in the bayou was one well spent.

A mysterious stranger shows up at Riccardo’s apartment with some news: his grandmother Perihan has died, and Riccardo has inherited her villa in Milan along with her famed butterfly collection.

The struggling writer is out of options. He’s hoping the change of scenery in Milan will inspire him, and maybe there will be some money to keep him afloat. But Perihan’s house isn’t as opulent as he remembers. The butterflies pinned in their glass cases seem more ominous than artful. Perihan’s group of mysterious old friends is constantly lurking. And there’s something wrong in the greenhouse.

As Riccardo explores the decrepit estate, he stumbles upon Perihan’s diary, which might hold the key to her mysterious death. Or at least give him the inspiration he needs to finish his manuscript.

But he might not survive long enough to write it.

A decadent and dazzling gothic novel with a cover just as sumptuous as its prose, Yiğit Turhan’s “Their Monstrous Hearts,” is as rich in atmosphere as it is full of allure… and butterflies. Brimming with secrecy, style and a little magic, this reads like both a love letter to the traditional gothic, yet also something completely of its own brand. It’s confident, unfolds with the elegance of a fan, and cuts as deep as the claw-tipped Schiaparelli velvet gloves it references. Thank you very kindly to Lane Heymont and The Tobias Literary Agency for sending this one to me, as well as for the complementary jumpscare. This one is already out in the world, from Mira Books.

We follow Riccardo, an author living in Paris, who following the undeniable success of a short story has found himself abandoned by the muse and suffering with a severe case of writer’s block. With that comes overdue bills and many, many messages from an increasingly exasperated agent. With stress mounting and motivation fading, the strange man enters his life at exactly the right time. He tells him that his mostly-estranged grandmother Perihan has passed away, he has a funeral to attend, and a villa in Italy with his name on it. That night he boards a train. What he discovers in Milan, a secret manuscript, a suspicious circle of friends, a bloody history, among other things, changes his life irreparably. 

There’s various negative reviews that discuss the prose of this novel, and whilst I agree it’s a talking point, there’s a few reasons why I thought it worked beautifully. We read primarily from the third person perspective of Riccardo. When he discovers the manuscript written by his grandmother, we also get Perihan’s first person recount, set against the brocade backdrop of Italian high society. Riccardo’s voice does occasionally feel a little staccato and stunted compared to the opulence of his grandmother’s narrative. His prose feels almost self-conscious, which actually (perhaps I’m simply reading into this too much) feels apt for a struggling writer. The dichotomy created between the differing perspectives is one I noticed, and more than anything else appreciated. It said a lot about the characters themselves, particularly Perihan who is as glamorous as she is mysterious. It’s also worth noting that this is Turhan’s first novel written in English. The writing is lush now, and I look forward to seeing it get dreamier still. 

Horror doesn’t always outright petrify, and “Their Monstrous Hearts,” certainly doesn’t. Turhan doesn’t so much turn to literary jumpscares (have you watched my TBRcon panel on those yet by the way?) or graphic violence, instead excelling in the slower, more seductive art of disquiet. It’s not frightening but unsettling. This is a novel that should hit all the right notes not just for lovers of the gothic, but fans of the fantastical and amateur sleuths, with its shifting perspectives, tension taut enough to pluck, and enchanting nature, all of which are delivered with a wink. Also, for anybody who has ever stared down the barrel of a blank word document. 

“Nobody ever suspects the butterfly.”

Previously, my only beef really was with moths, the dusty chaos agents they are, who throw themselves at my window when it gets dark, and worse, propel themselves right at my face when I’m scrolling post-lights-out. Now I’ll be side-eyeing butterflies too (although I suppose they’re just non-goth moths). I digress. “Their Monstrous Hearts,” reads like satin, and flows like silk until its sickening denouement. A velvet wrapped dagger of novel that is beautiful yet bloody and elegant yet eerie, if you don’t want to take my word for it, take Dua Lipa’s. 

When a video depicting the brutal murder of a former classmate leaks online, Kylie Bennington’s—whose dreams of becoming a successful influencer remain frustratingly elusive—curiosity gets the better of her, leading to the discovery of an off-the-grid social media app called MonoLife. As it turns out, there are certain cryptic rules in the user agreement that must be adhered to, such as interacting with other users at least twice daily or risk losing it all…and never, ever speaking of MonoLife’s existence to non-users or risk dire consequences.

For this is a platform that primarily rewards the worst in human behavior, and which begins chipping away at Kylie’s sanity across post after post for an ever-increasing audience of immoral fans. Now Kylie’s going to find out just how far she’s willing to go on her unyielding rise to the top—even if that means coming face-to-face with the frightening and ruthless forces behind MonoLife, who see all from deep within the shadows…

“Feeders,” by Matt Serafini is a first person descent into digital delirium. It oozes with envy, paranoia and grotesquery. There’s really a lot that works: the voice is sharp, the concept timely, and there’s a nastiness pulsing beneath the surface that I think many horror readers will absolutely revel in- I know I did. It’s urgent, cynical and a little sickly, which is how I like it. That said, for me “Feeders,” flickered wildly between two extremes. At first, it felt indistinguishable from the ever-growing pile of social media horror novels I’ve already read this year (admittedly, that’s a “me” problem). Then, just as I’d decided it was a solid read, if not a little basic, we rerouted, changed course, and landed on some different planet. I like my horror to go down strange, dark paths, and whilst Serafini did go down one, in my opinion “Feeders,” got a little lost. Still, if you’re a sucker for stories about the horrors of technology, and happen to like feeling like you’ve taken bath salts when you’re reading them- this might be just your brand of unhinged. It’s weird.  Undeniably, it’s bold. And for some readers, it’s going to hit exactly the right nerve. It’s out today, May 20th, from Gallery Books.

“Feeders,” follows Kylie Bennington who is a relatively normal teen. Her friend Erin is a social media star, collabing with some of the industry’s biggest names and working with the some of the world’s greatest brands. As any teeanger would be, Kylie, with 4000 followers to her name, is a little bitter. As much as social media causes her to rage, it’s about worth it for the high that a few hundred likes can bring about, so when she hears about an exclusive new social media app called “MonoLife,” she’s eager to get onboard. The kind of content that succeeds on Monolife is not quite the same stuff that Erin goes viral for on Instagram, or really the kind of content that’s allowed on any social media app- aside from maybe Reddit. Kylie picks up on this, and is willing to conform. When she does, the reach she has and the rewards she reaps are limitless. 

When it comes to “Feeders,” and its commentary on social media, there’s a real nastiness I couldn’t help but admire. Serafini highlights that the internet doesn’t simply tolerate conflict and hatred and bile but rewards it. Cannibalism and animal abuse amongst a whole host of other unpleasantries (trigger warnings all around) don’t slip through the cracks, but are algorithmically encouraged. “Feeders,” suggests that virality and morality are not compatible, and I loved that about it. MonoLife brings out the worst in Kylie, some pretty standard messaging within technology horror, and proceeds to reward that. 

For me, social media horror is inherently grounded in reality, and thus, inherently scary. It’s knowing that the horrors I’m reading about are just a few clicks away, and that I share the internet with absolute psychos, like Kylie Bennington. However, when “Feeders,” detours into a full-blown fever-dreamish creature feature, I felt all of that tangibility, all that relatability and all of those horror seeds that Serafini so carefully planted, were dug back up again. In a story in which the platform itself was being represented as the monster, I really didn’t need more monsters. In what may have been an effort to differentiate itself in a sub-genre that is becoming more saturated, Serafini lost some of the resonance that it is integral to it, and that’s a shame. As much as I didn’t gel with this element, I know plenty of people did, and one thing this book never is, is boring. 

A novel that is arguably worth reading for the Katy Perry references alone, “Feeders,” whilst being electric in some areas, left me Hot N Cold in others.