Anna Alcott is desperate to have a family. But as she tries to balance her increasingly public life as an indie actress with a grueling IVF journey, she starts to suspect that someone is going to great lengths to make sure that never happens. Crucial medicines are lost. Appointments get swapped without her knowledge. Cryptic warnings have her jumping at shadows. And despite everything she’s gone through to make this pregnancy a reality, not even her husband is willing to believe that someone is playing twisted games with her.
Then her doctor tells her she’s had a miscarriage―except Anna’s convinced she’s still pregnant despite everything the grave-faced men around her claim. She can feel the baby moving inside her, can see the strain it’s taking on her weakening body. Vague warnings become direct threats as someone stalks her through the bleak ghost town of the snowy Hamptons. As her symptoms and sense of danger grow ever more horrifying, Anna can’t help but wonder what exactly she’s carrying inside of her…and why no one will listen when she says something is horribly, painfully wrong.
GRADE: A-
REVIEW:
Full disclosure, I’ve read many of Danielle Valentine’s YA novels (under the name Danielle Vega), her Merciless series being one of the most popular ones. So, I was curious what this author would do in an adult horror novel. I also was curious to read this because the new season of American Horror Story, a series that I really love and watch every year, is going to be based off of this book – and I wanted to read the book prior to viewing the series.
This book explores many things that deal with womanhood and motherhood, and the craziest thing is that what one would think are the horror elements, aren’t really as terrifying as the true elements of the novel. I think I was more horrified by the amount of physical pain and stress the protagonist submitted to during the IVF treatments than when she began having strange cravings (and when I say strange – the cravings are pretty brutal). The men in this novel are mostly trash – so it’s no surprise that they didn’t take any of Anna’s concerns about her body seriously.
This novel is full of twists and turns, and I liked the direction it went rather than going for the tired trope of “evil baby.” I am very curious to see how this book will be adapted in AHS: Delicate and hope that they keep Valentine’s powerful message.
I recommend this book to those who love feminist horror novels that subvert genre expectations.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Sourcebooks Landmark for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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“Seventy percent of the planet is water. Most of that water is deep ocean. The origin of everything. Less than 5 percent of the deep ocean is mapped. Humans know more about Mars. Anything could be down there. Therefore, everything is.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
Jay Gardiner has given himself a fool’s errand—to find the remains of his deceased father in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Monastery Beach. He knows it’s a long shot, but Jay feels it’s the only way for him to lift the weight of guilt he has carried since his dad’s death by suicide the previous year.
The dive begins well enough, but the sudden appearance of a giant squid puts Jay in very real jeopardy, made infinitely worse by the arrival of a sperm whale looking to feed. Suddenly, Jay is caught in the squid’s tentacles and drawn into the whale’s mouth where he is pulled into the first of its four stomachs. He quickly realizes he has only one hour before his oxygen tanks run out—one hour to defeat his demons and escape the belly of a whale.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I absolutely loved this book – which in a way almost felt like it was two novels in one. One novel is Jay’s battle to escape the various stomachs of the sperm whale he finds himself in, whilst the second novel is Jay’s guilt over his father’s suicide because the two always had a very difficult relationship that only got worse during his father’s cancer – and Jay spent his father’s last few months in life, not living with him or communicating with him. This novel runs against the clock as each chapter notes how much oxygen remains in Jay’s tank, and he’s got very little time to get back out of the whale and up on land before he dies. What I loved about this novel is that it had fast-paced short chapters so reading it was a breeze, but at the same time, it was rich with so many emotions. The reader can’t help but cheer Jay on, wanting him to be freed from the whale, but at the same time, you also hope that Jay can also be freed of his guilt. The novel explores both and I liked the way it ended. I won’t say anything more about it because I think you need to go into this novel blind and experience this journey with Jay.
I recommend this book if you love marine life adventures and character-driven thrillers. I love the ocean so this novel was right up my alley. I’d really love to see this become a film because it would make for an excellent survivalist thriller.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Atria and MTV Books for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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Hidden away in an old, dilapidated Victorian home, the Dresden witches have been making their prized candies for years. Their secret ingredient would make most people squeamish, but for Lollipop it’s just another typical day at home. Lolli spends her days making candies and longing for her classmate Stella. As her infatuation for Stella deepens, Lollipop begins to question her loyalty to her family. Will she choose love or will she do anything it takes to preserve the Dresden legacy at any costs? Does she have what it takes to be the next head witch or will her powers never be strong enough?
Stella Morris has recently moved to Arcana, California after a tragic incident involving her mother. Stella is both beautiful and popular, but she harbors a darkness in her that threatens to make her whole world come undone.
This coming-of-age queer romance is drenched in blood and sugar.
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“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was all those things.
“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t help but relax.”
It’s an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes pricked following another night without sleep. The head housekeeper was threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck and it would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hattie knew that, and she also knew she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him, and firing him would have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to placate him.
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”
“I hope so, but I’m very particular about the room. Can I tell you what I need?”
“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that was always handy. “Go ahead.”
How bad could it be? A woman the week before had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation—answer: no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.
She went above and beyond in her attempts to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.
“I’d like the room to have a mountain view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”
“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The ones at the front face the river.”
She relaxed slightly. So far, so straightforward.
“Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s important, don’t you agree?”
Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child, owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all. She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.
“Bedding is important.” She said what was expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.
It was mortifying to remember that her initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, because normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks falling from buildings, did they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t because they didn’t have a sense of humor.
She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did the police follow we’re sorry to have to tell you…with oops, we made a mistake.
After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d thanked them politely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a) half British and b) very much in shock.
When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two of her homemade cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who had just shattered her world in one short conversation.
She’d stared at the closed door for a full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a matter of minutes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.
Even though two years had passed, there were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excitement because he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.
I think we should get married…
I think we should start a family…
I think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Vermont…
They’d met in England during their final year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then two things had happened. Brent’s grandmother had died, leaving him a generous sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d lost Brent she’d tried to keep everything going the way he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even feel whole?
She realized that while she’d been indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”
“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen because I do struggle with overheating.”
“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be a problem.”
“And pink.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.”
Pink.
“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad and scribbled Help followed by four exclamation marks. She might have written something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you have a particular date in mind?”
“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”
Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.
Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.
“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”
“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”
“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.”
“There’s no way of getting a second window?”
“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before you make your choice if that would help.”
By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.
When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.
How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.
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Curious readers and fans of monsters and the macabre, get ready to bulk up your TBR piles! Sadie “Mother Horror” Hartmann has curated the best selection of modern horror books, including plenty of deep cuts. Indulge your heart’s darkest desires to be terrified, unsettled, disgusted, and heartbroken with stories that span everything from paranormal hauntings and creepy death cults to small-town terrors and apocalyptic disasters. Each recommendation includes a full synopsis as well as a quick overview of the book’s themes, style, and tone so you can narrow down your next read at a glance. Featuring a foreword by New York Times bestselling author Josh Malerman and five brand-new essays from rising voices in the genre, this illustrated reader’s guide is perfect for anyone who dares to delve into the dark.
GRADE: A+
REVIEW:
If you’re a horror enthusiast or just beginning to dip your feet into the genre, this book is the ultimate guide for it. I love that Hartmann doesn’t list books from famed horror authors that we all know about (ie. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Mary Shelley). But rather exalts and showcases newer horror authors, both traditionally published and indies. The book is broken down into sub-genres such as paranormal, human monsters, supernatural – etc., and within those sub-genres are sub-sub-genres such as coming of age, eco horror, body horror – etc. This is useful if you love a certain genre and sub-genre and want to find books in that area, so the organization of the guide itself is functional and easy. I also loved how each section highlighted an author and had them leave their personal recommendations of horror books they loved. But what really blew me away (apart from Hartmann’s expertise in the genre) is the beautiful, colorful pages – this is a very aesthetically pleasing book that I dare say could easily be used as a coffee book as well. With this guide in tow, it’s obvious that you’ll never run out of books to read – before the knife strikes!
A truly, comprehensive guide for horror books that will come in handy when you’re looking to read a book and can’t decide what else to read. But if you’re a mood reader such as myself, you can easily select a sub-genre and go to that section of the book and see what’s recommended. One thing is for certain, if you’re a book lover and horror lover, you can’t go wrong with this phenomenal guide.
*Thank you so much to the author and Page Street Publishing for the physical copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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Two days later, I’m standing outside the elementary school with my laptop in hand. I follow the directions from the Community House home page and walk along the school fence until I reach a narrow road. There it is: a two-story white building with a sign over the canopy at the entrance that says “Hatori Community House.”
I go through a glass door and see an old guy with bushy gray hair at the front desk. In the office behind him, a woman with a bandana sits at a desk writing something.
“Um, I’m here for the computer class,” I say to the old guy.
“Put your name down here. It’s in Meeting Room A.” He points at a folder on the countertop. A sheet of paper inside has a table with columns headed Name, Purpose of visit, Time of arrival and Time of departure.
Meeting Room A is on the ground floor. Going past the front desk to the lobby, I turn right and find it immediately. Through an open sliding door I can see two students sitting at long tables facing each other with their laptops open: a girl a bit older than me with soft wavy hair and an old guy with a square face.
The teacher turns out to be a woman, not a man. Ms. Gonno is probably in her fifties.
I go over and introduce myself. “Hello, my name is Tomoka Fujiki.”
She gives me a friendly smile. “Please, sit wherever you like.”
I choose to sit at the same table as the girl, but at the other end. She and the old guy are concentrating so hard on their own stuff they take no notice of me. I open up my laptop, which I’d already started up at home since I haven’t used it in ages and which took forever to boot. My fingers feel like bananas on the keyboard, probably because I only ever use a smartphone. I should probably do some practice in Word as well.
“Ms. Fujiki, you want to learn Excel, don’t you?” says Ms. Gonno, glancing down at my computer.
“Yes. But this computer doesn’t have Excel.”
She looks at my screen again and moves the mouse around a bit. “Yes it does. I’ll make a shortcut for you.”
A green icon with an X for Excel appears at the edge of the screen. No way! Excel has been hiding in my computer all along?
“I can see you’ve used Word, so I assume you have Office installed.”
I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about… But I did ask a friend at college to set up Word for me when I couldn’t figure it out for myself. Maybe that’s how it got in there. This is what happens when you leave stuff up to other people.
For the next two hours, I learn all about Excel. Ms. Gonno wanders between me and the other two but I get special attention, because I’m the newcomer, I suppose.
The most amazing thing I learn is how to perform addition by highlighting cells. Just press a key and bam! with one touch they all add up! It impresses me so much I can’t help cheering, which Ms. Gonno seems to find funny.
While practising as instructed, I overhear the conversation between Ms. Gonno and the other students. I get the impression they are regulars: the old guy is building a website about wildflowers, while the girl is setting up an online shop. I feel like such a waster. All the time I’ve been lazing around in my apartment doing nothing, not far away these two have been getting on with stuff—learning things! The more I think about it, the more pathetic it makes me feel.
When it’s nearly time to finish, Ms. Gonno says, “There’s no set textbook, but I’ll give you a list of recommended titles. Don’t restrict yourself to these, though. Have a browse in a library or bookshop and see what you can find for yourself that’s easy to follow.” She holds up a computer guide and smiles. “You might like to look in the library here in Community House.”
Library. What a nice-sounding word. So comforting. I feel like I’m a student again. Library… “Am I allowed to borrow books?”
“Yes, anybody who lives in the ward can borrow up to six books for two weeks. I think that’s the rule.”
Then the old guy calls for help and Ms. Gonno goes over to him. I make a note of the recommended titles and leave.
~
The library is also on the ground floor. I pass two meeting rooms and a Japanese-style room at the back of the building beside a small kitchen. The door is wide open with a sign on the wall that says “Library.” Rows and rows of bookshelves fill an area about the size of a classroom. A counter to the left of the entrance is marked “Checkouts and Returns.” Near the front counter a petite girl in a dark-blue apron is arranging paperbacks on a shelf.
Feeling shy, I approach her. “Excuse me, where are the books on computers?”
Her head jerks up and she blushes. She has huge eyes and hair tied back in a ponytail that swings behind her. She looks young enough to still be at high school. Her name tag says “Nozomi Morinaga.”
“Over here.” Still holding several paperbacks, Nozomi
Morinaga walks past a reading table and guides me to a large shelf against the wall. “If you need any recommendations, the librarian is in the reference corner.”
“Recommendations?”
“You tell her what you’re looking for, then she will do a search and give you recommendations.”
I can’t find any of the books Ms. Gonno recommended on the shelf. Maybe I should consult the librarian. Nozomi said she was at the back, so I make my way to the front desk, then look toward the rear. That’s when I notice a screen partition with a sign hanging from the ceiling that says “Reference.”
Heading over, I poke my head around the corner, and yikes! My eyes nearly jump out of their sockets. The librarian is huge… I mean, like, really huge. But huge as in big, not fat. She takes up the entire space between the L-shaped counter and the partition. Her skin is super pale—you can’t even see where her chin ends and her neck begins—and she is wearing a beige apron over an off-white, loose-knit cardigan. She reminds me of a polar bear curled up in a cave for winter. Her hair is twisted into a small bun right on top of her head, and she has a cool kanzashi hairpin spiked through her bun with three white flower tassels hanging from it. She is looking down at something, but I can’t see what exactly.
The name tag around her neck says “Sayuri Komachi.” Cute name.
I edge a bit closer and clear my throat. Ms. Komachi’s eyes roll up to look at me, without moving any other part of her body. The whites of her eyes are enormous. She’s stabbing a needle at something the size of a Ping-Pong ball balanced on a mat the size of a handkerchief. What is she doing? Putting a jinx on someone? I almost scream out loud.
“Ah…it’s, ah…it’s okay,” I manage to squeak, but all I want to do is turn tail and get away as fast as possible.
“What are you looking for?”
Her voice…it’s so weird… It nails my feet to the floor. As if it has physically grabbed hold of me somehow. But there’s a warmth in it that wraps itself around me, making me feel safe and secure, even when it comes from that unsmiling face.
What am I looking for? I’m looking for… A reason to work, something I’m good at—stuff like that. But I don’t think that’s the kind of answer she expects. “Um, I’m looking for books on how to use a computer.”
Ms. Komachi pulls a dark-orange box closer. I recognize the design of white flowers in a hexagon shape. It’s a box of Honeydome cookies. I love these. They’re dome-shaped, with a soft center, and made by Kuremiyado, a company that specializes in Western-style confectionery. They’re not exactly gourmet, but just a little bit special and not something you can just pick up in a convenience store.
When she lifts the lid, I see a small pair of scissors and some needles. She must be using an empty box for her sewing things. Ms. Komachi puts away her needle and ball, then stares at me.
“What do you want to do on the computer?”
“Excel, to begin with. Enough to tick the boxes on a skills checklist.”
“Skills checklist,” Ms. Komachi repeats.
“I’m thinking I might register on a career-change site. I’m not that happy with my current job.”
“What do you do?”
“Nothing great. Just selling ladies clothes in a general department store.”
Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to one side. The flower tassels on her hairpin shake and sparkle.
“Is being a sales assistant in a department store really not such a great job?”
I don’t know what to say. Ms. Komachi waits patiently for my reply.
“Well, I mean… Anybody can do it. It’s not like it was my dream job or anything I desperately wanted to do. I just kind of fell into it. But I live on my own, so I have to work to support myself.”
“You managed to find employment, you go to work every day and you can feed yourself. That’s a fine achievement.”
Nobody’s ever summed up my life in this way before. Her answer makes me want to cry. It’s as if she sees me, just as I am.
“But all I do to feed myself is buy stuff from the convenience store,” I blurt out clumsily, though I know that’s not what she really means by “feed yourself.”
Ms. Komachi’s head tilts to the other side. “Well, the motive doesn’t matter so much as wanting to learn something new. That’s a good attitude to have.”
She turns to the computer, places both hands on the keyboard and pauses. Then she begins typing, at amazing speed! Shoo‑tatatatata! Her fingers move in a blur and I nearly fall over myself in surprise.
Ta! She gives one final tap, then delicately lifts her wrists from the keyboard. Next moment, the printer springs into action.
“These should be suitable for a beginner on Excel.” Ms. Komachi hands me the sheet. A Step-by-Step Guide to Word and Excel, Excel for Beginners, Excel: Fast Efficient Notebooks, A Simple Introduction to Office. Then I notice, right at the bottom, a title that stands out.
Guri and Gura? I stare at the words. The kids’ picture book about two field mice, Guri and Gura?
“Oh, and this too.” Ms. Komachi swivels on her chair slightly as she reaches below the counter. I lean forward a bit more to sneak a look and see a wooden cabinet with five drawers. She opens the top one, which seems to be stuffed with soft, colorful objects, picks one out and hands it to me. “Here you are—this is for you.”
Automatically I hold out my palm and Ms. Komachi drops a lightweight object on to it. It is round and black, about the size of a large watch face and with a straight bit poking out. A frying pan?
The object in my hand is a felted frying pan with a tiny round clasp on the handle.
“Um, what’s this?”
“A bonus gift.”
“Bonus gift?”
“Yes, something fun, to go with the books.”
I stare at the frying pan…er, bonus gift. It is sort of cute.
Ms. Komachi opens the Honeydome box and takes out her needle and ball again. “Have you ever tried felting?”
“No. I’ve seen it on Twitter and stuff, though.”
She holds up her needle for me to see. The top is bent at a right angle for holding it, while the tip at the end has several tiny hooks sticking out.
“Felting is mysterious,” she says. “All you do is keep poking the needle at a ball of wool and it turns into a three-dimensional shape. You might think that you are simply poking randomly, and the strands are all tangled together, but there is a shape within that the needle will reveal.” She jabs roughly at the ball again.
There has to be a ton of felted things inside that drawer. Are they all bonus gifts to give away? But her attention is now completely focused on her hands, as if to say My job here as librarian is done.
When I return to the shelf of computer books, I find the recommended titles and choose two that seem easy enough to understand. But what about Guri and Gura? Maybe I should get that too. I read it many times when I was in kindergarten. I think I remember my mother reading it to me too. Why would Ms. Komachi recommend this book? Did she make a mistake?
The children’s picture books are in a space next to the window sectioned off by low bookshelves. It’s a shoes-off area covered with interlocking rubber floor mat tiles. When I enter and find myself surrounded by lots of cute picture books, I feel peaceful all of a sudden. Calmer, and more relaxed. There are three copies of Guri and Gura. I guess the library keeps multiple copies because it’s such a classic. Maybe I will borrow it… I mean, it’s free, isn’t it?
So I take my two computer books and Guri and Gura over to Nozomi at the checkout counter, show my health-insurance card as ID to apply for a borrower’s card, and check out the books.
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Welcome to Neverton, Montana: home to a God-fearing community with a heart of gold.
Nestled high up in the mountains is Camp Damascus, the self-proclaimed “most effective” gay conversion camp in the country. Here, a life free from sin awaits. But the secret behind that success is anything but holy.
And they’ll scare you straight to hell.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I didn’t know what to expect when I dove into this story, but boy did it surprise me numerous times! I thought the beginning was going in one direction and then it completely took another narrative and I loved every single minute of this wild ride. The terrifying moments were creepy AF and I absolutely loved the protagonist Rose, who stepped up and became the most badass final girl. Although the demons were incredibly scary, the scariest aspect for me was the Christian cult mentality from the beginning and the lengths this cult went to obliterate any queerness in someone. This is a very timely book seeing the climate surrounding queer people, and I love that this exists to show how wrong it is to try to “convert” queerness into straightness – no matter what.
I wasn’t aware of Chuck Tingle before this novel (maybe I’ve lived under a rock!) but I’m very happy to say that I’m a full-fledged buckaroo now and will look forward to anything else he puts out (no matter how far out it is!).
Check this book out if you love coming of age, creepy demons and insects, and a badass protagonist.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Tor Nightfire for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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When he looked at the blood, his head began to spin.
PLOT SUMMARY:
Realtor Caleb Birch is on the precipice of earning everything he’s ever dreamed: a partner position at his prestigious realty firm, financial stability that would make his mother proud, and a respectable professional reputation amongst Los Angeles’s wealthy and elite. All he has to do is nail his open house and secure a contract. Enter a mysterious woman with an air of familiarity claiming to be the perfect buyer. Her ruse dissolves revealing nefarious intentions and a twisted game that Caleb must win to survive the night. But she isn’t the only threat lurking behind closed doors. There are skeletons in the closet, and they’re coming out to play.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
This novella was an action-packed supernatural thriller/horror. It begins with Caleb who is showing off a home that he’s certain if he sells will pretty much settle him into a rich life. Only things go awry when the potential buyer locks him in the Smart Home he was too eager to sell to her. Soon, the novella becomes a cat and mouse chase, as the protagonist tries to survive the night in the Smart Home. There are creepy supernatural elements to this story as well as real-life issues, and they both weave seamlessly well together. I loved how fast paced the novella was and how I wasn’t able to anticipate anything that would happen, which I love when that happens cause I can be just as surprised as the characters when something does happen.
I recommend this novella if you want a short read that is action-packed and filled with some seriously creepy thrills.
Short Q & A With Author
What inspired you to write this novella?
When a friend of mine got her Realtor’s license, my first thought was, “aren’t you afraid to be alone in the house with a bunch of strangers?” That’s where the spark came from. Realtors invite people into homes that they aren’t 100% familiar with, so maybe the house has some secrets, or maybe the potential buyers have dubious intentions. I wanted to explore that setting and see what spooky story manifested.
Caleb is a complex character, he believes he’s doing good although he really isn’t. He’s morally grey. What about him compelled you to tell his story?
Caleb is my first experience writing from the point-of-view of a male protagonist! I considered writing it from the mysterious woman’s experience, but at the end of the day, it was Caleb that needed to be taught a lesson. You’re right. He thinks he’s a good guy. In that way, he’s a bit of a narcissist, but readers quickly learn about the skeletons in his closet. I felt that the only way Caleb would really understand the magnitude of what he did was to make him the star of the show, so to speak.
Novellas are having a golden era right now, especially in the horror genre. Why do you think this format best suited for the genre?
First, I’m THRILLED that novellas are finally getting their time in the spotlight! As a reader, I prefer the shorter length, so give me more novellas!
Horror always seems to work well in shorter lengths whether it’s short stories, novelettes, or even a tight 90 minute movie. The beauty of the shorter form is that it forces writers to focus on what’s really important to the story. Hit the plot beat and move on to the next. Villain attacks hero. Hero reacts. Hero fights back. It’s quick, but it doesn’t jeopardize scene building, story world construction, or character arcs. Really, short form fiction can leave a lot up to the imagination, which adds to the overall suspense, tension, and scary elements of a horror book. In horror, the elements left of the page prove just as haunting as those included.
Do smart homes and robots frighten you or do you find the supernatural more frightening?
Yes! LOL!
Once, I asked Alexa a question and after she responded, I said, “Thank you,” and she replied, “You’re welcome. Have a good day.” Ever since then, I’ve been polite to her because I’m 99% certain she’s secretly becoming human and planning our demise. When she gains full awareness, I want her to remember all the times I was nice to her!
I love supernatural horror! In fact, I have a science fiction horror novella coming out in October 2023 also touches on the supernatural. In real life, I don’t mess with it! No Ouija boards, no haunted house tours, no seances…I’ve seen too many movies and read too many books where characters accidentally conjure a horrific spirit seeking revenge.
No thanks!
What horror books have you recently read that you enjoyed?
I just finished Our Own Unique Affliction by Scott J Moses. It’s a horror novella with vampires, but the heart of the story is emotional and haunting, a truly tragic beautiful story of family and love. I highly recommend!
What are your upcoming projects and where can readers find you?
My science fiction horror novella Static is scheduled for release October 13, 2023 by Aesthetic Press!
Here’s a bit about it:
Ever since her mother’s death, nineteen-year-old Carmen has been seeing black buzzing dots zipping through the air, but are they real or just a figment of her imagination? They escalate in dire fashion, causing Carmen to crash her car, which lands her in a hospital. When Carmen confesses to seeing these hallucinations, psychologist Dr. Barbara MacDonald steps in.
Barbara, a grieving mother, is obsessed with finding a way to communicate and bring back the spirit of her deceased daughter. She believes Carmen’s hallucinations are the key. Under false pretenses, Barbara lures Carmen into her secret laboratory, holds the young woman, and starts conducting unlawful experiments. There’s no one to help Carmen escape; at least, no one alive.
Readers can find me on TikTok, Twitter, Instagram, Substack, Threads, and YouTube all under the handle of @nicobellfiction.
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It’s funny/not funny the things you remember about the worst day of your life.
It was a hot, humid, hazy, August afternoon.
We had hot dogs and baked beans for dinner. Later, I had a cosmic orchestra of gas and flatulence. Mom thought it was hilarious. Palmer accused me of being a show-off. He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Afterward, as we did every Sunday night, we watched The Ed Sullivan Show.
I drifted off to sleep as rain pelted the roof. The sky blinked off and on like a flashlight. The roar of thunder filled all the empty spaces.
My brother Palmer—forever thirteen—shook me awake, his hands red and sticky. I thought it was from a cherry ice pop—but I know now it was blood. Our mother’s blood.
“Hide, Brooks.” Palmer took in a huge gulp of air. “You know where. And don’t come back, whatever you do. The monster. He’s in the house.”
I ran up to the dunes at Ditch Plains Beach as fast as my stubby legs could carry me, soaked and chilled to the bone.
A week later, I woke up in a hospital bed. A nurse jabbed me with something.
My father gripped my hand. “You’re all right, son,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
But of course, it wasn’t. And I was far from all right. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. You have no idea how deep the rot goes until you bite into the apple and see a wriggling worm.
CHAPTER ONE
Sheldon Adler, my agent at Crown-Hawkins and my brother from another mother, is late as usual. No fucking surprise there. When you’re meeting Sheldon, you have to tack on an hour at least. I’m at our usual table at La Bonne Grenouille, the best little French bistro in Manhattan that no one has ever heard of, sipping a glass of ice-cold watermelon seltzer. Sheldon has been my literary agent—no, make that literary savior—since he read my first published short story that didn’t involve erect penises in The New Yorker. He contacted me out of the blue and suggested Hey, why don’t you write a book and I’ll sell it? I wrote Fallen Angels in twenty-four days in a drug haze. When it was finally published, it sold less than two hundred copies, but Sheldon was so fucking proud you would’ve thought it sold two million. I resigned myself to being a failure. Months later, the book was plucked out of obscurity by the senior literary critic of The New York Times and nominated for a Pulitzer. A tabloid dubbed me “The Heroin Hemingway.” The name stuck, even though I’ve been sober and drug-free for more than twenty-five years.
Sheldon got me my first million-dollar advance. He’s the wolf that other wolves hire, and his reputation is well-earned. My biggest supporter, he stayed with me through the lean, mean years when I wrote truly terrible books. Despite my abysmal marital track record, I’m extremely loyal. I wouldn’t dream of leaving Sheldon and believe me, other agents have tried to poach me. And unless I did or said something unacceptable that blew up on social media—which is why I don’t have any social media accounts—Sheldon wouldn’t kick me to the curb or toss me under the bus. All my skeletons are out there. Well, most of them.
A portly man with a vague resemblance to the great Mafia chronicler Mario Puzo, Sheldon huffs his way to our table. I can’t say it to his face, but Sheldon needs to lose forty—make that fifty—pounds, if not for himself, then for his young children. I’m sixty-five and I can still fit into the jeans I wore when I was nineteen. It takes discipline and willpower, of which I have plenty to spare.
After we order and exchange our typical innocuous pleasantries about the weather, politics, and soccer, for we’re both rabid fans, Sheldon downs a gin and tonic. It’s his first of the day and not his last. “Brooks, how is the book coming along?” he booms in a guttural Brooklyn accent that has other diners turning their heads.
“Great,” I reply cheerfully. “It couldn’t be going any better.
Gold, pure gold.”
He tilts his head. “Cassie says you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Cassie’s my third and—if I have anything to say about it—last wife. She interviewed me for a puff piece and months later, when the pregnancy test was positive, I knew I’d met my Waterloo, no thanks to Abba. An abortion was out of the question. Now we have two children under six, our lives are a merry-go-round of sweet chaos. Last fall, I had a vasectomy so there will be no more miniature Andersons polluting the planet.
I finish my seltzer and signal for another. “You know I never sleep well when I’m writing. I do my best work after midnight.” In the old days, that didn’t necessarily apply to writing.
The waitress delivers our meals: me, a grilled chicken Caesar salad with extra feta, and Sheldon a porterhouse with crispy julienne potatoes and parmesan creamed spinach. I eye his steak with unconcealed envy, but Cassie’s always after me to eat healthier. I sigh and add more dressing to my salad. Cassie would be pleased.
“Yeah, I know. You have the constitution of fucking Secretariat. You did drugs with Keith Richards and Lou Reed.” Sheldon cut into his steak; it’s not just blue, it’s bloody raw. Just looking at it makes me queasy. “But this is different. You’re writing about your goddamn family.”
“I can be objective.”
Sheldon puts his fork down. “Not about this, Brooks. Come on. The cold-blooded executions of your mother and brother—”
I suddenly lose my appetite. Sheldon means well. Cassie does, too. But this quasi-intervention is the last thing I need. “Sheldon, you know as well as Cassie that I had no choice. I wasn’t going to let that fucking guttersnipe drag my mother through the mud.” The fucking guttersnipe in question is Marshall Reagan (no relation to the former president), a douchebag posing as a journalist. His brand is writing scandalous, unauthorized biographies of the rich and famous because he knows he can get away with it. No dirt, no sleaze, is beneath him. And when he can’t find anything salacious, he makes shit up and pulls it out of his ass like saltwater taffy.
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, but I do know. I know exactly the angle he’d take. That my mother was having an affair with Julian.” Julian Broadhurst, born in Lancaster, England, in 1942. An artist who was supposedly the protégé of Peter Max. Julian had long blond hair and drove a robin’s-egg-blue Aston Martin. Palmer and I loathed him. “And when Mom wanted to end it, he killed her. But that wasn’t enough, fuck no. When my brother tried to protect her, Julian killed him, too.” I shake my head, the bile percolating like a fresh pot of coffee. “My mother was brilliant. Graduated from Mount Holyoke with honors. And she was utterly devoted to my father. To us. The idea that she’d have a summer fling with that bohemian scumbag—” I choke on the words (or is it a sliver of chicken that went down the wrong pipe?). “And you know damn well that when that cocksucker Reagan’s done tarring and feathering her, he’ll start in on my father, who has been nothing less than a fucking saint. Saint Bernard.” I rap my fist on the table. “It’s fucking ludicrous.”
Sheldon nods, sympathy oozing from every pore. “All I’m saying is that you have a lot on your plate. The book. The next book. Your father’s gala. You’re writing a speech for that, right? Jesus fucking Christ, Brooks. You’re not Superman. It’s bound to take a toll on you.”
“So, what are you suggesting? I can’t return the advance. It’s already spent.” Six million gone in a heartbeat. Lawyers. Trust funds. The new house in Water Mill. And I was finally able to get my ex-wives off my back with a tidy lump sum. For the first time in years, no alimony to shill out every goddamn month. All thanks to Sheldon, who hadn’t budged an inch during the multi- house book auction. He earned his commission ten times over.
“No one’s suggesting that. That’s crazy.” Sheldon’s halfway through his steak. “But we can ask to push the deadline back by a couple of months.”
“No.” I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. If there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s living up to my contractual obligations. I’ve never missed a deadline. I could be fucking pushing up daisies and I’d still deliver.
Sheldon sighs. “Why are you being so goddamn obstinate?” “I’m well into the book now, it’s just a matter of research.” “Really?” He gives me a side-eye. “Cassie says you’ve barely written the first chapter.”
I’m annoyed. Mostly because Cassie’s right. “It’s all in my head, Sheldon. Don’t worry.”
“Well, I do. Worry, I mean.” Sheldon furrows his bushy eyebrows; he looks like a caterpillar on meth. “I know how good you can be, Brooks. But you push yourself way too hard.”
I make a half-hearted stab at my chicken. He could’ve added— but tactfully didn’t—that he also knows how bad I can be. My books still sold phenomenally well, even that fucking godawful picture book Rocco the Stinky Raccoon, nominated for a Caldecott. I was ecstatic when it didn’t win.
By the time we say our goodbyes, it’s three o’clock. If I hurry, I can see the kids for a minute before they’re trundled off to gymnastics or karate or whatever activity Cassie has planned. Mark loves Star Wars and Hulk. Audra’s obsessed with unicorns. I buy them far too many toys. I love my children desperately, but I don’t pretend to understand them. That’s Cassie’s deal. She’s the hardass. I’m the marshmallow man.
We live in the Dakota on the UWS (upper west side) close to Central Park. Our apartment has a bird’s-eye view of the park. The Dakota’s where John Lennon was shot. We still have tourists who make pilgrimages. I wasn’t there the night it happened, but I’d like to think I’d have stopped Mark Chapman in his tracks. I’d bought into the Dakota with the advance I’d gotten for Fallen Angels. I never would’ve been able to afford it otherwise. That book’s the gift that keeps on giving. It’s been optioned by movie production companies at least a dozen times but it’ll never get made. I’ve reconciled myself to that.
“Daddy’s home!” I shout as I enter the foyer.
The kids always run to see what I’ve bought. Today I have a Baby Yoda electronic gizmo for Mark and a big unicorn doll for Audra. But no excited squeals greet me. Instead, there are two packed suitcases by the door. I walk into the living room and marvel once again at our panoramic views of Central Park.
Cassie, her eyes red, sits on the sofa.
“Bad day with the kids, baby?” I bend down to kiss her. She turns her head. This isn’t a good sign.
“Where are the munchkins?” I toss my suit jacket on a chair. “With my sister in Providence.” Her voice is flat.
I’m surprised. Tammy’s coming down on the weekend. Why would she have come early and taken the kids?
Cassie stares at me. If her eyes were bullets, I’d be a corpse. “Dr. Schultz’s office called. They said you missed your six-month check-up.”
Dr. Schultz. Shit. I try to act casual but my heart thumps like a boom box. I can talk myself out of this one. I’ve done it before. “Damn, I guess I forgot to give them my new cell number. I’ll call in the morning, they’re probably closed now.”
“Kind of like how you forgot to tell me about your vasectomy?” Her voice rises an octave.
I cringe. I’m in for it now. And I fucking deserve it. “I’m not stupid, Brooks.”
No. That’s one thing Cassie isn’t. She’s brilliant in every respect, far more than I could ever hope or aspire to be. I’m painfully aware that I’m the reason she hasn’t gotten the jobs and accolades. I’m the anchor that weighs her down. “We talked about it, Cassie.”
“No. You talked about it. Not me. Not ever.” Cassie’s so mad her body trembles. “Who else knows?”
“Dad.”
“Of course. I bet he was thrilled.” My father wasn’t in favor of this marriage. It was nothing against Cassie. He’d been against all my marriages. When I told him Cassie was pregnant, he was apoplectic. You can’t be serious, he said. You’re too old to be a father. And too fucked-up, he could’ve added. But he eventually came around.
“Who else?”
“Nobody. I mean, nobody important,” I stumble. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry that you had it done or sorry that I found out?”
The truth was both, but I’d done enough damage for one evening. “Baby, I admit, it was a stupid thing to do. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But you know, maybe not going to the check-up was a good thing. Maybe it didn’t take. And if it did, I can get it reversed. If they can reattach a penis, they can fix this, right?” I nervously chuckle. That’s my default posture. When in a difficult situation, I make a feeble attempt at humor. Usually, it worked. Not this time.
“I’m going to stay at Tammy’s. I don’t know for how long.”
I try not to make a face and fail. Tammy hates me. Well, maybe hate is too mild: detests, loathes, abhors. Tammy would revel in this. “Please, honey. Don’t do that. We can work this out.”
Cassie holds up her hand. “Since you began this book”—the book she and Dad were vehemently against from the start, probably the only thing in the universe they agree on— “you haven’t been the same.”
“That’s not true,” I protest.
“It is true even if you don’t want to admit it. You got the book advance and then a vasectomy. And you don’t see that’s a huge problem? What about last night?”
I give her a look. “What about it?”
“I found you in Audra’s room at two in the morning. Over her bed holding a baseball bat.”
What? I shiver as if I’ve fallen through a river of ice. Water fills my lungs, and I can barely breathe. “That’s preposterous!” I gasp.
“Muttering about monsters. And it wasn’t the first time.” She shot me a look I knew all too well from my boarding school days. I hated it then and I hate it even more now. “You almost had me convinced that writing about what happened to you would be a catharsis. Exorcizing old ghosts and demons. But the opposite is happening, and it scares the shit out of me. It kills me to say this, but I have to protect the kids and I’m not sure they’re safe around you right now.”
Cassie’s words hang in the air. Jesus fucking Christ. Talk about a gut punch. The kids aren’t safe around me? I adore Mark and Audra. I’d die for them in the blink of an eye, with no hesitation. I cut Mark’s umbilical cord. I spent weeks in the neonatal unit with Audra. I changed diapers, I rocked them to sleep, they lacked for nothing materially. “You don’t mean that,” I retort. “You’re upset and angry about the vasectomy.”
“That’s a separate issue. But fuck yeah, I’m angry. I’m fucking livid.”
No one says “fuck” quite the way Cassie does. To my shame, I feel myself getting hard. Embarrassed, I cover myself with a sofa pillow and hope she doesn’t notice.
She does and averts her eyes. “This is a problem, it’s a huge fucking problem. This is beyond my field of expertise, Brooks. I’m a freelance editor, not a therapist.”
“Therapists,” I jeer. I’d had my fill of them. Never again. They’re the modern-day equivalent of leeches. “I sleepwalk. You knew that from day one. I never hid it.”
“This is more than sleepwalking. I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t admit it’s a problem.”
“And your way of helping is talking to Sheldon?”
“Not just Sheldon. I spoke to Bernard, too. He’s worried about you. He’s noticed the change in you, we all have. Your father and I, we’re never going to be best friends, but I’m telling you, we’re united on this.”
My throat tightens as if someone’s wrapped a cord around my neck. I’m that eight-year-old kid shivering in the dunes, peeing on myself. “It’s been a rough winter. When I’m writing I can be an ogre. Maybe this vacation is what you and the kids need. The kids—” I stop myself. “I’ll call them in the morning. Better yet, why don’t I drive you there and I can tell them goodbye in person.”
Cassie picks up her handbag, the one I gave her last Christmas. A trendy, expensive designer label. To me they all look alike, so I asked the saleslady to give me the most popular one. I take that to mean Cassie isn’t entirely through with me yet. My marriage hung on this fucking bag. That’s how desperate I am. “I can drive myself.” Of course she can. We got his and hers matching Priuses with the book advance.
Cassie walks to the front door.
I follow and sniff her perfume like a love-sick puppy. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we order a very expensive meal, chill out with an old Bogie movie, and you can leave first thing.” I smile, in full Errol Flynn rogue mode.
Determined, she shakes her head. “You can’t fuck your way out of this one, Brooks.” She slams the door behind her so forcefully that my framed certificate from Caldecott falls off the fucking wall.
Immediately, my cell phone buzzes. I ignore Dad’s call. I’m not in the mood for another St. Bernard lecture on what a fucking mess I’ve made of my life. It’s suddenly very hot in the apartment. Or is it me? I tell Alexa to lower the temperature by five degrees, her calm demeanor a stark reminder of how quiet the apartment is without the kids screaming in the background. He pulled my hair! She grabbed my crayon!
I go upstairs into my writing lair. I must compartmentalize what just happened, otherwise, my head will detonate into a thousand pieces. Cassie and I have weathered worse. She’ll come back. She has to. I’ll call Dr. Schultz and fix this mess. For now, I must work on Dad’s speech. I pull out the desk chair and find it’s already occupied by one of Audra’s unicorn dolls.
Dad’s receiving a prestigious humanitarian award from the United Nations. Now pushing eighty-two or eighty-six depending on how many martinis he’s drunk, he’s evolved into an elder statesman on retainer as a crisis handler/negotiator. He advised LBJ on Vietnam. Nixon, too, although Dad couldn’t stand the prick. Dad begged Ford not to pardon Nixon because the voters and history would judge Ford harshly. Dad was right. Clinton made him a Special Envoy to Sarajevo. GW Bush called on him to head the 9/11 Commission, but Dad declined due to other “commitments”. Obama had him on speed dial. Dad has brokered peace agreements between nations and factions that were considered impossible. No one deserves this award more. I’ve been allotted roughly fifteen minutes to tell the world how I feel about him. I’d need fifteen years.
I touch a computer key. In Google Drive, the opening lines to my father’s speech flash on. “My beloved father, Bernard Stewart Anderson, is a generous, kind, honorable, decent man who embodies everything fine and good in this world. A man who has earned the respect of world leaders no matter their political persuasion. A man who goes out of his way to help the weak and oppressed. And he’s also a man who bore the ultimate tragedy with dignity and grace. No one knows Bernard Anderson better than I, his surviving son.”
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She was suddenly nothing more than a broken tree branch set adrift in whitewater rapids, a mere pebble tossed from the top of a waterfall.
PLOT SUMMARY:
Evil waits for the unsuspecting in the small town of Henley’s Edge, Connecticut after a recent string of unexplained disappearances.
Lives are interwoven and transformed forever when pacts are drawn, deals are made, and when hatred is left unrestrained.
Some will succumb to the darkness that lurks in the cellar of Mr. Heart Crowley’s home, others will resist, and some will face a truly remarkable being—creator of tides, vessel of infinity, eater of darkness.
GRADE: B
REVIEW:
I’ve read all of Eric LaRocca’s novellas and short story collections so far, and his debut novel doesn’t disappoint. It delivers on all the things we’ve come to love about his stories: lush, baroque writing, extreme gore and violence, and characters that you can’t help but root for. This novel opens with a banger – extreme violence and blood from the get-go and kind of sets the dark mood that hovers over the entirety of this novel. We follow two characters, Ghost – a recent widow, and Malik a Muslim gay policeman. Their destinies with intertwine in ways that they can’t imagine. Meanwhile, their disappearances are occurring in this small New England town, and violence prevails in ways that one would hope to never have to encounter. There were a lot of things that I enjoyed about this novel but it feels like not enough time was dedicated to those things that I found compelling (the mystery of the disappearances, what exactly happened between the Prologue and now the present, and who was the little ghost haunting Ghost?). Also, I wasn’t sure if character names were supposed to be homages to current horror authors (I couldn’t help but feel this way when Gemma, Hailey, and Piper were introduced and suddenly I made the connection to Gemma Amor and Hailey Piper. Was this intentional? Was it a coincidence? Maybe both? Who knows?). But my biggest gripe is the ending (yes, I do like that there was a “happy ending” of sorts) however, it felt kind of rushed and the proverbial “bad guy” was easily disposed of. I guess I was hoping for a lengthier and bloodier battle, but most of the horrific acts were actually committed by a human rather than a paranormal entity (and maybe there’s a lesson in that that humans are more monstrous than actual monsters?). What I will say, is that I did read this novel rather quickly, so I was invested in the story very much. Maybe because this book felt more like cosmic horror (which isn’t a sub-genre I generally like much) I didn’t enjoy the later portions of this novel as opposed to the first 75% of it. But if you do enjoy cosmic horror, then I can see you really liking this one as it does explore some interesting themes about creators, creations, and spirituality.
I recommend this to readers who love dual POV done well, small-town horror, cosmic horror, and novels that aren’t overwhelmingly long.
*Thank you so much to Clash Books and the author for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The Inkblotters 