Three young people walk down a path through a field somewhere. Their figures are tanned and slim against the blazing horizon; their faces are full of energy yet, somehow, oddly vacuous. At least two are girls. The camera seems to linger more on their bodies than anything they say. While it can, it strives to capture everything about them: the unmarked smoothness of their skin, that sense everything is just as it should be.

But then it drifts off the path to an old well. The exterior is cracked and broken; even from the road, there’s something ominous about it. As viewers, we don’t just suspect, we know. A loud rushing fills our ears as the camera swoops over the rim. Perhaps it even shows us the darkness inside, the sick presence of whatever might be in there as one member of the group—let’s call him Chad—happens to notice the well.

“Guys,” he says. “Shit, you see that?”

“What is it?” says another—Ashley. In the 2000s, if the movie had the budget, she might been have played by Paris Hilton or Jessica Alba.

“Ugh, it’s so old!” Sarah, the third member of the group, has dark makeup and a wilder look. “Don’t they know nobody uses these things anymore?”

“Wait.” Chad lifts one toned arm; sunlight dances on his neatly frosted tips. “I gotta go check it out.”

“Come on, Chad. Don’t be dumb. We’ve gotta get to the party!”

“No problem, I’ll catch up in a second. You go on ahead, alright?”

The two girls shrug and walk away, but Chad lingers, looking down. Already, the sound effects have changed: a harsh grating rises beneath the gentle noontime ambience. But then the perspective shifts, and we’re looking up. The creature inside the well sees Chad’s lips purse, bides its time as he nods and steps forward. Every viewer knows that yes, obviously, only a deranged person would come any closer when this is so obviously not a good place to be.

A moment later, Chad climbs inside the well.

What has happened here, exactly? If Chad’s lucky, the scene will cut with a menacing snap, and we’ll be back with his two friends at the party, wondering where Chad went. If he’s less lucky, we might actually see him get swallowed, or eviscerated, or whatever the heck else happens down in that idiotic abyss.

Either way, Chad is gone. Anyone who has ever seen a horror movie knows Chad needed to die. As the audience, you could even say we’re on the monster’s side—watching it kill these people is our whole reason for being here, even if (counterintuitively) we also want the characters to survive. All of this is for us: the build-up. The final rush of blood. And since it was all pretty much destiny, this way is as good as any other, right?

But many things happen in that baffling eternity as Chad slings his leg over the rim of the well. We feel, acutely, the unbearable weight of PLOT hanging over all this. “This person is not like us,” the film seems to proclaim as the vindictive darkness swallows Chad’s screams. And even while his bones crunch, or the creature rips out his spleen, or whatever, the audience is asking, I mean, isn’t he so stupid he sort of deserves it?

Chad’s stupidity signals that he can be easily forgotten. He’ll be less than a memory that night, when Sarah gets murdered after wandering into the middle of a cornfield—even though, probably, she’s heard at the party that people have been disappearing. And it’ll only be later, when Ashley finally battles the monster in a labyrinthine, half-collapsed building she had no specific reason for entering, that we’ll get a sense of somebody who maybe still has a few wires connected in her head.

The Chad who climbs down the well does something no real person would ever do. In the process, he marks himself as a kind of jacked, Zach Effron looking skin with nothing inside it: an entity so different from us he barely merits our attention. And sure, we all know the writers needed to get Chad down the well somehow—but did they really need to pick the easiest way?

What if he had a reason to climb down the well? What if, actually, we couldn’t bear to see him not do it? Wouldn’t the scene be more effective if at least some of us, in his position, might ?

But that presents a different problem. People don’t just hurl themselves into perilous, enclosed places for no reason—and, yeah, when we think for a second. Why the hell would anybody want to go down there? The ultimate answer is probably that Chad and his friends should be somewhere else, doing something that more clearly reflects who they are as people.

But I like this original scenario because it shows the dilemma of writing horror—or, really, of any genre. The challenge can be especially interesting when characters are put in these bizarre, improbable situations; to move them from within, rather than dragging them along with the plot. We must believe this character would do a thing no real person would do.

What exactly would this look like? That question has a million answers, but here’s one possibility.

Maybe, rather than a group of friends, this story is just about one couple—Chad and Ashley. They’re back from out of town to visit Chad’s family, but they’re arguing. Chad has done the kind of stupid thing men do; as they wander across the family property, they come upon the well. Ashley is angry. Chad is carrying a present for his sister, but Ashley grabs it out of Chad’s hand and tosses it into the well.

“Babe, what the hell?” he might say. “Do you realize—that was supposed to mean something, since we forgot her birthday last year? We’re here to—”

“So this is my fault now?” Ashley says. “You drag me all this way, and all you can think about is her—after what she said about me? Really?”

“Goddamn it, you realize now I have to climb down there?”   

“I don’t care. Do it, for all I care.”

Chad opens his mouth to respond, but Ashley is already stomping off towards the house. And of course, Chad could just follow her. But he used to be close to his sister. It’s been months since they spoke: since that last conversation when she specifically accused him of always forgetting about her. And what would she think, after all that, if he showed up to his sister’s birthday without a present? Wouldn’t that make this whole trip a waste? Wouldn’t that prove she’d been right all along?

No. At first Chad hesitates as he looks into the yawning, hungry mouth of the well; but then he shrugs. It’s old, sure—but it’s not that bad, is it? Just a quick climb, and he’ll be up at the party. In the worst case, if the ladder breaks or something, Ashley will come back to find him. And then—this is the best part—she might even feel guilty about all this. Wouldn’t that be sort of great, if afterwards he could (not overtly, but subtly, without saying it) hold it over her? Wasn’t there a chance she might even admit she was wrong?

Yeah, he’ll think, as he lowers himself into the darkness.

It might seem weird, but really, he doesn’t have a choice.

Some wounds are too deep to ever heal.Two brothers from Michigan are reunited after the death of their father. They’ve never been close, but now they have to live together—and it gets more difficult when one discovers a strange creature, vomited from the body of a dead cat. A creature that eats human pain. It feels good: too good. Soon he wants to hurt himself more, just so the pain can be taken away. But the more the creature becomes a part of his life, the more he damages everything around him.



PRAISE FOR KYLE MUNTZ

“Playful and painful and surreally real, and great fun to read.”
—Brian Evenson, author of Song for the Unraveling of the World


“There’s a melodic beat to Muntz’s writing, terse descriptions of events interspersed with sudden bursts of graphic visuals, often macabre in its evocations. It’s a delicate balance, but one he masterfully navigates.”
—Peter Tieryas, author of Mecha Samurai Empire


“Here is prose of a high poetic intensity working in the service of a dark and cool vision… disturbing and enthralling in equal parts.”
—Rhys Hughes, author of A Universal History of Infamy


“One of the strangest, most original things I’ve read this summer… a work of radical, subversive innocence.”
—James Pate, author of The Fassbender Diaries


OFFICIAL RELEASE JULY 2022

It takes a very special series of books to unite two top review sites for a ‘rare as hen’s teeth’ joint feature…. Ginger Nuts of Horror (Tony Jones) and Kendall Reviews (Steve Stred) join forces to rake over the bones of Matt Wesolowski’s superb Six Stories series, which began back in 2016, with book six Demon hitting the shelves earlier in 2022. Both Tony and Steve review a lot of books and often share recommendations with each other, by sheer coincidence they started reading Six Stories at roughly the same time and in their regularly chats decided to join literary forces, as it became apparent they had jointly stumbled upon a series which was rather special.
​
Even more exciting, the project got even more intriguing when the author of the Six Stories series Matt Wesolowski got involved and we feature a brand-new interview in which he answers some of our most pressing questions.

Background to the Six Stories series:

All six novels are written in the same style, are pure genius in their simplicity being the perfect blend of thriller and horror. True crime podcaster Scott King interviews six individuals who are in some way connected to an often-notorious cold case or murder whose discussions attempt to shed new light on the investigation. As the series has continued Scott’s podcast has grown in popularity and although the creator stays out of the spotlight media interest in him increases.


There is also often an undiagnosed supernatural feel to the cases, but because he is not necessary trying to ‘solve’ a murder or mystery there are often enticing threads left hanging and not all questions are necessary answered. For those of you enjoy your crime to be of the type of investigation Miss Marple might lead you may hate these books! But if you enjoy darker explorations which take the side roads, dark ripples into broken psyches, the opinions of bit-players or avenues not covered by the police then these books will blow you away. Some very big names (especially crime writers) have endorsed the series, including Ian Rankin, Joseph Knox, Andrew Michael Hurley, Alex North, James Oswald, CJ Tudor and Michael Marshall Smith. To call them awesome is a serious understatement.


Before we introduce Matt Wesolowski, Tony and Steve rake over old bones…..


TONY to STEVE: What makes this series such a success for you?  Personally, I was blown away from start to finish, it started with a great first entry and it just got better and better.


STEVE: For me, I think it was the realism and the feeling that this was 100% factual. Everything was so cinematic and told with such vividness. It really was like watching a True Crime documentary. I would love to see Wesolowski’s research and plotting for these books. The number of times I’ve Googled something while reading the Six Stories to only find links to that specific book popup is insane!   


STEVE to TONY: Having read all six books now, I’ve a bit sad I didn’t discover them sooner. Can you recall a series like this where you were kicking yourself you didn’t get to them sooner in your reading life?


TONY: On the other hand, discovering them late allows for a great binge! Although I read a couple of John Connolly at random points over the last twenty years, I freshly ‘discovered’ the Charlie Parker novels over the first lockdown in 2020 and read all eighteen very close together. To be honest, when it comes to series I think more of fantasy and detective novels rather than horror, stuff like George RR Martin, Ian Rankin or Michael Connelly are authors I’ve followed for many years. There are always new writers to be discovered and Matt Wesolowski was my absolute major find of 2021.


TONY to STEVE: How well did you think the undiagnosed supernatural element worked? Although this is explained away in some of the threads, it did feature in all six books. I think Demon is the one with most unanswered questions and I also loved the way the series often took in local folklore and traditions peculiar to small areas.


STEVE: Personally, I did love the local folklore within, but it did frustrate me a bit. You’re right, Demon seemed to embrace the supernatural elements the most AND actually dive into them more than the other five did. The series reminded me a bit of the Animal Planet show ‘Finding Bigfoot.’ The researchers would spend a night in an area, have some sort of ‘event’ or ‘incident’ and instead of investigating it more, they’d move onto to another place. That’s actually why I stopped watching that show early on – too much unfilled elements. Wesolowski would tease it A LOT and but the story itself was always so powerful that I wanted to see how things played out.


TONY to STEVE: If Matt Wesolowski wanted to fiddle around with the format, perhaps in a bid to freshen things up what would your suggestions be? This is tricky as the familiarity of the recurring format is one of the great strengths of the series. I guess one suggestion would be finding out more about the podcaster Scott King himself, but we can ask Matt later!


STEVE: Yes, bingo! I think if anything, especially after the revelations in book 3 The Changeling, we could get an entire novel where Scott looks deeper into his own life but without the format. A pure novel of a man trying to find his place in the world when everything he thought he knew was incorrect. I also worry that this might alienate fans of the series though.


STEVE to TONY: On a side note – has Matt pigeonholed himself into this series? I’d be keen to see what he’d create outside of the Six Stories Series, but would people be up to embrace it you think? He does have a 2013 release called The Black Land out.


TONY: Yes, I’ve read it, The Black Land was written before Six Stories entry and is a much simplex piece of writing, which lacks the complexities which makes the series such a unique reading experience. It was published in 2013 and the first Six Stories appeared three years later, I would be very interested in hearing what Matt was up to, literary wise, over that period. I will be equally fascinated to hear what Matt does next, as he has been working with the same tried and tested format since 2016 and that has allowed him to release a book a year. Will he break away from that trusted format and write a straight thriller or horror novel?


TONY to STEVE: This is absolutely impossible to answer because the whole series is so strong, but how would you rank the series?  My list is in the left-hand column.

​Find out more about Matt, and his brilliant books by clicking here ​

THE FIRST HORROR BOOK I REMEMBER READING

All the Marilyn Ross Dark Shadows novels (well, the ones with Barnabas Collins) and then Dracula and The Exorcist, which I remember reading simultaneously.


THE FIRST HORROR FILM I REMEMBER WATCHING 

It was either The Frozen Dead or Ghidrah the Three-Headed Monster, in the Langley Theatre in Hampton, VA, during a spook show where a guy in a monster suit carried off a young woman in a bad, blonde wig.



THE GREATEST HORROR BOOK OF ALL TIME 

For me, always and forever ‘Salem’s Lot.


THE GREATEST HORROR FILM OF ALL TIME 

The Exorcist. There is still no comparison. I also believe that The Shining by Kubrick is the last truly great horror film.


THE GREATEST WRITER OF ALL TIME

Undoubtedly Shakespeare.


THE BEST BOOK COVER OF ALL TIME

I have fond memories of the 1976 embossed, all black paperback cover of ‘Salem’s Lot, with a single drop of red blood. The paperback cover of Jaws is a close second.


THE BEST FILM POSTER OFF ALL TIME

Exorcist, Alien, Blazing Saddles, M*A*S*H and Animal House.


THE BEST BOOK / FILM I HAVE WRITTEN

Ghostflowers.

THE WORST BOOK / FILM I HAVE WRITTEN

Spelljammer: The Ultimate Helm (under the pseudonym of Russ T. Howard). The final book in a D&D series that I knew absolutely nothing about. I decided to just have fun with it, wrote a couple of friends into it, and I wrote the action scenes by channeling Edgar Rice Burroughs and Robert E. Howard.

THE MOST UNDERRATED FILM OF ALL TIME

Two completely different films. The Sweetest Thing, a comedy that grabbed me when I caught it on TV and would not let me turn it off; and Close Encounters of the Third Kind, which may still be Spielberg’s most powerful, impactful film—Ray Bradbury called it a religious film—but people tend to ignore it.


THE MOST UNDERRATED BOOK OF ALL TIME

The Elric series by Michael Moorcock. These fantasies—actually, the whole of his Eternal Champion mythos from the ‘60s and ‘70s—are far better and more imaginative than anything Tolkien ever dreamed of.

THE MOST UNDERRATED AUTHOR OF ALL TIME

There are so many little authors that almost no one has heard of, such as Davis Grubb or Charles Beaumont. But I also think James Lee Burke, for all his bestsellers, is underrated. He’s the best writer in America.

THE BOOK / FILM THAT SCARED ME THE MOST

Film: The Exorcist
Books: ‘Salem’s Lot and The Search for the Green River Killer


THE BOOK / FILM I AM WORKING ON NEXT

The Enigma Club (already written and being sent around by my agent); Shades, a horror novel.

It’s the Quiet Ones You Have to Watch Out For by Stuart D. Monroe


I started out intending to go in one very pointed direction- my tale of getting to my diagnosis (bipolar disorder, for what it’s worth) and how I got there. I was going to use the rawness of my tale to illustrate the importance of destigmatizing mental health issues and utilizing some self-analysis to understand when it’s time to get help. I suppose, in some ways, I might even still get there. Unfortunately, the senseless tragedy of Uvalde happened right here in my home state of Texas, and it set me off down a dark mental path that redefined the nature of this article.

What I’m going to say next will initially shock. Hang in there with me, though…you’ll be picking up what I’m throwing down before too long. I promise.

As a mentally ill person, I empathize with the shooters who arm themselves and commit these horrible atrocities in an attempt to douse the flames of rage they have in their souls.

See? I told you it was a rough statement to digest. And I can already hear people trying to say that I sympathize with school shooters, which is miles away from what I said. Empathizing doesn’t involve feelings of acceptance; you’re not condoning a damn thing! When I say empathize, I mean it in the Merriam-Webster’s sense of the word:

Empathy: (noun) The action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner.

In short, I get it. I just do. Prior to my 2nd grade year, my parents moved us from our idyllic, nuclear family scenario in Clemson, South Carolina to an apartment in Hanahan, South Carolina (a suburb of historic Charleston). They had their reasons, and I’m not here to judge them. The result, though, was a strange new place away from our large extended family. And the next eight years of school were a hell of bullying, fear, and finally rage.

During that time, my Dad and Mom split. Mom fell apart. There were some damn rough patches, to say the least. Through it all, the bullying continued. I wasn’t the literally the lone poor kid in a virtually all-white, well-to-do school full of snobs, but it damn sure felt like I was. My only “live action” friend was my brother, Chris. My best friend was Stephen King, and my sanctuary was the school library. My cathedral was the movie theater; my fellowship occurred with the cases on the video store shelves and the copy of Fangoria or WWF Magazine in my back pocket.

I was a lonely kid, and I became an extremely angry kid who stayed shunned and on the outside. I never made real friends during those formative years. Even the small group of pseudo friends I had in class only kept my company for my class clown antics and stellar grades (manic, anyone?). I was okay to be used, but I was never invited to any birthday parties.

You starting to pick up what I’m throwing down yet?

The end of 6th grade approaches, and I’m being bullied by a big bastard whose name I can’t even recall anymore. He sucker punched me with one of those ubiquitous brass ducks you used to see on people’s glass end tables in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. It didn’t knock me out, but it damn sure put me down on all fours in the dirt with blood dripping out of my notrils. A funny thing happened then- the fear went away. The world got quiet and extremely calm for a few seconds, and then a burning hot poison came boiling up from behind some door in my head that had been previously shut. The curtain came down, and I don’t recall the fight. I was told by a seriously freaked-out teacher that I was snarling and digging my hands in the dirt before I jumped up into his face and went to work.

That happened a few more times. That started to happen every single time someone looked at me cross, and my discipline record grew exponentially. I earned every bit of my reputation as the school psycho. By the time I adopted a devil worshipper persona in the mid-90’s, it was getting really bad. The thought of guns, fortunately, never crossed my mind because…if I’m being brutally honest…I enjoy the up close and wet work. One kid called my future wife (24 years strong!) a slut, and he got hurt very badly. I got expelled and sent away after being pulled out of the classroom by a handful of my fellow football players with blood covering me from fists to elbows and a tooth embedded in my knuckles.

Now I know you’re picking up what I’m throwing down.

It was my freshman English class when it happened. My all-time favorite teacher, Mrs. Morris, gave us an open assignment to say whatever you wanted to say to your classmates. It just clicked. This was the moment that I was going to obliterate everyone and tell them what they’d done to me…and what I wanted to do to them. I didn’t hold back on what they deserved. Mrs. Morris, to her credit, let me have my say. Fun fact: it was the first time I ever dared to speak in front of a class in school ever.

I ended that class period with thirty letters of spontaneous apology. They came up to my desk, one by one, and you could see on their faces that many of them were seeing me for the first damn time! Despite all my violence in school, I was still invisible to the majority of them. Talk about a revelation! That told me more about those quiet kids, those bullied kids, those forgotten kids than any news report ever could.

The lesson stuck. I didn’t kill the sorry motherfuckers with a gun…even though I wanted to. I never lashed out physically again; the energy had gone more or less out of me when it came to that particular crowd of people. I got my shot in, and it was a damn good one that I’m sure many of them still remember. I sure as shit hope they do.
​
I just can’t shake how many kids there are out there like me, suffering through the combination of undiagnosed/untreated mental illness and bullying that are just waiting to explode. I feel that. Some days I still feel the ghost of it, and my brain is screaming at me that we’re doomed to keep repeating this lesson until we collectively pick up what I’m throwing down.

We welcome Ginger Nutter, Amber Logan to the site to mark the cover reveal of her new novel, The Secret Garden of Yanagi Inn, along with an exclusive excerpt from her novel.  You can find the gorgeous cover after the excerpt. 

Cracked doesn’t always mean broken.

Grieving her mother’s death, Mari Lennox travels to Kyoto, Japan to take photographs of Yanagi Inn for a client. As she explores the inn and its grounds, her camera captures striking images, uncovering layers of mystery shrouding the old resort—including an overgrown, secret garden on a forbidden island. But then eerie weeping no one else in the inn seems to hear starts keeping her awake at night.

I jolted awake when the car came to a stop after its long, silent drive. The two front doors closed with solid thuds, but I sat alone in the dark for a moment longer, groggy, and disoriented. The car jostled as the driver unloaded my bags from the trunk, and Ogura-san’s cold figure disappeared inside the inn. I grabbed my camera bag and scrambled out of the car.

The moment I stepped out into the night, the cold air hit me like a slap to the face. I’d been wrong to think that surviving Chicago winters would make everything else feel warm by comparison, but at least this cold came with an invigorating crispness found only in areas far from airports and population density; it reminded me of camping. I spun in a slow circle and no streetlights or storefronts or neighbors interrupted my view of the black night. I breathed in deeply, until a shiver wracked my body.

The building in front of me was traditional, wooden, with a single-story, peaked roof. The structure itself was almost entirely obscured by overgrown, wayward bushes, as if nature itself was bent on swallowing the property whole. The only illumination, save for the pallid moonlight, came from a worn red paper lantern hanging from the covered entrance, shedding its feeble light on walls that were corroded, peeling, as if made of aging parchment.

I was reminded of an art exhibit I’d seen years ago. The gallery’s walls had been covered with large, unsettling photographs of small-town haunted houses, the kind of properties that were only mentioned in whispers and that spawned urban legends. This façade was so forsaken, and so vastly different from the grand entranceway I had envisioned, that I began to wonder whether there’d been a mistake. But then I saw it—a battered wooden sign hanging by the front doors, carved with the name “Yanagi Inn,” and my stomach sank. I was in the right place.
The driver was standing beside me, luggage in hand, waiting. I ducked my head in apology (what was I apologizing for?) and followed him down the short path to the inn’s entrance. The granite walkway was lined with rounded black stones, the rock beds so infested by weeds I feared stepping off the path lest they reach out to trip me. There were no signs of life or movement, no other sounds besides our own hollow footsteps as we approached the inn.

Inside, all was silent and still. We walked through the sparse lobby, with its musty scent and smattering of chairs that looked to be from the 1970s. We passed an unmanned front desk with a worn leather guestbook on the counter and a wall of framed newspaper reviews behind it. We only paused to remove our shoes where the tiled floors of the lobby stepped up to a raised level of tatami matting.

The hallways were dimly lit, and the dry scent of dust and heating elements permeated the air. No one spoke. I followed the driver in socked feet, and he dragged my luggage through the narrow halls, following Ogura-san, although I couldn't see her. The silence was unnerving, accustomed as I was to the near constant commotion of living in a South Loop Chicago high-rise with thin walls and energetic neighbors.

But this silence wasn't the quiet found in relaxing vacation spots; it was more like being trapped in a jar with a lid dampening all outside noise. A muted, deadened soundlessness which made me step even more lightly so I wouldn't be the monster to disrupt it. I half expected to turn the corner and encounter the creepy twin girls from The Shining. I shuddered; why had I let Thad convince me to watch that movie?

After a few turns we came to an abrupt stop and found Ogura-san standing in front of an open door. The driver placed my luggage inside, bowed, and disappeared down the hall before I had a chance to properly thank him. I was loath to break the silence anyways.

A teenaged maid, dressed in a paler blue version of Ogura-san’s kimono, was bustling about the room. She had pushed aside a low table laden with small, covered bowls and was laying out a futon and bedding on the tatami matting.

"Yuna-chan," Ogura-san broke the silence with a stern tone. "Lennox-san would like to retire now."

Yuna spun around, apparently unaware that she had company. Her long ponytail slipped over her shoulder as she bowed. "Good evening, Lennox-san," she said in heavily accented English.

I glanced over my shoulder; Ogura-san had already disappeared down the hall. "Oh, you can call me Mari," I replied softly in Japanese.

A smile of relief spread across Yuna's round, youthful face as she straightened. "You speak Japanese?" She spoke in a slight dialect, one I didn’t recognize.

I returned her smile, though I’m sure it looked tired, strained. "I spent a lot of my childhood here."

Yuna's brow furrowed slightly as she took in my frizzy light brown hair and hazel eyes. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you're not half-Japanese, right?"

I chuckled and waved a hand in front of my face. "No. My family lived outside Yokohama because my father was an American expat working for Toshiba.” I set my camera bag on the floor, rolled my shoulders to relieve the strain. “I went to an international school, but my parents refused to live in an expat haven, so we lived in a normal neighborhood, had Japanese friends.”

"Oh. Why did you move back to America?"

I froze. Did I really want to get into all that right now, with a complete stranger, no less? I looked at my watch, hoping maybe the girl would take the hint. "Well, my parents separated and—"

"Yuna-chan." The dark specter of Ogura-san reappeared in the doorway. "I'm sure our guest would like to retire for the evening."

Good god, yes, thank you. I never thought I’d be relieved to see Ogura-san again.

"Of course, Ogura-san." Yuna's face flushed, and she hurried to arrange the bedding. "What time would you like me to bring breakfast?"

"I don't even know what time it is now," I said with a sigh. "I'm sure my sleep schedule will be off. How about nine?"

I heard a quiet “Tsk” sound behind me. I turned, but Ogura-san was gone.

Yuna nodded, either ignoring or not noticing Ogura-san’s disdain. She showed me the notecard with wifi information, then lifted the lids off the bowls on the table to reveal a variety of individually wrapped rice crackers and, I realized with a pang to my heart, mandarins. "I'm sorry we didn't have a meal ready for you. The kitchen was already shut down."

I walked Yuna to the door. "No worries, I certainly understand. My apologies for arriving so late. I hope I haven't disturbed any other guests." I was reminded of the eerie silence of the dark hallways I'd walked down. Were there any other guests?

"Oh, no need to worry about that." Yuna waved a hand in front of her face and chuckled. "Well, good night...Mari-san." She winked and left the room, sliding the door closed behind her.

I sank into the floor chair beside the table. She seemed like a nice girl, and it was good to have a friendly face here in this foreboding environment, but I had no more energy left to maintain a pleasant façade. I picked up a mandarin, but then replaced it in the bowl. Their presence was just a coincidence, but it still unnerved me. Instead, I unwrapped a large rice cracker and enjoyed a savory, if slightly stale, bite.

I let my gaze roam around the room. Why did a teenager even work in a dilapidated place like this? A low table with a scuffed black top and two matching floor chairs, each with a threadbare red cushion. A single futon mattress with old-fashioned floral bedding laid out on the tatami floor, a standing paper lamp beside it. Several sliding doors leading to a private bathroom, a closet, and presumably out to a veranda. The room’s only decorations were a scroll painted with a stylized kanji symbol and a vase of fresh pine branches, red winter berries, and bright white chrysanthemums. At least the flowers were fresh and new.

The space felt more like some forsaken grandmother’s house than the esteemed ryokan I’d envisioned, but at least it was clean.

After a quick stop in the bathroom (with its disappointingly regular Western toilet), I stripped off the cardigan and jeans I'd been wearing for god knows how many hours and stared in the mirror. Bags under my eyes, my hair a stringy mess, my face greasy. Too angular, haggard. I looked like shit.

If only I could blame it all on international travel.

Too tired for a shower, I threw on pajamas and switched off the shoji paper lamp. When I flopped down on the futon it emitted a faint floral scent, just as you’d expect at a grandmother’s house. The mattress was firm, perfect really—the kind of bed I'd always wanted to sleep on when we lived in Japan, but Risa and I both had frilly pink princess-themed canopy beds—which Risa loved.

But I didn’t.

My body was heavy, sluggish, but my mind wouldn’t stop whirling. I was in Japan again, after so many years. I would wake up tomorrow in a strange bed with new surroundings, new obligations, new people, and…

I needed my sleeping pills. But no, Risa had given me a hard look when she’d found the bottle in my luggage and handed me the bag of melatonin lozenges instead. But I’ve always hated having something in my mouth when I’m trying to sleep. It feels like an obvious choking hazard, like giving a grape to an active toddler.

Whatever. I closed my eyes, practiced my breathing exercises again. Breathe in, one-two-three, breathe out, one-two-three.

My heart rate slowed, my mind settled. I focused on the silence in the room. Somewhere a clock tick, ticked away the seconds. I started to drift off into a fuzzy realm filled with the steady hum of airplane engines and the quiet rustles of a hundred passengers shifting in uncomfortable seats when another sound invaded my mind.

A low, mournful keening.

It sounded like a far-off wounded animal, a whining dog. This was an isolated place—could there be coyotes? My eyes opened slowly. Were there even coyotes in Japan? I held my breath, listened with ears attuned to the eerie, distant sound.

No, it wasn’t a howl. Was someone crying?

Mom.

I was a child again, lying in my princess canopy bed, pillow pressed against my ears to block out the sound. A whimper in the matching bed against the far wall; Risa must’ve heard it, too.

‘Go to sleep, Risa,’ I whispered, and she fell silent. But the weeping from our mother’s room continued…

It’s not Mom, Mari.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

My thoughts flew, perhaps rashly, to the young maid. As I strained to hear the whimpers filtering through the thin walls of my room, I clenched my jaw to keep my own emotions in check; I'd spent too many nights balanced on the brink of inconsolable tears not to relate. Yet what would a young girl like Yuna (for she couldn't be older than 16 or 17) be doing in a place like this so late at night? Did she live here?

I opened my eyes again, stared at the dark ceiling somewhere above me. Maybe the cries really weren’t human—a fox? Some kind of bird?
​
Or maybe they were just in my mind—childhood memories, emotional projections.
Or premonitions.

Cracked doesn’t always mean broken.

Grieving her mother’s death, Mari Lennox travels to Kyoto, Japan to take photographs of Yanagi Inn for a client. As she explores the inn and its grounds, her camera captures striking images, uncovering layers of mystery shrouding the old resort—including an overgrown, secret garden on a forbidden island. But then eerie weeping no one else in the inn seems to hear starts keeping her awake at night.

Despite the warnings of the staff, Mari searches the deep recesses of the old building to discover the source of the ghostly sound, only to realize that her own family’s history is tied to the inn, its mysterious, forlorn garden . . . and the secrets it holds.

​Author Bio:
Amber A. Logan is a university instructor, freelance editor, and author of speculative fiction living in Kansas with her husband and two children—Fox and Willow. In addition to her degrees in Psychology, Liberal Arts, and International Relations, Amber holds a PhD in Creative Writing from Anglia Ruskin University in Cambridge.