I like Clay McLeod Chapman because he's always excited to tell his story. There's a pervasive energy in his writing that keeps readers immersed, and a palpable stylistic enthusiasm that just makes for infectious reading. He’s never just writing a scene, just recounting events, but constantly spinning the tale, letting the roots already laid down dig a little deeper into the reader’s mind even as he describes the new growth in the current chapter. He sells his narrative very easily, and be it some trick of his style or Satanic super powers, I never fail to sink into the initial narrative arc of a Chapman novel. 

The Croning features one of the most memorable opening chapters I’ve encountered in recent memory: a grimly whimsical (and slightly horny) retelling of Rumpelstiltskin, in which a royal spy tracks the fabled bargainer to a hinterland and finds that his quarry serves an esoteric deity called Old Leech. The strange god is a primordial cosmic entity who exists in some unknowable outer darkness but regularly makes their presence felt on Earth. The spy returns to his queen with the dwarf’s name, but when the fated day comes round, the hard-won knowledge has no effect, and the imp takes the queen’s child and then brings her and the spy to a bloody end.

The Rain Artist excels in juxtaposing a horrific vision of the future with instances of resonant beauty that serve to keep the story interesting and showcase the author’s impressive and instinctive understanding of human experience. The writing is strong enough to outpace the imperfect plot, effectively drawing the reader into its unique perspective until the world of The Rain Artist feels dangerously close to our own.

Slewfoot is a wonderful tale that lives to subvert expectations, feeling more like a darkly whimsical fable than a horror novel, and tinged with elements of legal drama and romance which round out a remarkably original novel. Brom's vision, patiently revealed, is one of depth, promise, and refreshing originality among the wider fiction about this historical period. Though ready for a popular audience, this novel touches literary elements, wisely and thoughtfully engaging the topics of belief, faith, trauma, and belonging. 

Consciously or otherwise, Barbour understands the novella, keeping the pace steady and moving so that any details which might not be ready for scrutiny aren't dwelled upon by the reader. This is an instinctive talent, one of those things that is impossible to teach but which he does especially well. In a way many popular authors cannot, he makes his characters incredibly present in what they're doing, as Ronald not only takes up day drinking in public, but remarks on the pointlessness of retrieving an empty can when he misses the garbage bin. Many authors overlook the ways in which traumatic experiences might affect character behavior, and I want to credit Barbour on how we he constructs a believable progression of his character’s psyche as Ronnie struggles to come to grips with the bizarre cycling nature of his existence.

‘The overwhelming feeling with this novel is that the author wants to write a spooky story about a group of childhood friends while also penning a modern morality tale about the dangers of purity culture and casual racism. Keeping a foot in each lane, White struggles to drive either narrative at more than a surface level, and the novel feels far short of what it could have been.’

While there are some stylistic and depth choices I’m not a fan of, Pre-Approved for Haunting is a very good collection, and a wonderful introduction to the work of Patrick Barb. Most of the stories are mature, effective works that linger long in the memory, particularly when their real-world inspirations are familiar. Despite not loving the particular story, I’ll never look at a black crayon the same way again. Barb is an excellent writer with a strong editorial eye, and as a reader, I’m eager to see what he does next.

‘Like a growing number of popular horror novels, it’s not enough to just be traditionally scary, to conjure ghouls and monsters that crawl out from the dark places and threaten mortal lives. No, now it seems that what readers fear most must be rooted in reality, as evil as any esoteric demon or creepy clown, but also a tangible, crudely familiar terror that many experience at some point in their lives–poverty, discrimination, so on. Quite simply, with each passing generation, we in the Western world fear the evils of the unknown less and less, instead turning weary eyes to the darkness which spills forth from the cracks in our own society, a corruption which has always been there but from which we are collectively, in unbroken legacy with those who came before us, seeking some exit.’

‘Episode Thirteen is the story of a cable network ghost hunting show that lifts its plot outline and setpieces from found footage horror films, then presents the result of this as a distinctly engaging and surprisingly original horror novel. It’s quite a feat, taking two widely derided horror property staples and reimagining them as something that mutes the most common criticisms of its components. Frankly, I’m surprised to find that more writers haven’t made a tilt at this particular windmill, as it now feels like a very promising course after seeing what DiLouie has done here.’

After a drawn-out divorce that ends with a whimper, Jonah Talbot leaves San Francisco to return to his hometown of Albuquerque. It’s a humbling situation that many will experience at some point: the recognition that a thing you’ve invested in, gave yourself to, trusted and loved, is no longer going to give back to you or be part of your life.

‘Langan marries the promise and potential of Lovecraft with the discomforting incertitude of Poe before drawing both into the modern era and signing his own name at the bottom.’

‘This is the moment I knew we were going into a story more about the injustices of time’s passage rather than antediluvian horror. Dan Simmons has taken his pure, elemental child characters from Summer of Night and put them in the microwave.’

‘I thoroughly enjoyed Summer of Night as a reader. It’s a solid, well-worked novel with a lot of heartblood in its pages. Clearly a passion project and ode to Simmons’s roots, it should be read by all of his fans, even if it’s not his finest work.’

This feels like something Buehlman needed to get out of his system; a residual interest in vampire stories after penning the exquisitely excellent Lesser Dead, coupled with a love of all the Americana that surrounds Route 66 a decade after its decline began.

The nameless indigenous peoples of Siberia we envision are pure in the mind of the Western writer, a canvas equally mystical and remote which doesn’t conjure up all the shadows we have to invite into the room when writing about the Apache, Blackfeet, or Navajo.