It's Halloween, and we are proud to welcome Rebbie from Rebbie Reviews to the site with her article on why she loves Halloween 

I was not a popular child. Quiet, reserved, sensitive, I was an easy target really. I did have friends, but at times the fun was aimed at me rather than inclusive of me so I took solace in reading. It was a chance to disappear into another world where I was a fly on the wall of whatever was going on. At that age I loved bright colours and couldn’t stand to be in dull clothes for long.

I grew up in a Christian household, it wasn’t overly religious or strict really. There were just certain things we did differently to other families. I was part of church related groups throughout my childhood, rainbows, brownies, guides, pathfinders, the Church Choir, so I spent a lot more time within those walls than other children I knew did. People talk about the church being a community, a family but that wasn’t really how I felt. I felt it was a competition to be the best Christian, who was there most often and who could do most for the church. This was difficult with a disabled sister who required medical attention, but I always found the kindly responses when they saw us again to have an underlying snark to them, a quiet judgment.
I never really got to engage in Halloween activities. We didn’t have a lot of money so decorations and pumpkin carving etc weren’t a thing in our house. Mum and Dad would buy Halloween themed things from time to time, like green ketchup labelled as Witches Snot. I hated that bloody green ketchup, my imagination was a bit too strong for things like that so I imagined it really was snot. Much the same as when my sister ruined mushrooms for me by saying it was like eating slugs. We didn’t do trick or treating as my parents felt it was too much like begging, we didn’t have a lot of money either so we weren’t supposed to open the door on Halloween. This forbidden world lodged itself in an anxious corner of my heart, waiting.

I have two memories of my family actually embracing Halloween, one was at a Halloween Party at the dance school we all attended. My family wanted to go as the Addams Family so they did, but I didn’t want to be the little boy, so I went as a witch. I actually really regret that. My family was embracing Halloween, and I point blank refused to be part of their theme. The other experience was going to a “Light Party” a church led party for those who don’t do Halloween. It was, for want of another word, crap. I wanted to be out trick or treating, dressing up and carving pumpkins.
I decided once, that I wanted to have a Halloween sleep over, I spent the day baking Halloween cakes and putting together a small feast but nobody wanted to come over, they were busy going trick or treating.

One year, on Halloween, my parents and sister were out and I was home alone. This was the day my love for Halloween was truly born. I was given one instruction. Do. Not. Open. The. Door. I wasn’t great at being home alone as a kid, my head would start giving me all kinds of terrible situations and being afraid of the dark didn’t help with that at all. I remember I was laying in bed watching television,  my head filled with thoughts of people putting fireworks through the letterbox if you didn’t open the door, I have no idea what the film I was watching was but there was someone on a mobility scooter going along the moors, and they fell off the scooter landing on a bed of spikes which impaled them,  simultaneously a loud noise went off outside, immediately I turned off the television, but I knocked the remote for the lightswitch in doing so. Panicking, I turned everything off and laid there holding my breath in silent prayer waiting for something bad to happen.
Something changed that night, and as I got older, my tastes got darker, music got heavier, books turned to crime thrillers, ghost stories and the macabre. Heading into my teens my clothes got darker, I found it fascinating to research serial killers, try to get into their heads and understand what made them tick. Understandably my parents had their concerns as we would discuss the crimes of the likes of Richard Ramirez or Carey Stayner over the dinner table. Over the years they got used to me and even tried to encourage me to head for Criminology as a career.

At the age of 13, I went Trick or Treating for the very first time. My mum loaned me a dark coloured dress and I used an edwardian apron she’d made me for our school centenary when I was in primary school. Painting my face ashen with a bullet hole directly in the middle of my forehead and braiding my hair I became, in my mind, a terrifying apparition. Every year after that I found a friend who was going trick or treating and went with them, and fast forwarding to about two years ago, I had my very own Halloween Wedding. Unfortunately actual Halloween was too expensive, so I flipped the digits and we were wed on Friday 13th 2017, the daytime an elegant white wedding in a hotel, the evening a Halloween Party with full fancy dress.

Halloween will always have it’s place front and centre in my heart. I adore everything about the season and these days I can be found throughout October and November, in my kitchen making pumpkin soup, pumpkin pies and oven baked pumpkin filled with hot and spicy chilli. I carve a pumpkin every year, dress up and wait for the children to come knocking. Inevitably I end up eating more sweets than planned because it’s quiet.

I live in hope that one day I’ll achieve the coveted “Halloween House” status, like Lex H Jones whose annual Halloween Bash hits the gold standard.

 
It’s possibly fair to say that no mass-murderer has left quite such a wealth of dark legends as the man that nineteenth-century England called the Whitechapel Murderer, Leather Apron…    The man the world came to know as Jack the Ripper.

When I started to write Music Macabre, the fourth outing for music researcher and historian Phineas Fox, I didn’t really intend Jack to be a major player.  Phineas, happily pursuing scholarly research into the life of Franz Lizst, was meant to unexpectedly come upon a fragment of music – a song – that seemed to have links back to the Ripper’s reign.

But somehow – very gradually and almost without my realising it – Jack got into the story in a far stronger and much more insistent way than I had bargained for.  He was present in every plot twist, he influenced characters’ motives and directed their actions – it was as if he peered out of every dark shadow surrounding the nineteenth century players, and reached out to the present-day through them.

Even today, the truth about Jack’s identity and his eventual fate remain the subject of disussion and speculation.  Films have been made about him, books have been written about him, and the theories posed as to his motives and his identity range from the sensible and near-credible to the outright bizarre and the wildly fantastical.  He has, severally, been credited with being a person of some prominence – a leading doctor or surgeon – a member of the police force, or the government – a famous painter – a leading Freemason.  Some theories connect him to royalty – even to having been royal himself.  

Whoever he was, inevitably I faced the problem of what to do with him in the closing chapters.  Generally, a villain does have to be given his or her just deserts in the final chapter.  It’s not exactly a convention that has to be observed, but it’s expected.  Even if he/she isn’t tried and sentenced in the conventional manner, some kind of fate has to descend. This might cheat an author of writing a taut courtroom/prison cell scene, but it does open up a beautiful range of dramatic possibilities, including sending the culprit tumbling over the Reichenbach Falls, being submerged beneath the Paris Opera House, spontaneously combusting like Krook in Bleak House, or falling into the jaws of a crocodile as Captain Hook memorably did in Peter Pan. 

But how do you deal out a fate to Jack the Ripper?  Particularly when the theories and suggestions as to what happened to him and why his killing spree stopped are almost as thick on the ground as the speculations as to his identity. 

He died…   He fled to an unnamed country…  He fell into the Thames and drowned…   He was hauled off to a lunacy asylum, either because he had not been recognised for what he was, or because he had been recognised, but was too well-known a figure to stand trial. 

Could you even let him go, and allow yourself the fun of allotting to him one of the hammy Hammer finale lines?  Fu Manchu, in the last reel of most of the film versions of Sax Rohmer’s books, comes to mind here – he had the way of raising an elegant hand, and portentously announcing that, ‘The world will hear from me again.’

And, as far as anyone knows, the world never did hear from Jack the Ripper again.  His legacy remains, though – it still reaches into the present, and it’s that dark legacy that brought about the writing of Music Macabre. 

Researching a biography of the composer Franz Liszt, Phineas Fox uncovers evidence of a brutal murder - and finds his own life in danger.

​Music researcher Phineas Fox has been enjoying his latest commission, gathering background material for a biography of Franz Liszt. But although he has - as anticipated - uncovered plenty of scandal in the 19th century composer's past, matters take a decidedly unexpected turn when his investigations lead to Linklighters, a newly-opened Soho restaurant built on the site of an old Victorian music hall, and unearth evidence of a possible murder involving the notorious music hall performer known as Scaramel.
Just what was Liszt's connection to Scaramel ... and, through her, to the infamous Victorian serial killer Jack the Ripper? As he delves further, Phin's enquiries uncover clues to a fascinating and extraordinary story - and plunge his own life into jeopardy.

To celebrate the rerelease of Usbornes' World of the Unknown: Ghosts, Ginger Nuts of Horror has invited some of the UK's finest horror writers to tell us about their encounters with Ghosts.   First published in 1977, this cult classic has been reissued for a new generation of ghost-hunters. This book is for anyone who has shivered at shadowy figures in the dark, heard strange sounds in the night, or felt the presence of a mysterious 'something' from the unknown.

Ghost stories are as old as recorded history and exist all over the world. Many of the different kinds of ghosts that are thought to haunt the Earth and their behaviour are described here. You will meet haunting spirits, screaming skulls, phantom ships, demon dogs, white ladies, gallows ghosts and many more.

This book also explains the techniques and equipment of ghost hunting and tells how lots of 'ghosts' have been exposed as fakes or explained away as natural events. Also included are some theories that attempt to explain the possible existence of ghosts.

With a brand new foreword by BAFTA-winning writer, comedian and actor Reece Shearsmith, otherwise the book remains unchanged from the original.

Today we welcome author Matt Cash  to the site with his tales of two encounters of the spooky kind.

Matthew Cash, or Matty-Bob Cash as he is known to most,was born and raised in in Suffolk; which is the setting for his forthcoming full length novel Pinprick which is due for publication with Knightswatch Press in 2016.

He has always written stories since he first learnt to write and most, although not all, tend to slip into the many layered murky depths of the Horror genre.

His influences ranged from when he first started reading to Present day are, to name but a small select few; Roald Dahl, James Herbert, Clive Barker, Stephen King, Stephen Laws, and more recently he enjoys and has what he refers to as a 'major book-on' for Adam Nevill, F.R Tallis, Michael Bray, William Meikle and Iain Rob Wright (who featured Matty-Bob in his famous A-Z of Horror title M is For Matty-Bob, plus Matthew wrote his own version of events which was included as a bonus).

He is a father of two and a husband of one, he'd happily have more but he doesn't think his wife would be too happy

Check out Matthew's books on Amazon by clicking here 

​THE SNOWMAN: A TRUE STORY
This is a ghost story and also an explanation as to why I fucking hate The Snowman. His stupid floppy hat, his stupid scarf. Why would the damn thing, whose very existence depends on not reaching a temperature above freezing, need a bloody scarf? And the deformed bulbous tomato nose. That was the first thing that bugged me. Everyone knows that snowmen should have carrot noses.

The one in that Disney film, the one that all the kids went mad on last summer, he was a proper snowman.

Up until the age of seven, given the right weather conditions, if somebody were to have asked me if I wanted to build a snowman, I would have jumped, well not jumped, I was a fat kid. I would have visibly rippled at the prospect of constructing a frozen centurion to guard my garden. But since that one night in a cold dark December, I would have told potential builders of the things to fuck off!

The night was dark, as it generally is, but in the deepest depths of my home village in Suffolk, well about thirty minutes from a train station and a few pubs, it was deeper and darker. This was back in the idealistic days when we got the correct weather assigned to the right time of year. Global warming, technology and paedophiles hadn't yet been invented.
The 1980’s saw happy childhood Christmases, where Christmas was exciting and Slade and Wizzard were new to me.

My parents' house was a normal little three bedroomed semi-detached, structurally sound, red-bricked and amusingly called Ivy Villas. There was no ivy upon it, each of the houses on our hill was named after a lady and were built at the turn of the twentieth century. I was glad my parents never bought Fanny Villas.

Christmas back then was magical and something I've often tried but never been able to recreate since. Santa was real but called Father Christmas and a tree stood boldly in the corner of our living room, the bare trunk totally obscured by an avalanche of brightly wrapped presents.

Lights. Lights everywhere, multi-coloured miniature lanterns strung up around any available ceiling space, crisscrossing with strings of greetings cards raining glitter down on anyone who walked beneath.

We would have the traditional family Christmas, my mum, dad, big brother and three elder sisters who were at least twenty years older than me.  The sisters were as diverse as each other, ranging from the youngest, all blonde and blue eyed, mummy's little good girl, to the wayward witchy looking oldest with her waist-length black hair and rebellious taste in men. The middle sister was a combination of the two but autistic, the mind of a child in the body of a twenty-something.

My big brother, the closest to me in age, was my idol and together with my niece, who was between our ages, we would conspire as we sat by the fire.

Goaded on by the cackling Witch Sister, the Good Sister and she would tell realistically simple ghost stories to frighten the three of us when not in earshot of our mother, The Boss, for their own amusement.

My brother would be indifferent and my niece would subtly mask the embarrassment of her mother, the Witch Sister by dressing and undressing her Sindy doll whilst staring doe-eyed at her shiny new Rick Astley LP.

But I was the youngest and extremely susceptible to tales of things that went bump in the night, especially when said stories were tweaked so their locations were in my immediate vicinity.

We had tales about how the Witch Sister was combing her hair in the large oval brown framed mirror that hung above the fireplace and how she saw a small boy behind her in old tattered clothing. He wept silently and asked for his Auntie Flo and had vanished before she turned round.

The strange apparition known as the Brown Man, a tall, dark haired man that appeared in sepia in a brown suit and peeped out from behind our living room door. It was rumoured he was my mother's father and the fact that his description corresponded with the old sepia photograph which sat on the mantelpiece, taken on his twenty-first birthday, only clinched the deal that this also was true, to me.

Ghostly whispers and visitations were rife in our house and each one was nowhere near as terrifying as the one they told me about Mary. The Middle Sister.

With a horror-loving mother and three crazy sisters, I grew up inadvertently catching glimpses of the classics of Hammer Horror and the like. One film I recall seeing parts of was that Stephen King one about the telekinetic prom queen.

Telekinesis, the power to move or manipulate objects using your mind.
"Don't upset Mary or she'll go Carrie on you," my sisters would threaten if me, my niece or brother played too loud or boisterous.

Mary was autistic and very independent to a certain extent, apart from her childlike behaviour. She could prepare her own cold meals, do various household chores to help our parents and had her own little paradise.

Mary's bedroom was at the back of the house, the most distant room, conjoined to my parents'. This is where she would spend the majority of her time, drawing, colouring or listening to music.

Some of you may think that we kept her in there out of the way, like a lunatic in an old Hammer Horror film, but she had free reign, could go wherever she pleased. One trait of Mary's was talking to herself. I guess it was the same as an imaginary friend, she would hold silly conversations with herself about the most random of subjects.

She would ask herself a question and respond in an alternative, slightly deeper voice.
"Mary?"
"What?" Sometimes she would answer herself impatiently, mimicking our mother when irate and her constant badgering.
"You going to sleep yet?"
"No. In a minute." And so on and so forth. As a bystander and juvenile I always found it amusing and endearing. I knew I had a 'special' sister and sometimes when I look back, I wonder whether she was the sanest of my trio of sisters.

Witch Sister crouched over us with a malicious glint in her eye as she relayed the time she woke up one morning when she had stayed over and lain in bed listening to Mary chattering away to herself from inside her bedroom. At first, she never paid her any mind and just tried to blot it out and kill a few more hours sleeping, but then she noticed something strange in Mary's usual doolally dialogue. There was only one voice.

The lower of her two voices was answering questions that were either not asked or unheard. Noticing a difference in Mary's usual behaviour, she got out of bed and opened the door separating my parents' bedroom from her's. The talking stopped at the squeak of the brass door knob and my sister saw that the room was empty. Then apparently a voice came from the corner of her room and as there was nobody in there, Witch Sister got on her broom and flew.

My puny little mind shrivelled up into an even smaller ball sitting by the fire that night as another instalment in the legend of Mary Willis went live.

Whether it was my sisters' scare tactics ensuring us kids behaved around Mary or not, this still left me traumatised. So petrified was I, that I was living under the same roof as some potential ghost -talking, telekinetic Michael fucking Myers clone, that I was scared to go near her for fear of being mentally thrown across the room and used as a human dartboard whilst unseen apparitions whispered in my ears.

It was bedtime and seeing I was suitably frightened, Witch Sister took my niece and went home and left. As I was the youngest, I was sent to bed first, with a mug of cocoa to give to Mary whilst I was up there.

I climbed up the creaky, thick-carpeted stairs, opened the door to my bedroom on the left and walked through the door on the right, leaving it open behind me.

As I walked across my parents' bedroom, cocoa in hand, the white-glossed door of Mary's bedroom seemed to breathe like the door in Hill House. I tried to keep calm, avoided looking at the full-length mirror in my mother's wardrobe in case a pale ghostly face stared mournfully at me, and concentrated on the Minnie Mouse mug of cocoa and completing my task. Get it over and done with as quickly as possible and run to the sanctuary of my bedroom, the only bloody room that hadn't been corrupted by my twisted sister's tales.

I kept telling myself that they were just trying to scare me, to make sure we kept the noise down and were good around Mary as she was prone to temper tantrums at the slightest thing. She was a loving sister and even though she was twenty-two years older than me, almost like my little sister.

The brass doorknob squeaked its distinctive squeak as I turned it and pushed the door open. Mary lay on her bed going through the wonderful pictures she had been drawing of her favourite Disney characters. I quickly put the mug of cocoa down on her bedside cabinet and moved to leave the room. In my haste, I didn't see the felt tip pen until I saw the mug slowly roll and topple over the edge of the cabinet.

Mary cried out and the power went off.

Thinking I was about to experience the wrath of Mary, I turned and fled, only to freeze in my tracks as something floated across my parents' room in the moonlight. The Snowman.

Hovering in the air, my He-Man pyjamas prolapsing from its arse like a weird kite tail, was my snowman pyjama case. It flew straight toward me on a gust of Arctic wind. I saw it so vividly, the black, coal lifeless eyes and the red bulbous, poisonous nose, the perpetually cheery face as it walked in the air towards me. Never had I witnessed anything so terrifying. I yelled and screamed and literally shat myself as it hit me full in the face and I cowered on the floor in my rapidly dampening tracksuit.

My father explained how the fallen cocoa over the plug socket had made the electricity go arse over tit, as pouring liquids into plug holes sometimes had that reaction. Mary had naturally been responding as a child, maybe anyone would upon seeing their eagerly awaited yummy beverage go tits up all over the floor.

But seeing as my mother and father swore blind that everyone else in the house was downstairs at the time, no one could explain The Snowman. My dreams were troubled for a while after that, did I have an autistic sister capable of telekinetic feats? Was it a case of poltergeist activity? That snowman pyjama case went straight into the collection for the village jumble sale and I never did wear the He-Man pyjamas again.

So that is why I fucking hate The Snowman.

Daisy staring at ‘ghost’ taken without filter]
​

This winter will see the first running of the UK Ghost Story Festival, coming to Derby over the weekend of 29th November-1st December. Celebrating one of the most iconic genres of fiction, UKGSF will present a host of readings, interviews, panels, workshops, screenings and more!

The event kicks off on Friday 29th November, where the weekend will open with two writing workshops – Introduction to Ghost Stories and The Elements of a Ghost Story – before an evening film programme at the fantastic Museum on the Wardwick venue. This ghost story triple-header kicks off with the classic The Innocents at 6pm, followed by haunted house comedy Beetlejuice at 8pm before wrapping up with acclaimed modern horror Ring at 10:20pm. Readers will also be well served during the evening, with multi-award winning folk horror author Adam LG Nevill launching his latest title The Reddening at QUAD, along with a late night reading to close off day one.

Saturday 30th November is the peak day of the Festival, where you will be able to see a host of panel discussions, talks, workshops and more besides. Topics include ‘Atmosphere In The Ghost Story’, ‘Researching Ghost Stories’, ‘Who Are the Best Ghost Story Writers Ever?’, ‘What Is The Relevance of The Ghost Story Today’ and many more. The headline authors for the evening are Johnny Mains, whose keynote talk ‘Lost Voices – Female Authors and The Development of the Victorian Ghost Story’ will be offering an insight into one of the most fascinating eras of the form. Following that, the event will be offering an exciting double-bill with two of the most prominent modern authors in the field, Andrew Michael Hurley (The Loney, Devil’s Day, Starve Acre) and Laura Purcell (The Silent Companions, The Corset, Bone China).

Sunday 1st December will see the conclusion of the festival, including a double-header of documentaries on two of MR James’s most beloved ghost stories and sessions looking at Netflix’s The Haunting of Hill House, Charles Dickens’s immortal Christmas Carol, editing an anthology and much more besides.

Event co-ordinator Alex Davis said: ‘I’m delighted to be getting this event off the ground, and even more pleased with the line-up we’ve managed to pull together. We’ve got a great mix of sessions looks at the classics of the ghost stories, as well as plenty of spotlight on modern favourites too. Whether you’re a writer, reader or viewer in the form, there’s bound to be something for you over the three days of UKGSF!’

Tickets can be bought for individual events, or passes for available to both Saturday and the full weekend. For more information on the event line-up, or to get tickets, visit https://www.derbyquad.co.uk/UKGhostStoryFestival. You can also follow us on Twitter at @UKGSF1

In the meantime come join us on social media at @UKGSF1 or check out our Facebook event page here.
CONFIRMED AUTHORS :
Charlotte Baker
James Brogden
Sophie Draper
Sue Eaton
James Everington
Simon Fairbanks
Andrew Michael Hurley
Paul Kane
Mark A Latham
Alison Littlewood
Johnny Mains
Adam LG Nevill
Marie O’Regan
Laura Purcell 
Rhiannon Ward
Martyn Waites
Lewis Williams

London native C. C. Adams is the author behind urban horror novella But Worse Will Come. His short horror fiction appears in publications such as Turn To Ash, Weirdbook Magazine and The Black Room Manuscripts.
 
A member of the Horror Writers Association, he still lives in the capital. This is where he lifts weights, cooks - and looks for the perfect quote to set off the next dark delicacy. Visit him at www.ccadams.com
 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009243996916
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MrAdamsWrites
 
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/C-C-Adams/e/B00J438GCI
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/C-C-Adams/e/B00J438GCI
 
THE FIRST HORROR BOOK I REMEMBER READING 

Ah, man, now I’m stumped already? First horror book? Probably something like Damien: Omen II. And the reason why I remember that one was because it had the raven on the front, along with the tagline, ‘The first time was only a warning.’ I mean, all three of those books were in the house: The Omen, Damien – Omen II, and The Final Conflict. Each of them had the 666 inside the letter ‘O’. But for me at that young age, maybe about 9 or 10? The name of the book, as well as the 666 was lost on me. But a bird on the front? Yeah, I’d have a look at that.


THE FIRST HORROR FILM I REMEMBER WATCHING 

Pretty easy – that was Them! Black and white film. I remember seeing this massive ant come over the top of a sand dune or some such and thinking, “Man!” That was such a way-out thing. I must’ve been about, what, 5 or 6 years old at the time? Back when TV sets were green screens and curved like a goldfish bowl.
 
Notable mention has also got to go to Night Of The Demon. We had an old school projector in the house with two films: one of them being Night Of The Demon (and the other I now know is The Hideous Sun Demon). I always remember the scene on the railway near the end, where the piece of parchment gets caught and our man is picked up and clawed by a 50-ft demon. See, some time later, this was one of the reasons that The Exorcist was such a revelation – no pun intended. The idea that a demon could ‘fit' inside a human.

THE GREATEST HORROR BOOK OF ALL TIME 

Hmmmm. There’ll be an honourable mention or two here. Nods to Stephen King’s "Pet Semetary” which is my favourite King book to date. Also to Brian Keene for “The Rising”, which – as I've told Brian himself - is my favourite zombie story of all time: book, TV or film. Yes, including the likes of Resident Evil, Night Of The Living Dead , and The Walking Dead. Seriously: read it for yourself – it’s that good. The Exorcist: which I've only read in the last few years, despite having watched the film back when I was about 7. Joe Donelly’s “Incubus” – which is a masterclass in pace and restraint in the narrative. Gave me the creeps reading that shit in the daytime. Aidan Chambers’ “Book Of Ghosts & Hauntings" that I got when I was 11. Arguably my gateway drug to some serious horror. Anyone remember Aidan Chambers?
 
But the most likely contender? Right now, it's “Thor", written by Wayne Smith. A werewolf novel, but told from the perspective of the family dog – and that alone makes for a fresh narrative. For those who know the horror film 'Bad Moon', this is the book the film is based on. And I've had this book on heavy rotation for so damned long, I've now got it on Kindle to ensure I don't wear out the print copy from over-reading. Go figure.

THE GREATEST HORROR FILM OF ALL TIME 

Easy – John Carpenter's "The Thing." I must've seen this back when I was about 10 years old, after my brother had talked it up to me. The poster had thrown me and I couldn’t figure out what the Thing was and I asked him if it was an animal or a vegetable (like the Krynoid in that Dr. Who story The Seeds Of Doom). He tells me, “it's whatever it wants to be.” Which leaves me thinking, “man, what kind of foolish answer is that?"
 
Then I finally see the film – and it's the best damned film I've ever seen, earning a 9/10. There's no film I'd give 10/10 to, because I don't believe any film is that good. My close friends know if I give a film more than 5/10, it’s got to be some kind of good – at least for me. But The Thing is top notch. The direction is spot on. Unlike so many horror films I’d seen back then, this one was set out in a wilderness: Antarctica. It was an all-male cast. A black character survived to the end – years before the likes of Get Out. The monster didn't have a specific appearance, even though it had a specific type of appearance. There’s no blatant tension music, unlike countless other horror films when the monster is on screen. I know the film’s had a reputation as truly terrifying, but here’s the irony. As much as I no longer watch horror films as they genuinely scare me, The Thing hasn't scared me once.
 
Some years back, there was a fan essay doing the rounds: 'All About The Thing’ by Robert Meakin. The T's and C's for the essay are, and I quote:
 
This eBook may be copied and distributed as long as certain rules are observed:
• It is copied in entirety. Nothing may be added or removed.
• Robert Meakin is identified as the author.
• It is distributed for free.
 
 
The reason why I quote this is for those who’d want a copy. FYI, there's a copy for download on my site here: https://www.ccadams.com/single-post/2018/10/06/The-Thing---A-Personal-History
 
As a fan of the film, I’ve seen it countless times. I’ll continue to. Last year, I finally got to see it on the big screen as well. But the film is more than just the sum of its parts. Beyond the special effects, there’s the photography, acting and a genuine sense of threat. Part of what makes the The Thing work and the monster so terrifying and dangerous is its ability to hide. With the benefit of the fan essay, I’m still finding stuff in the film that I’ve missed on previous viewings. Including whether Macready and Childs are both human by the end of the film.

THE GREATEST WRITER OF ALL TIME

No hard and fast answer for that one. I can cite those who’ve written some of my favourite works though. Michael Crichton, for Jurassic Park, Timeline and Disclosure, to name a few. Jo Nesbø for his Harry Hole novels – The Snowman, Cockroaches: those are just a couple of my favourites. Again, Joe Donnelly for Incubus, Brian Keene for The Rising, Wayne Smith for Thor. Lincoln Preston for The Relic. All about Zilashkee’s child, known as ‘Mbwun’, and “she says, ‘you take devil in box.’” There’s a number of works with a unique style and flavour: it’s just a case of what I’m fiending for at that time.

THE BEST BOOK COVER OF ALL TIME

Again, there’s a whole bunch of contenders here. I don’t necessarily judge a book by its cover, but it’s definitely a factor that sways me to buy. “Mad Dog” by J R Park was one of those: blood splatter in a suggestion of the head of a snarling lycanthrope. My copy of Lincoln Preston with a flash of fanged jaws and the tagline, ‘Natural selection is about to begin.’ Kelley Armstrong’s “Bitten”: a blonde silhouetted by a full moon. Joe Donelly’s “Incubus”: a photo negative of a woman with the tagline, “What kind of baby steals a mother?” Lots of good out there.

THE BEST FILM POSTER OF ALL TIME

Hmmmm. The one for John Carpenter’s "The Thing" - the one with the Norris-head on the front; ‘Look closely at your neighbour. Trust no-one.’ I like that.
 
Countless films have come out over the years and I’m racking my brain for a good example or two because I’ve never really given it thought. The poster for the original Fright Night film is cool. No: short of rummaging through all my DVDs and VHS tapes, I can’t really think of any other candidates.

THE BEST BOOK / FILM I HAVE WRITTEN

To date, I’d go with the novella 'But Worse Will Come’. One, because it's something that I can read as a reader, despite the fact that I wrote it. Two, because it was the original draft was knocked out in a speedy 3 weeks – something I'm still proud of. Three, because it scared me to the point where I slept with the light on; and still do.
 
Plus, it’s the third story in an arc: starting with Sanity Slips Through Your Fingers (in the DeadSteam anthology) and following through the original short story Sunset Is Just The Beginning (a free read on my site). So this was the first time I really got stuck into expanding a story beyond just one tale, as it were. And I was telling this to Paul Feeney at this year’s Edge-Lit: I just love the idea of how you'd give the goods to your reader. All those plotlines and arcs that thread through various works. All those little hints and Easter eggs – the kind of things that wow your audience and keep them engaged.


THE WORST BOOK / FILM I HAVE WRITTEN

Tiki-themed tale called Something In The Wood. And, to be fair, I can look back on it now and think it started out pretty well. But the editor that rejected it for that anthology deemed there was too much innuendo and not enough substance. And you know what? They were right. Man, that thing is embarrassing to look at, let alone the fact that I actually submitted it. But that was way back when, so thankfully my craft has evolved since.


THE MOST UNDERRATED FILM OF ALL TIME

Daredevil: the one with Ben Affleck as Matt Murdock. Not the Director’s Cut, which, to my mind, was ridiculous, but the Theatrical Cut. And here’s an irony: despite me being a lifelong Spider-Man fan, my favourite comic-book film of all time is probably this one. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve watched it. The overall narrative, the action, the performances, the photography. Oh, man.
 
I remember when the trailer dropped for this one: I was amped. Couldn’t wait. Came out in UK cinemas on Feb 14th, 2003, if memory serves. The website for the film had all the cool interactive content, like using your hyper-hearing to tell who was lying or not, stuff like that. (Do films still have that; those sites around release time? The last one I remember was for The Thing prequel – drilling the block of ice, etc.)
 
The film itself had story, grit, and one of my favourite fight scenes anywhere: the one in the bar. "What do you want?" "Justice.” So Daredevil turfs the billy-club in Quesada’s mouth, and everyone reaches for their guns. But Daredevil’s not fazed. He starts kicking beer bottles at the fluorescent tubes, putting out the lights in the bar. Too cool.
 
Even small scenes like Wilson Fisk walking with his entourage. Such a nod to the source material – again, bear in mind, I'm a Spidey fan, rather than a Daredevil fan:
 
"I want you to create a paper trail. One that can be traced to Natchios.”
"Sir?"
“The press want a Kingpin. So I’ll give them a Kingpin. Get me Bullseye." – I just love how Michael Clarke Duncan delivers that line. It's beautiful. The voice, the walk, the suit, the cane, the cigar. It’s all on point.

THE MOST UNDERRATED BOOK OF ALL TIME

Not sure I could pick just one: there are so many works out there by so many authors. There’ve been some works which I feel are underrated because they cry out for adaptations to big screen or small screen, but aren’t there yet. J R Park’s "Mad Dog” is one. Erik Hofstatter’s "Rare Breeds" is another - it's got a macabre sensibility and it’s unflinchingly nasty. Mark Morris’ short story “Full Up" is another one.

THE MOST UNDERRATED AUTHOR OF ALL TIME

Good question. I really can't say. Partly because I’m pickier than most when it comes to books, film, or whatever. And partly because I think, as writers, we can all be some kind of underrated anyway. Even for writers with the biggest marquee value, the average person on the street might know their work, but I don’t think they'd recognise the author behind it.


THE BOOK / FILM THAT SCARED ME THE MOST

Definitely the remake of “The Fly." See, I can always watch the film up to a point: around where Brundle calls Ronnie back to see him, and he’s walking with canes, his skin is worse, his ear falls off, he vomits on his food. Now the narrative that brings him to the point (and beyond) is solid – it’s a tragic accident that alcohol and jealousy cloud his judgement. So he teleports. But he doesn’t realise that a fly slips into the pod with him.
 
So to start with, he feels better for it – until he gets a rude awakening, and then replays the fateful teleportation. Even with the arm-wrestling scene, I could just about stomach the film.
 
But I had the misfortune to walk in on my brother and his then-girlfriend watching the film in the dark. And it’s the part where Ronnie has torn off Brundle's jaw and the rest of his decaying skin sloughs off. When I saw the eyes slop out of Brundle’s head, I nearly passed out from fear. And if I didn’t run from the room, I would have.

THE BOOK / FILM I AM WORKING ON NEXT

Currently with edits for a new novella or two. After that, it’s on to the new novel. I don't even have the ending for it yet – just the elevator pitch. I’m looking forward to outlining this one though: it'll be supernatural in nature, but a departure from my previous work. Plus, it’ll deal with a theme I know very little about, so it’ll be cool to do some legwork and research. See how I can weave it all together.