Today we are honoured to bring you an excerpt from Gavin Gardiner's latest release For Rye. 

And be sure to check back on Thursday where we will be hosting an interview with Gavin.  

Renata Wakefield, a traumatised novelist on the brink of suicide, is drawn back to her childhood hometown following her mother's ritualistic murder. Before long, she becomes ensnared in the mysteries of Millbury Peak as one question lies heavy:

Who killed Sylvia Wakefield?

As the answer draws nearer, as madness continues to envelope the quaint country town, Renata will come to realise that the key to all this insanity lies with one man – the world’s leading writer of horror fiction. His name is Quentin C. Rye, and he will guide her to the revelation that true madness lies within.

Discovering that the darkness of her family’s history runs deeper than she ever could have imagined, Renata Wakefield’s eyes will finally be opened to one single, hideous truth, which will awaken a long dormant evil.

1

Knives.
‘Madam?’
Everywhere, knives.
‘Are you all right?’
Knives in the eyes of every onlooker, each glance carving red-hot rivulets of pain through her flesh.
‘You’ll need your ticket.’
Everywhere, knives; everywhere, eyes.
She plunged trembling fingers into her worn leather satchel. Damned thing must be in here somewhere, she thought in the moment before her bag fell to the concrete flooring of Stonemount Central. The ticket collector’s eyes converged with her own upon the sacred square slip, tangled amongst the only other occupant of the fallen satchel: a coil of hemp rope.
They stared at the noose.
The moment lingered like an uninvited ghost. The woman fumbled the rope back into the bag and sprang to her feet, before shoving the ticket into his hand, grabbing her small suitcase, and lurching into the knives, into the eyes.
The crowd knocked past. A flickering departure board passed overhead as she wrestled through the profusion of faces, every eye a poised blade. The stare of a school uniformed boy trailing by his mother’s hand fell upon her, boiling water on skin. She jerked back, failing to contain a shriek of pain. Swarms of eyes turned to look. The boy sniggered. She pulled her duffle coat tight and pushed onward.
The hordes obscured her line of sight; the exit had to be nearby, somewhere through these eyes of agony. She prayed the detective – no, no more praying – she hoped the detective would be waiting outside to drive her, as promised. One last leg of the journey, out of the city of Stonemount and back to her childhood home after nearly thirty years.
Back to Millbury Peak.
She stumbled into a standing suitcase. The eyes of its owner tore at her flesh as she knocked it over and scrambled to regain her footing. She dared not look back as she struggled away, silently cursing the letter to have dragged her back to this unfamiliar hell, to have ripped her from her haven hundreds of miles away, forcing her to trade her cottage on that bleak, storm-soaked island for a town she hadn’t called home for decades. Not since the accident. Not since the seventeen-year-old had found in white corridors and hospital beds a new home. But this wasn’t about her. No, this was about an elderly lady, butchered. She was returning to Millbury Peak for her mother, her sweet, slaughtered mother. She slipped a hand into the leather satchel--
It would have held.
—and felt the coarse hemp of the noose against her fingers. She shouldn’t be here. She would have been gone--
It was strong, solid.
—had it not been for the detective’s letter. Gone to nowhere, forever. No more knives, no more eyes. She’d planned to be gone. She should have been gone.
The beam would have held. It was strong, solid. It would have held.
With desperation she glanced around, the exit to this damned train station still hidden from view. She spotted a gap in the bodies. Through this gap she spied solitude: the open door of a bookshop, deserted. She went to it.
The woman lunged through the door, the teenage cashier behind the counter glancing up momentarily before returning to her magazine, uninterested. She shuffled between the rows of bookcases and backed into an obscured, shadowy corner to calm herself. She passed her hands over her bunned hair, quickly checking the headful of clips and clasps before once again reaching into the satchel. She closed her eyes as she ran her fingers over the coiled noose. The knives, the eyes, the faces. Soon, they’d all be gone.
Soon, she’d be gone.
She was turning to leave the bookshop when a thought came to her. A gift for her father, how nice.
just bruises
After all, they were separated by decades from their last meeting. Yes, she’d see if she could pick up one of her novels for him. How lovely, how nice.
My love, they’re just bruises. He would never hurt us, not really.
She was tiptoeing through the bookcases searching for the romance section when, upon turning a corner, she found herself in the midst of a towering dark figure. She reeled back, before realising the figure was a cardboard cut-out. The blood-red shelving of its book display fanned around the figure, macabre imagery making it obvious as to which genre it subscribed. The man depicted in the life-size cut-out wore a dark turtleneck and tweed blazer, an expression of calculated theatricality staring through thick horn-rimmed glasses. The sign above read:


Horror has a name:
Quentin C. Rye
Choose your nightmare – if you dare


The display’s centrepiece was a pseudo-altar upon which sat the author’s latest release, a hardback titled Midnight Oil. She was turning from the display when her eye caught a thin volume squeezed between spines of increasingly doom-laden type, many screaming the words NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE. The novel calling to her had only two words trailing its spine, two words that seemed to speak to a place buried deep within her. She reached for the book.
Its cover depicted a woman standing in the middle of a road, an emerald green dress flowing behind her in the fog. This road was empty but for one vehicle: a rust-coated pickup truck from which flames billowed, flying in its wake like tin cans from a wedding car. It tore towards the mysterious woman, who stood fearless in the face of the hurling metal. Horror Highway, the title read.
Suddenly, blinding pain.
The paperback dropped from her hands. Agony flashed through her head, tearing like a claw, then fell away as quickly as it had risen. She looked down to find her knuckles white around a wheel that was not there. Struggling for breath, she released her imaginary grip as a stray strand of hair floated into her vision. In a panic, she picked a fresh kirby grip from the handful in her duffle pocket and fastened it amongst the mass already intricately fixed. A loose strand meant something out of place. Something out of place meant disorder. Disorder meant disaster. She closed her eyes and thought of those long white corridors, sterile and simple, everything in its place. Her breathing settled. She’d never really left hospital, or maybe hospital had never left her. She slowly opened her eyes and turned from the Quentin C. Rye display. Find the book – it’ll be nice – then get out of here.
…he would never hurt us.
Romance read faded lettering above a shelving unit at the far end. She stepped towards the unassuming section and traced a finger along the alphabetised volumes towards W.
The cashier scanned the book’s barcode, offering the woman not a glimmer of recognition.
Just how she liked it.
#
‘From one writer to another, being spotted with your own book ain’t the most flattering of images.’
The voice materialised from many. She stood at the pick-up spot on the street outside the station, hesitating before looking around to the source of the voice. She glanced instead at the book in her hands as if to remind herself of whom the voice spoke:


A Love Encased
The latest in the Adelaide Addington series
Renata Wakefield


‘Miss Wakefield,’ the voice said with a New England twang, ‘it’s a pleasure. Big fan.’
She turned to find a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses watching her, the same glasses from the Quentin C. Rye display. The same face from the Quentin C. Rye display.
Quentin C. Rye.
‘My wife is anyway – ex-wife, that is.’
Her mouth refused to open. The burning pickup truck and emerald green dress filled her head.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you, Renata,’ he said, slipping a fat leather notebook back into his blazer. He ran his fingers through slicked back hair shot with streaks of grey, then held out a hand. ‘Don’t mind if I call you Renata?’
So many years avoiding human interaction and it should be this American to greet her upon resurfacing? Of all people, of all eyes, why were his welcoming her back to the place she hadn’t called home for three decades? You couldn’t write it. She should know.
Renata stared at the outstretched hand.
‘Your work’s kinda outside my field of expertise,’ he continued, twirling a pen between the fingers of his other hand, ‘but I’ve been assured you’re quite the talent.’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Name’s Quentin. The local cops asked me to help with the investigation after your Mom’s…uh…’ His brown frames glanced over her shoulder. ‘Detective! How’s it going? You guys know each other, right?’
The bulky detective stepped towards Renata, his wrinkles multiplying as he strained against the afternoon sun. ‘We did a long time ago.’ He smoothed his long navy raincoat, chewing on a toothpick straight from a forties noir. ‘Maybe long enough for you to have forgotten. It’s Hector, Detective Hector O’Connell.’ He held out a hand. This one she shook, noticing its slight tremble. She risked a glance at the man. He was right: she barely remembered this greying face in front of her, but she did recognise something pained in that deep-set gaze. Not the beginnings of jaundice-yellowing looking back at her, but something else, something that stared from every mirror she’d ever gazed into. Whatever it was, it didn’t stab with the same ferocity as those in the station.
She looked away.
‘Your parents have been friends of mine since you were a girl, Miss Wakefield,’ he rumbled, scratching his sweat-stricken bald head. ‘I’m the officer who contacted you following your mother’s death.’ Then, lowering his voice, ‘This must be a lot to take in. There’ll be time to talk in the car, but know that Sylvia Wakefield was loved by everyone in Millbury Peak. We’ll find her killer.’
Millbury Peak: a name both vague and clear as crystal.
‘I’ll follow,’ said Quentin. A cigarette had replaced the pen twirling between his fingers. ‘Listen, I’ve rented a little place on the same side of town as your dad’s house—’ Little place. The bestselling horror novelist of all-time had rented a little place. Renata glanced at the detective, sensing from him the same cynicism. ‘—so I’ll be nearby if you need anything. Besides, I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow.’ He pulled a crumpled packet from his blazer pocket. ‘Kola Kube, Ren?’
Ren…?
‘Mr Rye,’ Hector began, ‘I’d ask we reconvene after the service. Sensitivity is paramount at this time, and your presence at Sylvia’s funeral may be unwise.’
Quentin nodded, stuffing the packet back into his pocket.
The detective took Renata’s meagre suitcase and led her to a battered Vauxhall estate, as tired and worn as its owner. A carpet of empty whisky bottles, no effort having been made to hide them, clinked by her feet on the floor of the passenger side. His sweat-laden brow, trembling hands, and yellowing jaundice eyes suddenly made sense. She looked warily out at Hector.
‘Small suitcase, Miss Wakefield. Travelling light?’
‘I won’t be around long.’
The detective smiled and gently closed the passenger door as she stuffed the book bearing her name into her satchel. Rope brushed her finger.
It would have held. The beam, it would have held.
The slam of the driver’s door made her jump, causing further clinking at her feet. Hector glanced at the glass carpet. ‘You should know, I just quit,’ he said. ‘Still to clear those out.’ He pulled an old pocket watch from his tatty waistcoat – navy, like the raincoat, shirt, trousers, and every other article of clothing besides his shoes – and popped the cover’s broken release switch with his toothpick. ‘It made me slow, sloppy. The drink, I mean.’ He gazed at the timepiece. ‘Going to have to sharpen up if we want justice for your mother.’ He stared at the pocket watch a moment longer, then closed the cover and slipped it back into his waistcoat. There was a roar from behind. ‘These Hollywood bigshots,’ he grunted, pulling himself back to reality as he wrestled the car into first gear, ‘need to be seen and heard wherever they go.’ Quentin’s motorbike revved again. ‘Never thought I’d have a Harley tailing this rust bucket.’ The estate coughed to life and dragged itself from the car park.
The main road to Millbury Peak passed through twelve miles of lush English countryside beyond the city of Stonemount. Their route ran alongside the ambling River Crove, its waters losing interest intermittently to swerve off course before re-emerging from behind the oaks and sycamores. Renata gazed at the rolling fields. The air, smell, and purity of the green expanses reached to the girl she once was. Her reverie was shaken by the bellowing of Quentin’s bike from behind, begging for tarmac.
Hector yanked the gearstick, a cough hacking from his throat. ‘It’s been decades, I understand that. If I had my way you wouldn’t have been called back to Millbury Peak at all. Still, procedure’s procedure, as Mr Rye kept telling me.’
‘Why wouldn’t you want me called back?’ Renata tensed. Was she doing this right? She curled her fingers, pushing her long nails into the palms of her hands. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just…well, I’ve been away a long time, but she was still my mother.’ She hesitated. ‘And may I ask, Detective…why is a horror author assisting in a murder investigation?’
Hector jabbed his teeth with the toothpick. ‘I was thankful for us having this time together before the funeral tomorrow, Miss Wakefield. There’s things you need to hear.’ He wiped the pick on the torn polyester upholstery. ‘I’d like to be the one to explain the circumstances of your mother’s death. I’d rather you had a reliable account to weigh any rumours against. The manner in which your mother passed was somewhat…’
His bulk shifted.
‘…brutal.’
Now it was she who shifted. What ‘brutal’ end could Sylvia Wakefield possibly have met? Locking her eyes on the asphalt streaming beneath them, she cobbled together a mental image of her mother’s face. So many memories washed away piece by piece with every passing year, but Sylvia’s face remained, even after all these decades. Still, it had been so long. Why had she let the death of a virtual stranger postpone her suicide? How could her end to end all ends possibly get sidetracked by some woman she hadn’t even seen in--
Promise you’ll be there for him if anything happens to me.
She clenched her fists.
‘As for Mr Rye,’ Hector continued, ‘you have every right to ask why he’s here. The nature of the murder requires his presence, Miss Wakefield. You see, from the evidence available at this time, it seems the incident was…how can I put this?’ He paused. ‘Inspired by him.’
Renata looked up.
‘Not that he’s a suspect.’ He rolled his shoulders as if preparing to jump the tired Vauxhall over a ravine. ‘I’ll be straight with you. Sylvia – that is, Mrs Wakefield – was found in the church across the fields from their house, the same house you grew up in. You remember the church, yes? The one with the clock tower?’
Clock tower. Renata’s lips hinted a smile.
‘Miss Wakefield, we have reason to believe whoever’s responsible for your mother’s death was making a statement.’
She felt like a patient being drip fed. Suddenly she knew how the crawling Harley behind them felt. She took a deep breath. ‘Detective O’Connell, yes?’
‘That’s right, Miss Wakefield. Or Hector, whichever you’d prefer.’
She picked at her beige Aran knit. ‘Detective O’Connell, I’ve come a long way to say goodbye to my mother and to make sure my father’s in good hands.’ …my love, they’re just bruises… ‘If you don’t mind, I’d ask one more thing on top of the kindness you’ve already shown.’ A strand of wool came loose. ‘Be straight with me.’
For a fleeting moment she allowed his stained eyes to meet her own. She’d spent a lifetime filling pages with other people’s emotions, yet, living the life of a recluse, she had little personal experience of such things. Somehow, through second-hand knowledge gained in a childhood lost to books, her writings had become like the voice-over in a nature documentary, expert narration on something she could see but never touch. That same narrator gave a name to the thing behind this man’s eyes, muttering it in her ear: sadness.
‘Yes, I apologise,’ he said. She felt him flatten the throttle. ‘Your mother was found bound on the church altar. I’m afraid…well, I’m afraid she met her end by way of…’ He cleared his throat. ‘…fire.’
The estate lurched as if the man had just broken the news to himself.
‘What are you telling me? She was burned?’
‘Yes.’ The detective straightened. ‘The remains of Sylvia Wakefield indicate she was restrained and set alight. However, I must add there’s no evidence to suggest she was conscious throughout. No gag of any kind was recovered, implying there was no need to prevent unwanted attention by way of, well, screaming. For this reason I surmise she was rendered unconscious or passed away before her…’ He swallowed. ‘…lighting.’
Her stomach cartwheeled, then whispered: That’s your mother he’s talking about, the woman who raised you. Burnt. Like a witch.
‘A note was found near her body, Miss Wakefield. It’s this note that links the crime to Mr Rye. His most recent novel, a thriller by the name of Midnight Oil, features the strikingly similar scenario of a woman being bound and set alight upon an altar by the story’s antagonist, who recites a rhyme throughout the murder. Aside from the method of execution, it is this rhyme that connects your mother’s death to Mr Rye’s latest work.’
‘The note,’ she said, eyes cemented to the grey conveyor belt passing beneath, ‘my mother’s killer left the rhyme at the scene?’
‘Midnight, midnight…’
His voice lowered.
‘…it’s your turn. Clock strikes twelve…’
Her breath caught in her throat.
‘…burn…’
She felt her hands tighten around that imaginary wheel.
‘…burn…’
She thought of the flames.
‘…burn.’
White light exploded from infinite points. She gasped as the pain tore through her head.
‘Miss Wakefield, are you all right?’ Hector asked. ‘I said too much. You understand I just wanted you to hear the truth from a reliable source.’
The motorbike lost patience and powered past them. Renata ran her fingers over the coiled noose in her satchel, stroking the coarse hemp like a cat in her lap. Soon she’d be gone.
Her breathing levelled.
‘Sorry, no. I mean, it’s alright,’ she stammered. ‘I’m just tired from the journey.’ Her hand stilled on the rope. ‘Has Mr Rye been questioned?’
‘Yes,’ said Hector between chesty coughs. ‘He cooperated fully and his alibi checks out. Poor man. Years spent writing the damned thing and some psycho comes along only to use it as a how-to manual.’
Poor man, indeed. Forges a career in torture porn, makes millions of dollars, and finally inspires someone to set fire to an old lady.
‘Yes, pity,’ she agreed.
‘Anyway, he’s devastated at the thought of his work having played a part in all this. Personally, I can’t stand what he does, but I respect his efforts to put things right. He rented his…’ Hector smiled. ‘…little place, and has done everything he can to help with the investigation. He’s become quite the regular around Millbury Peak.’
‘And my father?’ Renata asked hesitantly, rubbing her wrist. ‘What’s he got to say about Mr Rye?’
The detective’s smile faded. ‘Still wears that same old vicar garb, but don’t be fooled: he hasn’t much positive to say about anything these days. That’s another reason I wanted to explain to you the circumstances of Sylvia’s – I’m sorry, Mrs Wakefield’s – death. It’s better coming from me than him, I think you’ll come to agree.’
She already did. Her entire adult life lay between this day and the last time she’d seen her father, and yet the spectre of Thomas Wakefield had always loomed, like the ghost of a man not yet dead. Through the vast void of time, his fist forever reached.
She squeezed the noose.
…he would never hurt us.
#
The afternoon sun slid down a cool autumn sky as the Crove, in all its fickle meanderings, finally reconvened with the lurching Vauxhall. Quentin’s Harley had long since shrank into the horizon, leaving behind only the coughs and splutters of Renata’s ride. She gradually began to notice the lush fields and clear sky lighten in tone.
They were driving into a haze of mist.
Detective O’Connell switched to full beams and squinted through the windscreen. ‘Not far now, Miss Wakefield,’ he said. ‘Just as well. Can’t see a bloody thing.’
Shapes formed in the fog. Tight-knit ensembles of cross-gabled cottages and Tudor ex-priories emerged around them, triggering neural pathways long since redundant in Renata. The town was a snapshot dragged into present day, some kind of Medieval-Victorian lovechild refusing to bow to the whims of natural progression. You could practically sense from the rough brickwork and uneven cobbled roads the stubbornness with which this town opposed modernisation of any kind. It was stuck in the past, and perfectly content. The familiar forms of Renata’s childhood, of this frozen town, assembled themselves as Millbury Peak unfolded in the mist.
Yet there were still gaps in her memory, scenes spliced beyond repair. There was just one thing of which she was sure: she shouldn’t be here. She’d come back on the strength of a promise made when she was just a damned child. What had she been thinking? By now, it should all have been over.
It would have held.
‘That’s Mr Rye’s rented house on the left.’ He pointed to the Georgian manor rolling past, Quentin’s Harley already leant against a side wall. ‘I can tell he meant what he said. He really does want to help if you need anything.’
‘I’m sure my father and I will be fine, Detective.’
Their route was leading out the east side of Millbury Peak when she spotted a stone finger pointing to the sky. Renata’s eyes widened. The clock tower dominated the fog-drenched fields.
Hector glanced over. ‘Must be a lot of memories.’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
And yet so few.
#
Detective O’Connell shut the engine off outside the house and heaved the handbrake with both hands. Renata pulled the book from her satchel.
‘A gift?’ asked Hector.
She looked at the thin paperback. ‘I thought my father might like to see one of my novels.’
She felt the detective’s gaze linger on the book in her hands. He scratched his stubble. ‘Like I said, your parents are old friends of mine. I watched your father’s health decline, his body wither, the untreated cataracts turn him blind. Thomas is not the man you knew. Although in many ways…’ He glanced at the house. ‘…he’s exactly the same.’
She stuffed the novel back into her bag and smiled at the dashboard. ‘Well, I suppose I can’t expect a blind man to get too excited over a book.’
‘I wouldn’t expect your father to get excited over anything, at least not in a good way.’
She stepped out of the passenger door onto the gravel track and stared at the towering monstrosity before her, part of her begging to get back in the car and escape to somewhere else – anywhere else. She tightened her coat.
It was a memory made real. The two-storey Victorian farmhouse had been acquired long ago by the parish for use as the town vicarage, lying conveniently close to both Millbury Peak and the church a few fields over. The struts of the wrap-around porch had seemed past their prime when Renata was a girl; now, the boards and beams resembled mildew-ridden sponges, with each of the roof’s wooden shingles seemingly ready to fall to the ground with a splat.
The entrance, bay windows, veranda: all irrationally tall. The entire house looked stretched like an absurdist caricature. It dominated the fields, both a monument and a tomb. Most of all, the thing was spooky, an image of cut-and-paste cliché from a Quentin C. Rye dust jacket. The Dreaded Ghost House of Doom. Or something.
Hector set down Renata’s suitcase and joined her in the shadow of the house. ‘I won’t get in the way of your reunion,’ he said. ‘I’ll be over to drive you to the funeral tomorrow.’
She stole a glance. Sadness, that expert narrator muttered again. She jerked her gaze back to the house.
‘I really am sorry,’ he said, voice low. ‘Sylvia was an admirable woman. Mr Rye does want to assist any way he can, and I’d like to extend the same offer.’
‘Thank you, Detective. I’ll remember that.’
‘You have a life outside of Millbury Peak, Miss Wakefield,’ he whispered. ‘No one will judge if you return home after the funeral.’
‘I have to ensure my father’s wellbeing,’ said Renata, rubbing her hands. They were clammy from the journey and could do with a good wash. ‘Once my brother and I have arranged care for him, I’ll be leaving.’
It’ll hold.
Hector’s eyes dropped. ‘Miss Wakefield, Noah won’t be coming.’
She straightened. ‘He won’t be attending the service?’
‘Actually, it’s unclear whether your brother will be coming to Millbury Peak at all.’
She bit her lip. ‘Why?’
‘It was another officer who spoke with him, so I didn’t get all the details. Family commitments or something.’
As excuses to dodge your own mother’s funeral went, ‘family commitments’ was pretty rich. Like everything else in this town, her memories of Noah were vague. There was enough, however, to render this behaviour all too believable.
‘I see,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Nevertheless, I’m glad you understand I may not be staying long.’
She felt him level his gaze.
‘Yes. You should leave.’
A sharp wind blew up her back. Before she could respond, the stocky detective was trudging back to his car, slamming the driver’s door, and turning on the ignition. He rolled down the window.
‘My regards to Mr Wakefield,’ he said. Then, in a hushed tone, ‘Remember, I’m here.’ The rusted estate lurched into the fog. She took a deep breath.
The woman looked up at the house.
2






The house looks down at the girl. 
It’s like a scary face, maybe even scarier than Mr Farquharson’s when she hadn’t done her homework, or Mrs Crombie’s when she caught her snooping around her garden, or Father’s when he’s having an angry day. Come to think of it, maybe not scarier than Father’s. His could get SUPER scary.
But the house is like a scary face, that’s for sure. There’s loads of windows – not too many to count, but maybe too many to count on one hand. There’s two above the porch, glaring at the little girl like a pair of eyes. The front door is a mouth, ready to gobble her up.
Anyway, it’s definitely scary, and not the kind of surprise she was hoping for when Mother said Father was waiting in the car to take them somewhere. No ice cream, no penny chews, no trip to the funfair. They have popcorn at the funfair, that’s what she’s heard. Not that she knows much of that kind of thing, but the funfair would definitely be better than this big weird house. Besides, she might only be five-and-a-half, but she still hasn’t missed the fact everything’s been packed into cardboard boxes the past few weeks. She has a pretty good idea what’s happening, has done for a while. She just wishes they’d spill the beans instead of treating her like…well, a five-and-a-half-year-old.
SURPRISE!
Nope, that’s not what Father had said, maybe like you’d say to a five-and-a-half-year-old when you’re about to take her to the circus or the beach or the funfair with the popcorn. Instead he’d just made that gruff snorting noise that always made her nervous but also snigger a little inside ‘cause that’s the noise donkeys make ‘cause she’d seen one in a field near school once and she even thought Father looked a bit like a big stern donkey sometimes but she wouldn’t say that to his face ‘cause she knew what happened when you said much of anything to his face ‘cause Mother sometimes did and one time the little girl had been hit by the netball at school and it really hurt and that’s probably what Father did to make the bruises appear on Mother’s face – a big fat netball right on the nose. Bop.
‘What do you think, love?’ asks Mother with that wide encouraging smile of hers. The girl marvels at the woman’s perfectly arranged hair. How does she get it so perfect? Mother squeezes her hand. The girl loves it when she squeezes her hand. ‘What a big house! Think of all the places to play!’
There’s a duck pond at the other house, the house called home, and she’s wondering if it’s coming with them. She’s too scared to ask so she just pops a big smile on her face and peers around, trying to find a good pond-spot for when it gets unpacked. She says a quick little prayer in her head, asking Jesus to make sure the pond is brought along.
Father seems more interested in the big glass crucifix that usually sits on the table where other kids might have a TV but where Father has a big glass crucifix. The boxes were thrown in the back of the car like Mr Chisolm throws the squishy mats back into storage after gym class, but that big glass crucifix, oh, it sat in Father’s lap the whole way here. That’s what he seemed to care about most on the drive. That, and the big creepy painting of the water and the sad faces. She was pretty disappointed to see that hadn’t been forgotten. If he was going to leave anything, it should’ve been that. Or the stupid bookcase he’d had moved in before they even got to see the place.
‘Looks lovely, Mother!’
Father sets down the big glass crucifix and fiddles with the front door, his hands twitching and quivering – always twitching and quivering. Soon, the house’s mouth is all wide open like a big old train tunnel. Steam trains go straight into those tunnels, they don’t even slow down! The girl always found that funny ‘cause she slows down whenever she goes through a door ‘cause of that time she went through one too fast and BAM, there was Mother crying and Father yelling and who wants to see that? Then again, steam trains probably don’t have mothers and fathers, so they don’t care.
Father’s red hair is all shiny in the sun. He stands next to the big old open mouth with the big glass crucifix next to him on the ground. He’s looking down at her, tapping a single finger against the side of his thigh, and he wants her to go in and the little girl wishes she had a steam train ‘cause right now she’s not feeling too cheery about walking into that big old mouth.
Trains are brave. Maybe she’ll be brave.
Maybe she’ll be a train.
So Mother squeezes the little steam train’s hand and off she goes, full steam ahead, ‘cause that’s the only direction big brave trains go.
Choo-choo!
Soon the little engine is puff-puff-puffing ahead and nope, Mother’s not even holding her hand any more ‘cause she’s chug-chug-chugging all on her own, heading straight for that big tunnel. Trains are brave. Trains aren’t afraid of some stupid old house.
The little train tears up the porch’s three steps ‘cause that’s what trains do. Well, they don’t really go up steps, but this is a special train. Three steps is nothing!
Except there’s a fourth.
The little engine clips her wheel and tumbles to the ground. She bashed her whistle on the step but that’s okay ‘cause the whole thing’s sort of funny anyway.
Oh, and she fell into the crucifix. It’s in a zillion pieces now.
That’s not so funny.
The gruff old donkey starts huffing and puffing and his jaw is sticking out further and further and his hands are quivering more and more and his face is turning red as a balloon and he scoops the trembling little train under one arm and off they go into that big old mouth and Mother’s shouting but Father slams the house’s mouth shut and it’s locked now so Mother stays outside and the little steam train’s on the floor and Father’s staring down at her and she doesn’t feel much like a brave little train no more. There he is, see? Standing over her, fists clenched.
‘New house, new rules,’ he says.
Gruff-gruff goes the donkey. 
‘By the Holy Book, by the sacred plight of our Lord and Saviour, that woman shall give me a son. And YOU shall bring upon yourself the solemnity of the meek.’
Bang-bang goes the door.
‘Do you have any idea how long it took her to give me YOU?’
Waah-waah goes Mother.
‘Lower thy head.’ He presses her face into the rough wooden floorboards. ‘Lower thy spirit before God, child, and offer upon Him a change in will, a strengthening of service.’
Flutter-flutter goes a little moth, landing next to her face.
‘Change in will, strength of service. SAY IT.’
No more coal for this little engine.
‘Chay-chay-change in…Father, please! You’re hurting—’
‘CHANGE IN WILL, STRENGTH OF SERVICE.’
‘Change in…in will…’
‘STRENGTH. OF. SERVICE.’
‘Streh-streh…’ The girl chokes on the floorboards. ‘…strength of service.’
‘Yes.’ Her father lowers his face to hers, his red hair not so shiny out of the sun. ‘Humble thyself before His will, girl. This house shall be our salvation. Here, our family will grow. Once she finally fulfils her function, once she gives me my son, he shall grow into a man under this blessed roof.’
His eyes cut into her.
‘And YOU, my child…’
Like knives.
‘…shall learn your place amongst the meek.’
Why are they like knives?!
‘Now, get up. But forever keep your head to the ground. Find your place amongst the meek, girl, where you belong.’ He raises a twitching, quivering hand, its fingers slowly clenching.
‘Tell me you see, Renata.’
Choo-choo goes the fist.

SPAWN: WEIRD HORROR TALES ABOUT PREGNANCY, BIRTH AND BABIES, edited by award-winning author and anthology editor Deborah Sheldon, will be released worldwide by IFWG Publishing Australia on 3 May 2021. Spawn is a selection of the darkest Australian fiction penned by established authors and fresh new voices. The stories range from the gothic and phantasmagorical, through the demonic and supernatural, to the dystopian and sci-fi.
​
In this four-part series exclusive to Ginger Nuts of Horror, most of the contributors have agreed to pull aside the curtain and reveal the inspiration behind their nightmarish tales.
“Part One” includes insights from editor Deborah Sheldon, and writers Matt Tighe, Tracie McBride, Rebecca Fraser and Antoinette Rydyr.


Editor Deborah Sheldon on “Hair and Teeth” and Spawn

I’ve always been fascinated by human physiology and disease. In a different life, perhaps I would have become a doctor or surgeon. Before I switched to fiction, I spent about twenty years writing (among other things) health and medical information across various media. I composed feature articles, web content, and patient information for every kind of physical and psychological condition you could imagine.

My story “Hair and Teeth” is about a middle-aged woman who suspects that her relentless vaginal bleeding is not due to menopause but something far more…nefarious. The story’s inspiration was a surgical operation. I wanted to create a grisly narrative that walked the line between reality and paranoia without flagging a definitive answer. My hope is that the reader decides what actually happens.

I got the idea for Spawn: Weird Horror Tales About Pregnancy, Birth and Babies from “Hair and Teeth”, first published in Aurealis in 2018, reprinted in Year’s Best Hardcore Horror, and mentioned in Ellen Datlow’s “Recommended List for 2019” in Best Horror of the Year. The story’s images and themes wouldn’t leave me alone. I decided that I wanted to curate an anthology in a similar vein; a book that would resonate with readers by tapping into the terrors we all share in the shadowy depths of our reptilian brains.

In 2019, I pitched Spawn to IFWG Publishing Australia. Gerry Huntman, managing director, responded with enthusiasm and suggested commissioning a few bestselling Australian authors; namely, Jack Dann, Kaaron Warren and Sean Williams. The other stories are from an open callout. I welcomed all subgenres without reservation. What I envisioned was a broad mix of styles that would keep the reader on the back foot, wary and cautious, never knowing what to expect with the turn of every page. I think Spawn achieved that vision.
http://deborahsheldon.wordpress.com


Matt Tighe on “A Good Big Brother”
Just before our local COVID-19 lockdown, and purely by coincidence, my family and I moved to a small ‘bush block’ of land just outside of town. The place had the illusion of isolation, with only glimpses of the unsealed local road between clumps of trees and overgrown thickets of blackberries and brambles, and a handful of quiet neighbours that kept to themselves. Like many, we spent a few strange months with mostly ourselves for company, and it was kind of pleasant, if you ignored the feeling of the world holding its breath.

But the world was still doing its thing, and the inevitable questions from my kids arose, about COVID, about the BLM movement, and about several other events that reinforced the fact that the isolation was an illusion. Watching my oldest boy thinking about these big events, and listening to my own halting explanations, made me more aware than ever of how hard it is to try and get your children ready for the world, while at the same time wanting so much to protect them from so much of it.

I was thinking a lot about all this when I saw the call for Spawn. The idea for “A Good Big Brother” was almost fully formed as soon as I read the call, with the idea of pregnancy merging with everything I had already been thinking about. Despite that, I struggled to write the story at first. As soon as I realised it was a story not about a child, but a story told by a child, about big events as a child sees them, it went very quickly. For me, the story is about innocence and how fragile it can be, when we all find ourselves in uncharted waters.

https://twitter.com/next_happened


Tracie McBride on “Sins of the Mother”

Earlier this year I saw a photo on social media of an unusually shaped piece of driftwood. In the centre of the piece was a hole, and nestled snugly in the hole was a smooth, oval stone. The caption read something along the lines of “an earth goddess and her stone baby”. (I have since learned that stone babies in humans are a real, although rare, phenomenon known as lithopedions.)

That caption provided the idea for the first sentence of my story “Sins of the Mother”. It also gave me a starting point for some of the themes I would explore. As for the rest of the story… I thought about my personal experiences of pregnancy, birth, and motherhood. I have three children. All three were conceived naturally, with the man I have now been married to for over 23 years. I carried all three to full term in a straightforward fashion. I went through three labours with about the average amount of pain, gore, and screaming (OK, I might have been excessive with the screaming). All three labours resulted in big, healthy, completely human-shaped babies. All three were breastfed, and all three were and continue to be loved, cherished and cared for. They are now aged 16, 17, and 22, and not even in my darkest parenting moments did I consider abandoning any of them in the woods.

Then I took everything I knew first-hand and flipped it on its head. Pregnancy and childbirth can be horrifying enough when it is ‘normal’. (I did mention the pain, gore, and screaming, didn’t I?) Rather than amplify that, I challenged myself to remove it, and still craft a story fitting the anthology’s theme and genre. Whether or not I have been successful in my aim is up to the reader to decide.

http://traciemcbridewriter.wordpress.com/


Rebecca Fraser on “Beneath the Cliffs of Darknoon Bay”

“Beneath the Cliffs of Darknoon Bay” had been making noise in my head for quite some time—whispering at first, then gradually raising its voice to a demanding shout, as story ideas tend to behave when they want to be told. When I saw IFWG Publishing Australia’s submission call for Spawn: Weird Horror Tales About Pregnancy, Birth and Babies, I felt the timing was fortuitous, and started committing the story to paper. I loved the specificity of the anthology’s theme, and hoped the elements of my story might prove to be a good fit.

I’d already determined the tone, era and setting I wanted for “Beneath the Cliffs of Darknoon Bay”—a rugged, isolated, and unforgiving backdrop—which I hoped would further underscore the characters’ feelings of claustrophobia and ambiguity, and give the reader a chance to observe how vulnerable characters react to their environment…and ultimately each other. Deb Sheldon had requested submissions to also include a nod to body horror at some level, and it was only in the writing that it became clear how I would be able to incorporate this. I hope the ending is all the more impactful for it!

My story is set on Darknoon Island, a fictious island in the very real Furneaux Group, a scattering of approximately one hundred islands located in the treacherous ink-black waters of Bass Strait that separates Tasmania from mainland Australia. The year is 1836, at the height of Australia’s sealing industry. The story begins when naively-adventurous Edward and his wife, Cecily, arrive on Darknoon where Edward has undertaken a year’s contract as the island’s lighthouse keeper.

I love research. The component for this story was fun but quite intensive. I disappeared down an ever-expanding rabbit hole, exploring everything from the climate and indigenous flora and fauna present in the Furneaux Group, to the various styles of lighthouses in the 1800s, the logistics, duties and responsibilities of a lighthouse keeper, and learned all about lighthouse operation and technologies of the era including the impressive Fresnal lens—a type of composite compact lens developed by French physicist Augustin-Jean Fresnel, described as “the invention that saved a million ships.” Applying research to fiction might be compared to Hemingway’s ‘iceberg theory’. The reader doesn’t need to know the mass below the waters; it’s hoped the kernels that make it above the surface add to the overall vision, meaning and execution of the story. I had to make some firm decisions about which elements would carry the most weight in the most unobtrusive way.

I hope you enjoy reading “Beneath the Cliffs of Darknoon Bay” as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m so glad it found such a great home in Spawn: Weird Horror Tales About Pregnancy, Birth and Babies under Deb Sheldon’s skilful editorship.
https://writingandmoonlighting.com/


Antoinette Rydyr on “Mother Dandelion”

I’d known about the Spawn anthology for almost three months. I’d jotted down some story ideas but nothing resonated. A month went by, then another and I had nothing I cared to write about. The deadline was approaching and still nothing, so I gave up.

However, I kept getting drawn back to the anthology. I reread the submission guidelines looking for a springboard or trigger to get started. I settled on “body horror”. Two weeks before deadline I retreated to a quiet room and started writing about body horror. All day and I could only muster 300 words, but the minimum requirement was 1,500. It was the scene of the official’s visit and I didn’t know where to go from there. So, I gave up again.

The next day, in the car, I thought about the story and started developing ideas in my mind. That night I wrote about three pages of longhand notes. The day after, the ideas came thick and fast and I scribbled four more pages of longhand notes. It was then a case of transcribing the notes into the computer and sorting them into a coherent and cohesive order.

I rarely write a story in linear order. Every plot point is usually out of sequence. It is like putting together a jigsaw puzzle with only half the pieces and the ones I have are blank and I have to draw the image on them. Scenes eventually grew and connected with other scenes. After much juggling and gap-filling, the full image revealed itself.

One element I wrestled with was the names of the characters. The world I’d created was horrible, and cruel things happen to people. I felt that to give the characters actual names was too awful to people who had those names. I tried inventing names but a quick google search always found someone, somewhere in the world with that name. As a solution I decided not to name any of the characters but to give them designations. This strategy worked well for the story as it amplified the inhumanity that people had been reduced to and contributed to increasing the horror of the post-apocalyptic world that I’d created. It also provided me with the title for the story: “Mother Dandelion”.

Although it was only two weeks before deadline, I was glad I didn’t have much time. The world I’d depicted was so horrendous that I didn’t want to mentally dwell there for too long. I spent about ten days writing, expanding, revising, editing, tweaking, tweaking, tweaking. Had I started the story three months earlier, I probably would have lingered in that world for much longer. My initial 300 words had expanded to 4,000 and I wished to move on from the nastiness and horror of that world.

https://www.weirdwildart.com/

I am honoured to have my story ‘Lonely Souls in Quiet Houses’ included in this superb anthology. Mental health is a subject dear to my heart. Those who know me well will already know that I have struggled with anxiety since I was a child; in recent years OCD and C-PTSD have insinuated themselves into the frothy pot of soup that is my brain. I am therefore well acquainted with the peculiarly lonely kind of horror that comes with having a brain that would quite like to kill you.

‘Lonely Souls’ is about a few things. It was inspired by the zashiki-warashi of Japanese folklore. These mischievous ghosts are believed to be the souls of small children; zashiki-warashi translates as ‘guest-room child’. These little ghosts leave sooty footprints and play pranks on those resident in its home; in some parts of Japan the zashiki-warashi is seen as good fortune, and those who live alongside one will often leave offerings of sweets or toys to appease them. I chose to write about this ghost principally because of their purported origin. In lean times during Japan’s tumultuous history, poorer families who found themselves with too many mouths to feed may have resorted to infanticide; the zashiki-warashi may be the ghosts of these children, who were typically buried beneath the floor of the house. Perhaps this is why the custom is to honour them; it is a form of apology for the injustice visited upon them in life.

The second theme of ‘Lonely Souls’ is OCD. I had been suffering from OCD for years before I received a diagnosis. I hadn’t realised it was OCD; the popularised form of the disorder revolves around obsessive counting, or detailed rituals: closing the door three times, checking the oven, a terrible fear of blue things. Mine wasn’t like that. I have what is known as ‘magical thinking’ OCD. Essentially, this is the irrational fear that an innocuous activity or thought will magically cause something bad to happen. Often, the ‘something bad’ is vague and nebulous; a terror you can’t define or predict, but you know is there. The frustrating thing about OCD is that you know how ridiculous these obsessions are. How can changing your earrings lead to the death of a loved one? How can walking on three drains in a row cause Something Bad to happen? And yet you are beholden to them all the same. You can’t risk the possibility that your worst fears might actually come true. Your entire life becomes a series of intricate rituals, avoidant behaviours and constant, low-grade panic.
It sucks.

You can’t ever really get rid of OCD, but you can learn to control it. You can learn to ignore the little voice in the back of your head warning of impending disaster, though it never really shuts up. That’s what ‘Lonely Souls’ is mostly about; learning to reconcile your fears with the knowledge that brains can and often do tell lies. You can’t control OCD any more than you can control the playful ghosts of long-lost children, but you can learn to live with them. Perhaps that is all any of us can do, and perhaps that is enough.

In the new chiller THE NIGHT, a young couple who get lost in downtown Los Angeles book into a foreboding-looking old hotel for the night… and that’s when their troubles really begin. Very strange things start to happen - eerie noises of young children crying out from other rooms, a sinister and unhelpful cop, and a truly peculiar concierge, all of which make their stay extremely uncomfortable and genuinely frightening.


Creepy hotels - some of them actual haunted hotels, like the Hotel Normandie used in THE NIGHT, have provided the backdrop for some of film and TV’s most notable moments, including monstrous managers, disappearing guests and sleep-shattering disturbances. Here’s a guide to the best worst hotels to book into if you are looking for a night of frights…

 The Overlook, Colorado

​What it’s like: The beautiful and spacious Overlook (the setting for Stanley Kubrick’s 1980s horror classic The Shining, starring Jack Nicholson) is nestled in the quiet and isolated snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. It’s a perfect and restful getaway if you and your family need to unwind.
Facilities: Lavish bar/ballroom, ​fully stocked kitchen, fantastic topiary maze on the grounds.
Tip for guests: Winter stays can be a bit testing. Don’t go into room 237. Just don’t. And don’t use the elevators.

​The Bates Motel, California
 
What it’s like: The Bates Motel (where Alfred Hitchock’s 1960s chiller, Psycho, starring Anthony Perkins, takes place) is a modest, functional facility located near an old highway in California - the perfect stopping off point for the tired traveller, or the guest for whom ‘discretion’ is key. 
Facilities: En-suite shower facilities; beautiful taxidermy collection in reception.
Tip for guests: Lock doors while using the bathroom; don’t go up to the main house; be nice to manager Norman.

Cecil Hotel, Los Angeles


What it’s like: The latest must-watch true crime series on Netflix is The Vanishing at the Cecil Hotel, detailing the story of the disappearance of a student from her hotel room in downtown Los Angeles.
Facilities: With 700 rooms at budget rates, this hotel is also a slice of history, said to be the inspiration for Barton Fink, and American Horror Story: Hotel; and U2 once filmed a promo video on the roof of the hotel.
Tip for guests: Be sure to make your stay as uneventful as possible, otherwise you might end up the subject of a four-hour long conspiracy theory documentary.

​Hotel Cortez, Los Angeles
 
What it’s like: The hotel that provides the basis for Season Five of the popular TV series American Horror Story is allegedly based on the aforementioned Hotel Cecil, due to its history of strange occurrences taking place within its rooms.
Facilities: Mattresses contain hidden surprises, and the ‘Addiction Demon’ might pay a visit.
Tip for guests: Avoid bookings on ‘Devil’s Night’ (October 30th), as this is when serial killers  including Richard Ramirez and the Zodiac killers tend to stay at the Cortez.

 Hotel Broslin, Times Square, New York
​
What it’s like: This modest but quirky real-life hotel (featured in Frank Henelotter’s magnificent  grindhouse gorefest Basket Case from 1982) does not judge when it comes to accepting guests - all are welcome here! The residents make up a vibrant, eccentric little community, and there is never a dull moment. Rooms are cheap and basic.


Facilities: In the heart of New York - nightlife on your doorstep.
Tip for guests: The tenant in room 7 is very small, very twisted, and very mad. Knock at your peril!

​Starlight Hotel, East Texas 
 
What it’s like: The Starlight Hotel, located deep in the Texas swamps, is run by Judd (played by Neville Brand, in Tobe Hooper’s 1976 Eaten Alive), who makes Basil Fawlty seem positively cordial in comparison.
Facilities: The hotel has an adjoining petting zoo - or rather, a huge great alligator in the swamp, for disposing of unwanted guests.
Tip for guests: Don’t upset the manager - he might get out his scythe.

Hotel Earle, Los Angeles

What it’s like: This ‘characterful’ hotel, with peeling wallpaper,  is where a screenwriter (played by John Turturro) books in,in an attempt to get some work done in the Coen Brothers’ 1991 Oscar winning Barton Fink.
Facilities: This cheap and no-nonsense hotel is the perfect place to rub shoulders with the ‘common man’.
Tip for guests: Try not to stay in your room too long. Don’t talk to other guests, particularly salesmen. Don’t invite guests to your room. Be sure to know where your nearest fire escape is.

Motel Hello, California

What it’s like: Farmer Vincent Smith and his younger sister Ida welcome you to Motel Hello, with it’s dodgy neon sign (from 1980 cult comedy horror Motel Hell). They are so eager for you to stay at their combination farm/hotel that they will even kidnap you and force you to stay there.
Facilities: Delicious smoked meat available; ‘swingers’ always welcome
Tip for guests: If you see the sign for Motel Hello, perhaps just keep driving.

 Hotel Normandie, Los Angeles


What it’s like: The real-life Hotel Normandie (featured in the new psychological horror film The Night) is said to be the most haunted hotel in the world.
Facilities: Rooms always available.
Tip for guests: Bring earplugs/eye masks in case of ghostly noises/visions; on no account call the police.

If all this talk of haunted and horrifying hotels has piqued your interest, be sure to keep an eye out for the THE NIGHT when it is released on digital platforms (iTunes/Apple TV, Amazon, Sky, Virgin, Google/YouTube, BT, Playstation, Microsoft, Chili, IFI@Home) on 2nd April ​

The Poppy Jasper International Film Festival (PJIFF) announced today its full film lineup for its 2021 virtual edition. The festival will run from Wednesday, April 7 through Tuesday, April 20, 2021.


This year’s Gala celebration will take place on Friday, April 9th with keynote speaker Drew Massey, actor and puppeteer for the Jim Henson Company, known for his work on The Muppets and most recently on The Happytime Murders. Massey also has a new series coming out on Nickelodeon called “The Barbarian and the Troll” set to premiere on April 2nd. The night will also include greetings from this year’s filmmakers from around the world as well as the premiere of the song "Believe" written by GRAMMY Award winner and President of Paramount Worldwide Publishing and Music Randy Spendlove and GRAMMY Award winner Polo Jones. The night will also include a poetry reading by January Handl.  


The complete PJIFF line-up includes features from across the globe including Austria’s Return of the Thumb (Die Rückkehr des Daumens) from director Flo Convey, Iran’s One Night in Tehran from director Farhad Najafi, and Germany’s Brian Auger - Life on Tour from director Michael Maschke. The international shorts program will include Rena Dumont’s Hapless Hans (Germany), Florence Bouvy’s Till the End of the World (Netherlands), Jhosimar Vasquez’s The Scorpion's Tale (USA), and Garth Jennings’s Madame (UK).
​
The festival will also feature panel discussions including a special panel presentation with Jerry Martinez from NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, who worked on the Perseverance Mars Landing, to discuss the use of camera techniques in storytelling. PJIFF has also partnered with the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art (SMoCA) to host a Women’s Day on Friday, April 9th which will include a panel discussion on Women in Film with Jennifer McCabe, director and chief curator at SMoCA, Kavery Kaul, award-winning documentary filmmaker, Debbe Goldstein, owner and art rep at Art Rep DG, Rucha Chitnis, award-winning documentary filmmaker and fellow at the International Women's Media Foundation, and Consuelo Flores, Former Director, Policy Strategy and Analysis, EEO and Diversity at SAG AFTRA. The panel will be moderated by Kulvinder Arora, former Professor of Women's Studies at the University of Illinois, Chicago and president of Literary Legacies.

Consistent with PJIFF’s mission of supporting independent filmmakers and its local community, the festival will also include Student Day (Wednesday, April 7th) showcasing student films from across the world, Local Day (Thursday, April 8th) highlighting the work of local filmmakers, and the previously announced China Day (Saturday, April 10) and Mexico Day (Sunday, April 11). The festival will close with Community Achievement Awards on Tuesday, April 20th celebrating leaders who have made an impact on the local community.


“PJIFF is committed to supporting diverse perspectives and new independent voices in cinema and we are proud to say that this year is no different,” said Festival Director Mattie Scariot, “We are excited to showcase these unique and inspiring films.”

Tickets and passes are now available on PJIFF’s website here. To get details of the full schedule please visit here.

Out of the Darkness collects together brand new stories by Jenn Ashworth, Alison Moore, Nicholas Royle, Laura Mauro, Aliya Whiteley, Tim Major, Simon Bestwick, Eugen Bacon, Gary Budden and many more. They all deal with mental health in some way, and many are written by people who have first-hand experience of the challenges mental illness can present. They tackle the topics of anxiety, depression, obsessive–compulsive disorder and other issues, as well as the pressures mental illness can place on family members and friends – sometimes obliquely, sometimes head-on. At times that can make for challenging reading, but the authors have all actively engaged with the central philosophy of this book: that with support and open discussion, those who are suffering from mental health problems can move out of the darkness and into the light. In addition, all the authors are donating their fees and royalties to Together for Mental Wellbeing.

Today is the penultimate article in this series of articles where some of the authors discuss their stories, links to the other articles in this seres can be found at the end. 

One bit of practical advice I always offer whenever I’m leading a creative writing workshop is this: if you can, set your story on a holiday. ‘Oblio’ is set on holiday. This isn’t because I’m a writer who particularly enjoys (or is skilled at) writing descriptively about a story’s settings. Rather, the appeal is an environment in which the characters are largely contained, mercifully shorn of the context of their daily lives, able only to interact with one another in any meaningful sense. As well being a handy way to bring these characters into sharper relief, a holiday setting also allows for tension to be built up with a ready plausibility, as the unfamiliar surroundings and encounters can slide smoothly into the ominous.

Briefly: ‘Oblio’ features two sisters who also happen to be a musical duo called Taurig. They are touring Europe to promote their debut album and we find them in Palermo, Italy, home of Carrie Viner, a reclusive and long-retired pop-star whose music had a great influence on Taurig. So they set out to find her. But overshadowing their jaunt are two things: the first is memories the narrator has of a traumatic trip her family took to Palermo he was a child. The second is her sister’s depression. There are also, for those who find such things interesting, connecting incidents between ‘Oblio’ and an earlier ghost story of mine called ‘Kloya and Klik’ which also concerns two people who find they are at odds with one another while holidaying in Europe.

Writing about music and musicians is something I’ve developed an interest in over the past few years, and when I was tasked with writing a story which touches on both the supernatural and depression, I was immediately put in mind of one musical artist in particular: Nico.

Nico is best remembered as a member of the Velvet Underground and for her austere performance on their 1967 debut album. After leaving the group to record the soft-rock Chelsea Girl in the same year, Nico embarked on a career that saw her create a new sound, one defined by cryptic lyrics, stark, spectral arrangements, droning harmonium and an overwhelming sense of doom. I’m not sure who described Nico’s music as ‘not so much music you get into, more a hole you fall into’ but I’ve always thought it an accurate summation, not just of her records but of also of a certain broader strata of culture of which Nico are just a small constituent part. Indeed, it also seems an apt way to describe a certain mode of depressive thinking. Nico’s music follows its own terminal logic, alive with a strange, frightening sense of mourning: it’s there in her wintry vocals and accompanying harmonium, a handheld reed organ which gives her music a pre-modern feel. It was this haunting, haunted sensation I wanted to capture as best I could in ‘Oblio’.
​
As to why this project is important to me: we all have mental health and it’s positive that the topic of mental illness is far more publicly discussed a topic than in the past, increasingly free of its taboo and stigma. However, the reality can often be far more alienating than the discourse suggests. For many, their mental wellbeing can come with a history of behaviour which is alienating and involves a loss of dignity which is hard to live with, both for them and for their loved ones. For these people medical and clinical interventions become an essential aspect of their lives. The current ‘hugs and chats’ discourse, while serving most people well, masks a mental health provision which is suffering from years of systematic underfunding. As the past year has seen widespread isolation, unemployment, record deaths and disruption to these services, the opportunity to create any kind of art which plumbs the mire of the human mind is a gift.

Out of the Darkness challenges some of the most exciting voices in horror and dark fantasy to bring their worst fears out into the light. From the black dog of depression to acute anxiety and schizophrenia, these stories prove what fans of horror fiction have long known – that we must understand our demons to overcome them.

In the wake of the Covid-19 pandemic, what began as a mental health crisis has rapidly become an unprecedented tsunami. The Centre for Mental Health has estimated that 10 million people will need mental health support in the UK as a direct consequence of Covid-19, with a staggering 1.5 million of those being under eighteen.

Edited by Dan Coxon (This Dreaming Isle) and featuring exclusive stories by Alison Moore, Jenn Ashworth, Tim Major and Aliya Whiteley, this collection harnesses the power of fiction to explore and explain the darkest moments in our lives. 

Horror isn’t just about the chills – it’s also about the healing that comes after.

Back the kickstarter by  here 

​https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/unsungstories/out-of-the-darkness-an-anthology-of-horror-and-dark-fantasy​