‘Sequelland: A Story of Dreams and Screams’ by Jay Slayton-Joslin – Review

*Disclaimer: I received a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review*

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My book Kicking Prose was a collection of sad poems about girls and growing up and not knowing how, it is about how we are falling apart and making it seem like we have it together. This book, I think, is a continuation of that theme— how through everything as creators, we continue and create.

 

Synopsis –

In the back alley of HOLLYWOOD lies SEQUELLAND, where directors and creatives get the chance to do what they love, not necessarily in the conditions that they love. Jay Slayton-Joslin, a writer and horror fan, experiencing his own existential crisis takes a direct approach exploring his childhood filled with direct to DVD horror sequels, interviewing those who created the sequels to iconic franchises feel upon looking back on them. The story of people who tried to do what they loved, filled with pride, regret, and resolution.It’s… SEQUELLAND: A STORY OF DREAMS AND SCREAMS.

 

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Thoughts –

Sequelland: A Story of Dreams and Screams takes a dive into the murky waters of horror movie sequels. Whether you hate them or love them, they aren’t going anywhere and between the movie makers who bend over backwards to please fans or the movie executives who go through script writers like toilet paper for one extra buck, there’s a lot more than fictional struggles to learn from here.

Slayton-Joslin asks pointed questions of the directors of sequels from Saw to The Leprechaun, from Carrie to Bloodrayne, delving into the unglamourous side of the movie making business. He speaks to directors who were pulled in after another director was kicked off a project, and directors who fought to get a title because they were such avid fans of the franchise themselves. Unlike with a fresh idea and screenplay, making a sequel has the added pressure of a lower budget, a higher expectation of return, a lore that must be abided by, giving the fans what they expect and yet still surprising them – the list goes on and so does the list of sequels that just don’t cut the mark.
Interspersed between these interviews, Slayton-Joslin takes a look at his own foray into a writing career. He examines his own expectations of what a story-telling career should look like and where he already feels like he has failed even before he’s fully started. There are writers and directors of all kinds who work on one project and stop there, and there are also those pigeon-holed into only making sequels, or unable to break into other genres because of the stigma of horror.
Slayton-Joslin ends the book on a hopeful note for all creative types – that there are as many paths as you are able to imagine in your story-telling mind, and there is no set track pulling you towards validation – you decide when you have succeeded and you decide what direction you want to go in if and when you do.

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Sequelland: A Story of Dreams and Screams is a non-fiction horror book that gives insight into the opportunities and pitfalls of horror movie sequels – and how all creatives can learn from those who make them.

 

About the Author –

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Jay Slayton-Joslin is the author of Sequelland: A Story of Dreams and Screams (Clash Books, 2020) and Kicking Prose (KUBOA, 2014). Jay graduated with a BA in American Literature with Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia and a MA in Creative Writing from the University of Surrey. He lives in Leeds, England.

Twitter: twitter.com/jaythecool
Instagram: instagram.com/50shadesofjaysj

 

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‘Rest for the Wicked’ – Original Short Story by Gloria McNeely

*This story was first drafted in a creative writing class headed by Dave Rudden. I was given the prompt of ‘Fairytale’ and this (in a much more raw form) is what appeared in my mind. I hope you enjoy.*

She stole through the darkness of the trees, her long cloak, edged with lace, catching here and there on twisted roots and jagged thorns. But she was too eager to notice. She emerged from the edge of the trees to a thin back alley behind the row of houses, a sickly streetlight casting a weak glow halfway along. She lifted the ruined fence at her usual spot, more cautious now of her frayed edges. Like a black cat with an unlucky mouse caught between its teeth she loped across the dusty alleyway with her offering, striding confidently through the back-garden gate of a house that wasn’t her own, and laying down the carefully wrapped gift on the back step. The glittered wrapping paper shone in the glow from the kitchen.

Inside was the skull of a new born deer. Avril would love it.

She made it back through the trees that separated their estates without issue. Pausing in her back garden, she pulled back her long hood to gaze up at the windows of her own home, a home that recently had felt less and less inviting to her. Most of the windows were lit up. She saw her mother’s shadow scurry through her parents’ bedroom, could see her father shuffling around the kitchen looking for something, his shirt untucked, giving him an uncharacteristically messy look.

Her heavy boots flattened the close-cropped grass, where her father had been spending most of his energy the past few months. Before she could slide the glass door open, he caught sight of her through it and jumped, dropping the glass of water he was holding, glass shattering on the tiles.

“Jesus, Tabitha! You scared the life out of me!” he said breathlessly, clutching at the tie hanging loose around his collar.

“Sorry!” she winced as the door slid closed with a bang behind her. Dropping her bag on the counter, she stooped to gather the scattered pieces.

“Don’t use your hands,” he said worriedly, reaching under the sink for the dustpan and brush. “I don’t want you to cut yourself.” Tabitha dropped the larger pieces she’d already gathered into the dustpan and let him sweep up the rest. They were both still hunkered down on the floor when her mother swept into the room in a long maroon coloured dress, her hair pulled into a fancy updo that Tabitha had never seen before. She looked so different without her glasses on, younger somehow.

“Brian, have you found it yet?” she called too loud, her tone frustrated. Her heels crunched on scattered shards that they’d missed. “What’s this?”

“The grim reaper here gave me a heart attack. Dropped a glass,” her dad explained. Tabitha made a face and caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window. Dressed all in black, cloak inches off the floor only due to her new platform boots with all the shiny silver buckles, she could see how he was startled at least. She didn’t mention the actual sickle shaped stud earrings hidden behind her long dark hair – that would have been a little too on the nose.

“It’s called fashion Dad. You wouldn’t understand,” she teased. But he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was stooped down sweeping in front of her mother’s hesitant feet. She moved back across the divide to the living room where the carpet would hide any missed pieces. While he was doing that, she began shifting the cushions of the couch.

“What did you lose?” Tabitha asked, already glancing around.

“Your father misplaced the car keys and if we don’t find them, we’ll be late for our reservation.” Her words were grunted as she balanced precariously on her knee across the arm of the couch to reach the other end. Tabitha looked at her father. His mouth tightened but he said nothing.

She pulled off her cumbersome cloak and laid it over her bag on the counter. Glass tinkled into the bin, cushions smacked back into place as she headed for the clothes basket in the utility room off the kitchen. It took her less than a minute to find her father’s trousers which her mother would have swept off the bathroom floor while he was in the shower. They were both too distracted by being annoyed at each other to think of it.

She slipped them into her father’s pocket and tucked his shirt halfway in as well. He looked at her startled and she raised an eyebrow. “I found them!” he called to her mother, giving her arm a squeeze as he turned, finishing the tucking himself.

“What?” her mother popped up from the couch, stray hairs flying from her carefully sculpted bun.

“Come on, Caroline. I’m waiting for you!” he feigned impatience at her startled look.

“Where were they?” He didn’t answer just grabbed his jacket from where it hung on the stairs and left the front door open as he left.

“Have a good night, Tabby cat.” he called, over his shoulder.

Still nonplussed, her mother hurried to Tabitha, who for a second thought she was going to offer a hug, but she was just grabbing her clutch bag from beside the fridge. “I left you some dinner in the oven okay? You just need to heat it up.” She moved to spin off like a beautiful twister but Tabitha caught her by the arm, tucking the stray hairs back into their moorings.

“Mum?” she asked, her tone light but serious.

“What?” she replied, already worried, her hands gripping Tabitha’s elbows.

“It’s date night. You’re supposed to enjoy it. Have fun with each other.” Their eyes met, understanding dawning. Her mum did pull her into an embrace then, the tension in her shoulders melting away.

“Thank you. I’ll try,” she whispered. She paused to squish her daughters face in her hands one last time with a worried look before leaving her with a warm lipstick mark on her cheek. They worried about her she new, and no doubt her and her new ‘fashion’ choices would be a topic of conversation over their starters. What was so bad about a little black lipstick? What was so offensive about a few dozen pentagrams? She really didn’t get it.

The front door slammed shut, the whirlwind of her parents leaving a silent vacuum behind. Tabitha breathed a sigh of relief. She often looked back on her childhood memories, wondering if this had happened when she was younger and she had just been oblivious. Now, at seventeen, it was impossible not to see the strains and the distance between them. They didn’t act like a couple anymore. Divorce didn’t scare her as much as it once had as a tiny kid wondering who’s house she would have to spend Christmas at, but she still didn’t want it for them if they could avoid it.

She pulled the oven open to find a plate piled high with her mother’s famous spaghetti and meatballs tucked in with a blanket of foil. Suddenly she was ravenous. When was the last time she’d eaten? She’d spent most of the day wrapping April’s present, etching good luck spells into the brittle bone; she couldn’t remember. She slid the plate out and unwrapped the foil – hungry enough to forego the oven for the microwave.

No sooner had she pressed start, the heavy meatballs spinning on their wheel dark red sauce beginning to bubble, than the doorbell rang out. She pulled the door of the microwave ajar, just in case she told herself, and went to answer the door. Had they lost their house key as well?

But it wasn’t her parents who stood under the porch light. A handsome man, early thirties at most, the type of man who went to the gym just for fun was standing with one foot on the step below him, enticing her with a crooked smile. It was Mr. Henley from down the street. The new neighbours.

“Hi?” she said, more of a question than a greeting.

“Tabitha, isn’t it?” he asked, reaching to shake her hand but thinking better of it at the last second. He shoved them in his pockets instead.

“Can I help you with something?” Her heart beat faster now, not because of his obvious good looks, but because he was a strange man who knew her name, an older man who would have seen the empty spot where her parent’s car normally sat. She glanced down the street and saw a scattering of porch lights on, television LEDs behind net curtains and took a breath to calm herself. This was type of street where a cry for help would not be ignore. But he was a neighbour too. They had good neighbours on this street if her mother was to be believed.

He kept his tone apologetic to match his expression. “I’m so sorry to call on you this late and with such short notice, but I was given your number when we moved in by Mrs. Jones at number twelve? She said you were the streets resident babysitter and I should call you anytime I needed someone to look after the kids. She gave a glowing recommendation.” Tabitha’s cheeks flushed. That had been the case, especially when Mr. Henley had moved his wife and two kids into the last house on the row. She’d made a tidy sum looking after the neighbourhood kids while their parents went to movies, dinners, and the occasional concerts, but the calls seemed to be thinning out since she’d started looking like one of the monsters they checked under the bed for.

She smiled awkwardly at him, holding the door tight to her side for support. “I do a lot of babysitting yes,” she told him. He gave a curt nod then whipped his head around as if he’d heard something. As he did, her eyes flickered to the line of his neck, his muscular shoulders – but they were held by the white collar of his shirt. He turned back to her too quickly, but she was sure she’d seen a drop of blood there, blooming across the stark white fibers. Had he cut himself shaving?

“I’m really sorry to do this, but it’s a bit of an emergency. My wife and I need to rush off but the kids are already in bed, they won’t be any trouble.” He was bouncing on the ball of his back foot now, eager to get away. Her appearance didn’t seem to bother him. “Could you come now? We’ll pay you double what your normal rate is. You’re not busy are you?” She opened her mouth to tell him no, to say that her parents wouldn’t want her to go, to say that she was really busy with school work, but the sharp look of desperation in his eyes cut her.

She’d watched them move in months ago. He was the handsome husband, his wife a porcelain doll. Avril had said she would’ve looked like a fifties pinup if she just had the pointy bra and the curls, and Tabitha hadn’t disagreed. She’d seen the children too, a little fair-haired girl and a white blonde boy, maybe seven and five years old at a guess. Avril couldn’t guess, she said they all looked the same to her, but it was easier when you were around kids a lot. They looked sweet, but so did cooking apples before you took a bite.

She shifted her weight away from the door. “No, I’m not busy. I’ll just grab my bag and I’ll be right down,” she told him. His hand curled into a fist and for a second and her heart stuttered in her chest, but he just held it up in the air in triumph.

“Thank you so much, we are so grateful for this!” he called over his shoulder as he hurried back to his house. She closed the door and gathered her things, wishing she’d got a better look at that mark on his collar. Maybe it wasn’t blood, maybe it was lipstick. She almost laughed at that thought. They wouldn’t be the first couple on the street to pay Tabitha so they could sneak off to a hotel room.

“You are so paranoid,” she said to herself as she grabbed her bag and cloak from the kitchen counter. She stopped to pack her laptop and notebook – spellbook – before she left but paused in the hallway. The scent of garlic and tomato, just beginning to warm, wafted from the open microwave, the dome of tin foil still upturned on the stove like an open flower. She went back for it. Normally she had free reign over the refrigerator in any house she stayed in, part of the perks of babysitting, but nothing was as good as her mother’s meatballs.  

She stood on the outside of her closed front door, key just twisting in the lock, wondering whether she should call her parents and tell them. The street was quiet but not silent. The sound of cars off on the main road still reached her. There was dance music coming from the open upstairs window of number six, flashing lights to match. There were people here, people she knew, people she could trust in a pinch. There was no reason for her to worry and no reason for her to worry her parents either. Let them have their date night. They needed it.  

She pulled the hood up on her cloak. The full moon peeked out from the clouds above her, making her feel safer as she walked. All she needed was a light to guide her and a cloak to shield her. She wished Avril was there to get a picture of her.

Mr. Henley’s house had high hedges, overgrown from the last occupant leaving and something he clearly hadn’t got around to trimming yet, no doubt potent fuel for the gossip mill. She rounded the ragged and reaching branches and found his car idling in the driveway, the brake lights giving a red glow to the living room window. The back-passenger seat was open, a large bag slumped across the backseat. The front door of the house was open too.

As she stood there staring, the emptiness in her stomach turning to worried butterflies, he appeared in the light of the hallway, hurrying down the driveway with his wife in his arms. “Is she all right?” Tabitha asked, alarmed. He didn’t answer as he bent to heave her onto the backseat of the car. Wide eyed, Tabitha couldn’t unsee the snow-white colour of her skin, the red kitchen towel pressed to her face with a shaking hand. There was more than just a spot on his collar now.

“She’ll be fine. We shouldn’t be long.” He grunted as he slammed her door shut and slipped into the driver’s seat. “I’ll have your money when we get back,” he called through the window, but she was too startled to pay attention to him. She was still looking at the frail form of his wife laid out on the back seat. She was propped against the bag, barely enough strength to keep her head up, but she had her hand stretched out towards Tabitha, her glassy eyes telling her she had something important to say. But her husband was in a hurry to leave, pulling out of the drive just as the strength finally failed in the hand that clenched the towel.

Her mouth hung open, blood still dripping down her chest from the ragged tear that had once been her tongue.

The car sped off up the street, no head visible in the back seat anymore. Tabitha’s hands shook on her plate, rattling the loose foil around the dinner she wasn’t so excited about anymore. In a daze she turned back to the house, the front door still open, an ordinary hall with an ordinary light. No ominous red to light up the face of it anymore. The hedge snatched at her as she stumbled past as though to keep her there, to stop her from crossing the threshold. Somewhere an owl cooed softly.  

She hadn’t seen it. It was a mistake, a trick of the imagination.  

She listened for tell-tale signs of little feet or whispered voices but the dark landing at the top of the stairs showed nothing. Her skin felt too warm, her fingers crinkling on the tinfoil in her hands. Something was off and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Dropping her bag on the living room couch among the myriad adorned couch cushions, she headed straight for the kitchen. Everywhere she looked there was sparkling glass and polished marble. She could have fixed her makeup in the mirrored shine of the toaster but she wasn’t bothered by her smudged lipstick right now.

Her mind was swimming. Her phone buzzed in her bag, making her realise as she hurried to answer it, that they hadn’t left a number for her to contact them on in an emergency – they were too distracted by their own. “Hey, thank you so much for the present! I love it! Where did you get it?” Avril chattered excitedly. Tabitha shook her head to get her thoughts straight. She wasn’t feeling faint yet but she was prone to it if she let her blood sugar get low. She made a beeline straight for the microwave.

“Ah, I have my ways. Don’t worry, it was ethically sourced,” she said, her tone flat, emotionless, her mind frozen elsewhere.

“What’s wrong?” Avril asked, always in tune with her moods.

“Ah,” Tabitha uncovered her dinner and slipped it into the gleaming microwave. She watched it revolve behind the glass, tried not to see it as the back-passenger window of a car. “I’m not at home right now…” she started. Avril listened with rapt attention as she tried to get the story straight in her own mind. They’d both ogled over Mr. Henley even as their attentions turned to boys with dyed hair and eyeliner, envied his beautiful wife, their lovely house. Too perfect, Avril had said. She didn’t mention the injury she thought she saw, unable to form the words with her own tongue.

Tabitha finished her story and leaned back on the counter, chewing at her chipped nails. “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t like it. It feels weird here.”

Avril let out a breath that crackled through her end of the line. “This is crazy Tabs, I think you should make some excuse and leave. Get out of there.”

“How can I? They didn’t even leave a number for me to call if the kids need something!” She threw up her free hand in exasperation, half turning back to the microwave but she stopped. Something in her peripherals caught her attention, something darker than the sparkling white tiles on the kitchen floor.

Just like her own house, the kitchen led onto sliding glass doors and a back garden out there in the dark, the woods standing guard at the bottom. They had their utility room in the same spot beside the glass doors, and right now the off-white door was closed. But spreading out from the bottom, through the crack between door and floor, was a dark stain. She was vaguely aware of Avril still buzzing in her ear. “Hang on Avril, there’s something here.”

Her stomach didn’t exist now, there was nothing but empty space in her middle, nothing to even make her feel sick. Slowly she pushed open the door, motion sensor lights reflecting dully off the already drying pool of blood. There was so much of it. Smeared and spread across the floor, like something had been dragged there. This is where he found her.

Her breath stopped and in the silence she heard a creak from upstairs. “Avril, I have to go. I just found a pool of blood in their laundry room; I have to clean it up before the kids see it.”

“Wait, what! You can’t clean it up! What if it wasn’t an accident? What if you’re cleaning up a crime scene?” She stopped; her pale face reflected in the sliding doors.

“It doesn’t matter,” she decided. “If the kids wake up and see this…” she shook her head. “Look, I’ll call you back in a minute.” Before she could protest further Tabitha ended the call. She glanced towards the hallway to make sure she was still alone before she bypassed the child locks on the cupboard under the sink and started pulling out bleach bottles. After some searching, she found a drawer full of kitchen towels – every one of them a glowing white.

She didn’t think she could stomach cleaning everything properly, but if she could just keep the utility door closed, they wouldn’t go in there. If they even did wake up. She used the towels to soak up most of it, found a pair of dainty Marigolds to protect her from the bleach, but she couldn’t stop the questions. Was she helping clean up after an abuser? She couldn’t be done for helping him, could she? She thought of his wide grey eyes, his big pleading hands. She didn’t even know if he was really taking her to the emergency room, maybe he was taking her… somewhere else.

The image of his wife lying helpless and bleeding in the back of the car, one trembling hand reaching out for help filled her mind.

She had only just tossed the last soiled towel into the sink when she heard another creak, this time from the hallway. Two little hands were curled around the banisters, two doleful eyes boring right into her.

“Where’s Daddy?” the little girl asked. She was just as pretty as her mother.

Tabitha pulled her hands behind her back and tried to cover the squeaking of the bloody gloves with her voice. “Hi there! My name’s Tabitha! Your Daddy had to drive your Mummy somewhere so they asked me to come stay with you for a little while. They should be back soon. Is that ok?” Her fingers grappled with the too tight gloves snapping back against her skin.

“Will you read us a story?” Her brother appeared beside her, his face squished between the banisters like he was trying to get his whole head through. His eyes were grey like his fathers. The little girl’s stare was unnervingly aware, watching Tabitha’s every move.

Tabitha smiled as warm as she could. That was something she could handle. “Sure. Just the one. You go pick it and I’ll be up in a second.” The little boy raced to get there first, crawling up the stairs on all fours like a spider, but his sister stopped, sniffing the air, her button nose twitching like a bunny.

“Why are you cleaning?” she asked.

A drop of liquid that she didn’t want to identify slipped inside the wrist of her glove, making her nose scrunch momentarily. “I just spilled something and I didn’t want to leave a mess. You go on up and get the book and I’ll be up in a second.” Hesitantly, she followed her brother up the stairs. The sounds of their fighting over which book to read drifted through the house, the springs crying out as they bounced on their beds in anticipation. Tabitha pulled the gloves off, her skin red and marked where it clamped on her wrists and cut off the blood flow. Quickly she washed her hands, being sure not to look to closely at what was swirling down the drain. Her stomach grumbled at the smell of warm, lovingly made meat seeping from the microwave. She hadn’t even heard it ding.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, a message from Avril. ‘You dead yet?’ she asked. Tabitha ignored it and headed upstairs, thinking that if she could just get the kids back to sleep, she could decide what to do then. Call the police or her parents, anyone else who could actually handle this.

On the way to the stairs she passed bloody fingerprints on the inside of the front door and wished to the gods that she hadn’t answered hers. 

The kids had already tucked themselves into their beds, still whisper arguing as she came in, but they hushed up quickly. Their room was split almost perfectly down the middle, half green on his and half lilac on hers. In contrast to the perfect order to the rest of the house there were stacks of clothes and toys all around, shoes piled up on either side of the built-in wardrobe at the back of the room. That, she would not be cleaning up.

She sat cross legged on the floor between their beds and grabbed the book they’d chosen off the table between them. She had always been a pro at reading bedtime stories, it was one of her favourite parts of looking after kids and something that every kid, no matter the background, loved hearing. Before long they had each slid onto their stomachs so they could see the illustrations.

For once she wasn’t keen on letting the kids see the pictures. This book didn’t look like a kids book at all; it looked like a collector’s item, something a literature professor would have on their shelf for reference. The cover was ancient and scuffed, a muddy green leather, the pages had the musty smell of a church on them, the unmistakable rough edges that a tiny rodent had gnawed. The story inside was Hansel and Gretel.

But soon she forgot about the children altogether, engrossed herself in the detailed illustrations. The drawings were ink artwork, cross hatched to hell, dark, shadowy, and creepy. As she turned each page, they grew more and more gruesome, the image of the witch in the ginger bread house setting her heart racing but the children were utterly still and silent, fascinated by them, and she seemed to have put herself under the same spell, reading the story more to herself than them in the end, her stomach forgetting to rumble, instead enthralled by the flames that licked the flesh of the witches bones.

Eventually Tabitha arrived at her grand finale with a customary flourish. “… and so, Hansel and Gretel, lived happily ever after.” Half-reluctantly, she closed it, her fingers caressing the cover. Avril would have loved to see the pictures in this book. From experience she expected the children to be sound asleep when she looked up. Instead, two sets of vivid eyes met hers.

“That was a great story, wasn’t it? Bedtime now!” She said with quiet excitement. She laid the book on the tiny table between their beds and stood up.

“That’s our favourite story,” the little boy said, snuggling down into his Paw Patrol blankets.

“Because we’re in it,” his sister agreed, her small hand reaching out to take the book and place it gently underneath her own princess covered pillow. Now that the story was over, her spell broken, Tabitha was starting to feel light headed. She turned out the light, leaving the door open just a crack. “Good-,” she hadn’t finished before the question started.

“Are there real gingerbread houses?”

“Is there one in our forest out back?”

“Do witches only eat children or do they eat sausages too?” On and on, without breath or pause. Tabitha tried to break in but they talked over the top of her, drowning out her voice, until her stomach rumbled louder than ever. She laid a hand across her belly, embarrassed and flustered. The two kids looked at each other.

“Do you think our parents would abandon us? Like in the story?” Her heart skipped a beat at this.  “Of course not,” she said, “They love you. It’s just a story.”

They looked at each other, eyes wide and worried. They stayed silent.

“Do you think they’d leave you alone like that?” she asked.

“They already have,” the little boy said slowly, his eyes still locked on his sister’s. He spoke with absolute unwavering confidence and certainty, the way only a five-year-old could.

“That’s not true,” she pressed, “Your parents’ll be home soon. Your mummy just had an accident they need to fix and they’ll be straight back.” She could still smell the bleach on her sleeves from all of the blood she’d cleaned up and wondered if she was lying.

“They won’t be back,” the girl said. Tabitha looked down at her, tiny hands clasped on the bedspread, her innocent brow furrowed. “Once Mummy can talk again, they won’t come back for us. Not after what we did. They have to leave us with the witch.”

Not getting the joke, she shook her head, a cold feeling of dread beginning to drip into her empty stomach. “I’m not a witch guys!” she chuckled, plucking at her crushed velvet skirt and fashionably torn sleeves. “Is it because of how I dress? I just like how this looks. I’m not a real witch.” She wasn’t about to tell them about the spells and hexes her and Avril had tried, the skull she’d left on her back step just that evening. The boy looked at his sister, but she just stared hard back at Tabitha.

“You are a witch.”

Tabitha shook her head, irritation starting to crowd into her mind. She was going to have to break out her stern voice and she didn’t like doing that. The boy looked skeptical but the little girl’s face hadn’t changed. She knew what she knew. “Look you need to get to sleep now, come on.” She tried to close the door again but they cried out in unison.

“But the monsters! The monsters!” The little boy jumped to his feet on the bed and frantically pointed a finger towards the closet at the back of the room, as though clawed hands were already pushing their way out through the slats of the wardrobe doors.

“All right, all right,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose; she knew the drill and was too tired to argue. The tiny handles on the doors were shaped like stars with rounded points. Little safe pentagrams. Tabitha pulled them open and gestured at the void in the back of the closet that was bare without the clothes that were scattered all around the room. Part of her wanted to ask why it was empty, but a larger part just wanted to get it done. “See. No monsters in here. Nothing in there.” She went to close the door but the boy shook his head violently.

“You have to get in! Daddy always gets in and knocks on the back three times to scare the monsters away!” She turned to see tears in his eyes, enough fear to make her heart stutter for him despite her annoyance. Would his father be coming home tonight? Would his mother? She had to stoop to fit through the door, her platform boots causing her to bend almost double so she could turn around and peek back out at them. The bottom of her cloak hung loosely out the bottom. The little girl slipped out of bed and stood by the closet door, watching closely to make sure she did it right.

“Go away monster!” she called out, “You’re not welcome here.” She cupped her ear to the silence that followed and waited. “Happy now?” She turned to look out at them and the door snapped shut on her face. She pushed it. It didn’t budge. She pushed again, hard this time, and a crack of light came in before the door sprang back into place.

“Guys, open the door. This isn’t funny.” She kept her voice low but loud, driving the point home. Little feet pittered and pattered back and forth like cockroaches. Hushed whispers met her ears but there was something off, something missing that made her blood run cold.  “Guys! Let me out, right now!” There was silence. No tiny feet, no hushed operations. Blood rose to her cheeks.

Frantically she worked her fingers through the slats and tried shaking the door. From the sliver she could see through, the bedside light was still on but the room was empty. “Kids? Kids you need to come back here right now or you’re in big trouble!” she yelled as loud as she dared. It was getting harder and harder to control herself in her weakened and frazzled state, and that feeling of cold dread in her stomach was spreading. Had they gone to find the blood? She hadn’t even been told their names so she could scold them properly. She listened hard over her own frantic breathing for the utility room door opening.

Something heavy hit the stairs with a thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Entranced by the drumbeat she watched the door. She could just hear their little voices again arguing. She tried one more time to put her weight against the door but nothing moved. It was solidly built. Built by their father no doubt, built to last. She didn’t say a word as they came through the door, too busy trying to see what they were dragging. And then it hit her, the sounds that were missing; there was no laughter, not a single giggle escaped them, just tiny voices and angry whispers. It wasn’t right. It took another moment for her to compute what she was seeing, another for her nose to catch the pungent sweet smell of petrol on the air.

“What is that? What are you doing?” she demanded. They ignored her, using all of the strength in their tiny arms to push the canister to the bottom of the door, liquid sloshing uneasily against hard plastic. That smell didn’t belong in this fluffy lilac and green room, the smell of death and danger wasn’t supposed to exist in hands so small and soft. Tabitha shook the door, kicked the bottom corner with her boot but it held, not even room for her to pull her leg back. “This is really bad guys; you can’t be doing this.”

The children stood back as it soaked the carpet, their faces set and serious. When it had emptied enough that they could lift is again, they worked together to swing it at the wardrobe door, splashing further and further up. Drops slid through the wooden slats. They worked like they’d done this before, practiced even, their faces scrunched up in concentration. Tabitha fell back as it hit her face, the sour taste making her wretch.

“Where is it?”

“You have it!”

“You were supposed to get it!”

On her knees, Tabitha grabbed at the slats again, now at their eye level. “Guys, what is happening? Let me out right now or I swear!” It was like she wasn’t there, liked she’d stopped existing. The little girl handed something to the boy that glinted in the light. Tabitha’s vision was beginning to blur, but she knew what it was even in double vision.

“Don’t. Please,” she pleaded, her throat scratched and rasping.

“Come on do, it!” the little girl pinched her brother’s arm, making him wince, but he didn’t cry. He used both hands to turn the wheel of the plastic zippo, taking four tries to strike up a yellow flame. He took a step forward, his eyes mesmerized by the fire in his own hand for a moment before they finally met Tabitha’s. He hesitated.

“She’s a witch!” The little girl screamed in his ear. “They left us here to get eaten by her! They won’t come back for us after what we did to Mummy, we have to burn her like the story said!” The little girl’s voice filled the room, filled her brother’s ears, filled the space between the lines in the story book, the white corners of the illustrations. Coughing, Tabitha kept her eyes on him, desperately trying to pull his attention to her.

“This is dangerous, you know that. This is REALLY bad. Just put the lighter down and we can have another story ok? We can do whatever you want if you just let me out. You can still be a good boy!”

Something in the boy shifted, something in her words tipping him over the edge. His eyes glossed over. Her gentle pleas turned back to screaming and cursing, threats that she would follow through on if she only got her chance. She would show them what a witch really was.

The boys fingers let go.

The flames spread quickly, jumping from the door to her clothes, running a line from the hem of her cloak to the fat filled flesh of her skin in minutes. They watched the witch burn for as long as they could, fear overridden by fascination at what they’d done. They watched until the screaming lapsed into a choked silence, until the heat and the smoke became too much for their little eyes and tiny lungs to take, then they ran, leaving the sliding door at the back of the house open.

Hand in hand, the woods swallowed them up.

****

Caroline was still buzzing from the house wine as they pulled back into the estate, her hand warm in her husband’s for the first time in… she couldn’t remember. Red and blue lights flashed across her vision, the fuzz of her brain blown away like mist in a hurricane. A fire engine silhouetted against blazing flames that reached for the dark sky.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, straining against her seat belt. Brian squinted out the windscreen with his tongue between his teeth, his head shaking slowly. He slipped his hand from hers to stop the car. It seemed like the whole street was out in slippers and dressing gowns, kids in pyjamas as they clung to their parent’s legs and watched with pale faces as fire fighters fought to quench the flames at the end of the street. Caroline pressed a hand over her heart and said a silent prayer as she saw their house outside the semi-circle of worried faces.

Whatever was going on, Tabitha was safe.

‘Maybe the Dream Knows What is Real’ by Steve Grogan – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*

****

From the beginning of my life, I knew what purpose I would serve. Clarity hit me the second my father’s sperm pierced the shell of my mother’s egg. Yes, that is how immediate and obvious the truth was. 

Mother gave herself to him that night completely. She wanted his hands, his mouth, his entire body to fuse with her so they could become one. As I got older, I was raised to believe that a woman offering herself in this was to a man was a special occasion, but over time I discovered none of my peers held the same belief. They had hollow caves where their hearts should be. Since they had no problem sharing this treasure with whoever happened to be around. Some would use excused for this promiscuity (like constant horniness, alcohol, or drugs), but I was not blind to the truth. Mine was a generation of misfits incapable of loving themselves, more prone to loneliness and alienation than even the Beats. 

I was unique among my peers because I understood love. Ironically, this meant I was lonely as hell because in their minds I was this weirdo who wanted a serious commitment instead of just empty sex. Over time I came to embrace my individuality/ I wore it like a badge of pride. My problem proved to be its own solution. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

As I was saying, the purpose of my life became clear to me very early on. One might be inclined to thin I am exaggerating, but this realization came to me while I was still hovering in the womb. I was meant to fulfill one role: the underdog, the loser, the one who has bad luck or no luck at all. 

This was the trajectory my life was supposed to follow. Someone or something had already chosen it for me. Into the fluid of the life-giving sac I screamed inquiries and profanities of all sorts, lashing out with my feet when the lack of answers frustrated me. 

Months passed. My development was the same as any other embryo. They physical traits, however, were where my similarities to others ended. I had already gained a realization that I would be different. There would be no one quite like me. 

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Synopsis (from Goodreads) –

He was lost, directionless, unable to find his identity.

He thought he found it in her, which was good because he was teetering on the edge of madness.

She had no way of knowing her actions would push him over the edge.

This is a story about the dangers of depending on others to give you a sense of self-worth, taken to the extreme. It is a graphic, dark story not meant for the faint of heart. The graphic content makes up only 15% of the prose, but it is some of the most harrowing writing ever committed to page.

 

Thoughts –

Maybe the Dream Knows What is Real is the fantasy of an ‘incel’, and I didn’t enjoy it. It certainly is horrifying the way that some people think, especially men who hate women as much as the main character in this book did, but there needs to be more than a glamorized description of their fantasies from their perspective – men hating women for the fact that they are women isn’t interesting, it’s depressing.

As you can see from the quote above, the book begins by the protagonist describing that he understood society and relationships while he was still in the womb and that can basically describe his entire personality. He constantly monologues about how people treat him so terribly because he’s actually so interesting and intelligent, and how women hate him but yet he has multiple girlfriends who he has loads of sex with and breaks up with amicably – there’s inconsistencies here with his account and obviously he’s an unreliable narrator but he’s much too unreliable for the story to work. And nothing comes along to test this guy, no characters try and hold a mirror up to his character, there’s no actual conflict for him that I read until the bizarre final scenes which should never have happened and to be honest I skipped over most of the gore as I could tell where it was going – rape and torture of a woman who did nothing wrong.

The story ends with a scenario that makes no sense – his girlfriend breaks up with him only to invite him to small gathering where she gets with another guy? Why would she do this? To further the plot of course and lead him on a graphic rape and murder spree, why else.

This isn’t a pleasant story to read, and I know it was never meant to be, but when I read a story I want there to be some character or scene or something to cling on to so that I can still believe humanity is not a complete dumpster fire – I didn’t get anything like that from this book. Hearing from a misogynistic murderer why they hate women and want to kill them isn’t interesting especially as the reason is ‘because they’re women’. Killers are only interesting for the stories of the people trying to fight them off, to get away from them – essentially for the humanity and fight for survival that they bring out in others.

Maybe the Dream Knows What is Real is a short and uncomfortable read that holds a niche audience.

 

About the Author (from Goodreads) –

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Steve Grogan has published several collections of poetry and short stories. This is his first story of extended length to be published.

 

Links to Buy and Review –

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

Goodreads.com

 

 

How do you feel about horror stories from the killers perspective? Does there need to be some accountability in their stories? Does exorbitant violence turn you away from a book?

‘Vultures’ by Grant Palmquist – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*

****

At ten o’clock, Trent Sable grabbed the revolver, shoved it in the back of his pants, slipped on his latex gloves, and took the black balaclava from his duffel bag. He stepped out into the humid June night, and sweat rolled from his pores like wax down a melting candlestick. Mosquitoes buzzed around him. One of them landed on his forearm and sucked at his skin. Trent pulled a Marlboro 100 and chrome lighter with Trent etched into it from his pocket, lit a cigarette, breaking his two-a-day habit, and brought the cherry to the mosquito on his arm. It curled into a dry, dead ball and rolled into oblivion, then Trent made his way down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath each step. He could see the light of the Stop ‘N Shop sign by the moonlight, its fading yellow background flickering off and on.

Almost closing time.

The parking low was empty, and the man who owned the place was probably busy cleaning up inside. Trent looked up and down the street to make sure no cars were coming, and he gripped the balaclava tightly in his clammy hand, ready to draw it over his face. He reached the edge of the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The smell of exhaust still hung in the air. Trent spotted puddles of gasoline near the gas pumps and dragged on his cigarette as he passed them, imagining someone drenched in fluid, begging Trent fore help, only to find himself ignited in flames a few seconds later.

Trent laughed to himself.

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Synopsis –

Heath is a family man with a nine to five job, a wife that he loves, and a teenage daughter going through a breakup and the

Trent is a sociopathic killer intent on proving himself a god and uprooting the laws of society. Trent picks Heath and his family as a target and stalks them relentlessly. What happens when chaos targets a middle class family? Can they survive the violence?

Thoughts –

I found a fun thing to do with this book! Here’s a drinking game you can play while reading. Drink when

– eyes are referred to as orbs

– you see the word phantasmagoria

– some ‘gets acclimated’ to sudden light or dark

– a random snake shows up

– Trent seems aroused but then blankly states that he can’t get aroused

– Victoria ignores blatant and immediate danger

– someone is clearly being followed but just shrugs and carries on anyway

– Trent swings ‘up and down’ on the swing

(Please be aware that if you play this game you will die because at least four of these happen in every single chapter)

First of all I would like to say that the general writing of the book is well done, Palmquist has a voice and he uses it and the sentence by sentence structure is well done. It was an easy book to read and if you are interested in synopsis of the book, I would say you should give it a try, however there were a few things that stuck in my teeth like a popcorn kernel, but I wouldn’t say this is a bad book, just possibly a confusing one.

So Vultures sets itself up as some kind of stalker story and I actually got the impression that maybe the family would be held captive in the house by the sociopath and that would be the majority of the novel. I’m not entirely sure where I got this idea from, maybe because Trent wants to destroy their ‘home and family’, so that assumption is on me. However, I did expect more to happen in the actual book than what did.

Without spoilers, there are two deaths pretty early on and this gives the impression that the story will ramp up to something, but the energy fizzles out very quickly after the second woman is brutally killed. I’d like to also point out that Heath the family man with a lovely wife and daughter, doesn’t seem to like women very much. He had a vendetta against Gloria (personally that hurt to read) at work and seems obsessed with hating her, and when he is blackmailed for the murder of another woman who’s body he wakes up beside, he never gives a single thought for the life of that woman. He never even thinks ‘that could be Yvonne or Victoria’, nope, he only cares about his own reputation which doesn’t fit with the character, or at least what we are supposed to believe about the character. Not to mention when Gloria goes missing, it seems more like he’s missing the conflict rather than actually concerned about her well being.

Heath as a character is completely caught up in his own insecurities and anger. Throughout the book he completely leaves his wife in the dark even after it would be far more beneficial to tell her. When it is one hundred percent clear that a verified killer is stalking your family, you tell your wife and daughter, you don’t leave them alone in the house, and you don’t let them leave under any circumstances. Heath just kind of… worries, without telling either of them. And Yvonne, his wife, is characterised as a submissive, loving but unquestioning wife even when her husband disappears for forty eight hours and is acting the weirdest he’s ever acting in their entire marriage. She’s basically not there for the entire story.

Victoria is, for the most part, is an ordinary seventeen year old. Trent tries to seduce her and it’s believable that in her fragile emotional state that she would fall for him, if it weren’t for the fact that he is completely devoid of any charm whatsoever. Serial killers, historically, are known to be very charming but Trent is just boring and mean and Victoria’s obsession with him is unbelievable to me as a reader. There are sermons scattered throughout from the family going to church, the book that I will be honest I mainly skipped because I did my time in church and the first few it wasn’t relevant to the plot of the story. At the end of church one day, for seemingly no reason Victoria declares that her goal in life is to have children. ???? Like, fine if you want to have children, but it was unprompted and told to her father, also at the beginning of the story she says she pledged her virginity to her father (promises her father she won’t have sex until she is married) which is uncomfortable to say the least.

But obviously the family aren’t devout Christians as Heath doesn’t seem to care about the deaths of the women around him. And a main theme in this book is masculinity and what it means. Trent believes he is a true man because he murders, and Heath feels emasculated because he doesn’t? Like you can’t be masculine unless you are violent. And you aren’t truly feminine unless you give birth?

There’s a lot of following but no reacting, there’s a lot of overlapping text conversations that didn’t need to be repeated. What could have been a great standoff between an average man protecting his family and a crazed sociopath hellbent on ruining societal norms, ended up being a strange squaring up that lasted way longer than it needed too, ironically showing two people who are too caught up in stereotypes about masculinity they forget to act out those very violent stereotypes at all.

Vultures is not badly written, but a confused book that is aspiring to greater themes than it displays. There are confused statements about masculinity and femininity and there isn’t as much of a showdown as was promised. Also a lot of ‘society are all zombies who don’t feel anymore’ talk which gets old quick.

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About the Author –

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Grant Palmquist is a writer of dark fiction and horror writer who doesn’t have any bios online that I can find.

Links to Buy and Review –

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

Goodreads.com

Do you like serial killer horrors? What’s your favourite stalked family story? How do you feel about blatant societal narratives in horror?

‘Nomad’ by Jamie Nash – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*

****

 

I’m drowning in blood. 

My brain screams. My feet sprint beneath me, but I go nowhere. I’m paddling, flailing, in a red stew that burns my eyes like an over-chlorinated YMCA pool. 

Chemicals. Fuck. I’m breathing chemicals. 

My arms slam something hard and cold. I’m inside a box, or a closet, or a cage. It’s curved and smooth. Glass. Thick glass. I’m trapped in a bowl like some stupid tropical fish in an orthodontist’s waiting room. My feet scrape against the floor. It’s grilled. A vent. Or a cheese grater. 

I scream, then gag. Something is lodged deep inside my throat. A long, leathery finger stretches past my tongue and worms deep into my airway. It’s a snake. Shit. There’s a snake in my esophagus. I claw and grab at the thing. It slithers in my hands as its rubbery body worms across my windpipe. Its head hisses and flails deep inside my lungs. I keep pulling, digging. Ten inches of rubbery hose spool out. I fling it away. It dances in the bloody murk, blowing a plume of bubbles from its tip. It’s a tube puffing air, a respirator – the very thing that’s been keeping me alive, and I just tore it out. 

Great work, genius. 

My lungs clench, begging for breath. The crimson liquid floods my mouth, coats my cheeks, clogs my nostrils. The foul liquid burns on my tongue. I wretch. It’s gasoline. I’ve siphoned it before. I remember a cousin getting me to do it. Or was it a brother?

Everything’s fuzzy. My thoughts are like a London fog. My memories…

My memories

Where the hell am I?

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Synopsis –

She wakes up in a tube, encased in liquid, drowning. No name, no memories, and apparently on a spaceship hurtling through space – and there are others too. But escaping the pods was only the beginning and there’s danger around every corner of the spaceship. Our protagonist and her rag tag new friends must survive the next few hours while trying desperately to figure out what is going on and who they can trust. And on top of that there’s someone else on the ship intent on killing them all.

 

Thoughts – 

Waking up with no memories and on a spaceship that you didn’t know could even exist is a fear that most people can relate to. For this novel, Nomad,  it’s a reality for our merry bands of random young people and while there’s definitely horror and violence from the outset, our protagonist has the sense of humour to deal with it.

My one and only peeve for this novel, and I do understand why this was the case and it does help the story, it’s just a pet peeve of mine is – there are no chapter breaks. There are no breaks whatsoever bar one or two little star breaks. I imagine the reason for this is because there are no real time jumps until the sort of epilogue at the end, it’s just a continuous present moment narrative which keeps the pace fast and the action coming and the absence of breaks absolutely works for this, however I personally just like to have clear breaks where I can put the book down for a break particularly as I’ve never been a bookmark person. Works for the book, just not for my tastes.

Jamie Nash is a screenwriter for horror movies and family films, and this definitely comes across in the writing of Nomad, but rather than bring out you out of the novel medium, it keeps the break neck pace of the story. This is an exciting and enjoyable novel to read, but you can also see this working absolutely as a television series or even a movie. Yet, it isn’t all about action and visuals, there’s exposition and character development, there’s mystery and a spotted backstory that helps to merge novel with screenplay perfectly.

Our main character (who at one point christens herself Dorothy) is a funny, awkward, and brave protagonist who brings the reader through the story in her unique perspective. In the few hours of her life that you spend with her, she makes friends, loses friends, realises that not everyone can be a friend and is a likeable and comfortable character to head the story of Nomad. Her dark humour is a great contrast to the very real horrors that are happening around her.

Nomad is an adrenaline fueled  sci-fi horror survival story of a woman trying to piece together her past on an alien spaceship. At a pace that will pull the skin off your skull, you’ll tear through this book.

 

About the Author –

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(Taken from the book) Jamie Nash has written for films like V/H/S/2, Exists, Lovely Molly, and Altered. He’s worked on the Nickelodeon movies Tiny Christmas and Santa Hunters. He’s the author of the middle-grade book The 44 Rules of Amateur Sleuthing and the co-author of Bunk! He Lives in Ellicott City, MD. You can see more of Nash’s work on his website jamienash.net and can follow him on Twitter and Facebook.

 

Links to Buy and Review –

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.com

Goodreads.com

 

 

How do you feel about continuous time in stories? Do you need chapter breaks or some kind of breaks in the writing or are you fine with continuous prose? What is your favourite sci-fi horror story?