I need to start with a disclaimer; I’m very proud to consider Graeme  Reynolds a friend. Additionally, his publishing company, Horrific Tales Publishing, put out my novella A Song For The End in 2020. So by all means, read the following with that in mind, but also be aware that my usual review policy remains in place; regardless of my connections to someone, I only review work that I a) finish and b) enjoy.


My previous experience of Graeme’s work is his excellent High Moor werewolf trilogy, and specifically the audiobooks narrated by Chris Barnes, which as you’ll see from the linked reviews I thought was quite brilliant, so I was keen to get stuck into his new stand alone novel project.


Dark and Lonely Water stars Sam, a single mother who is trying to juggle a demanding career in journalism with the responsibilities of parenthood. Reynolds does an excellent job with his character building, showing us via her daily routine the enormous pressures playing on Sam; her own nightmares, the continued emotional impact the loss of her husband has had on both her and her children, in different ways, and the sheer impossibility of trying to balance the needs of her job with the demands of her family. This isn’t primarily a novel of social commentary, but Reynolds does a superb job with the opening of the novel in portraying a slice of life that’s both everyday and extraordinary; Sam is not a perfect person, but the pressures she’s dealing with are simply beyond the strength of any single pair of shoulders to bare, and Reynolds delivers a touching yet entirely unsentimental portrayal of a woman struggling to survive on the ragged edge of day to day life.


Sam is given a new assignment; a series of mysterious drownings that have happened near the area in which she grew up. Sam is unhappy about this assignment, but is given an ultimatum by her manipulative, uncaring boss: go and cover the story or lose your job. There’s a brilliant moment here where Reynolds uses Sam’s boss to deliver a key piece of information about her character. Seeing her reluctance to undertake the assignment, he points out to her that she is the ideal person to undertake it “given what happened to your mother “. It’s an absolutely brutal moment, but it’s also a great example of the skill of Reynolds as a storyteller; delivering in a single line character notes relating to both Sam and her boss, whilst also giving crucial information to the reader. Dark and Lonely Water is full of such moments.


Having reluctantly taken the new assignment, Sam finds herself soon returning to the home of Uncle Marcus, the man who raised her as a child following the death of her mother. Her investigation soon also leads her into contact with Chris, a police diver who has recently been suspended from duties, and who claims to have seen something relating to the drownings that falls significantly outside of the official narrative.


For the reader, there is no doubt that something unpleasant and supernatural is afoot; in the grand pulp horror traditions of James Herbert, Reynolds uses a series of intercut set piece horror scenes to depict the grisly murders of a parade of innocent victims. In this respect, the tension in the narrative comes not from a curiosity surrounding the nature of the attacks, but rather a creeping sense of dread as Sam and Chris are drawn into ever darker and more dangerous circumstances. Reynolds' great gift for drawing believable, flawed, yet sympathetic characters meant that as a reader I was heavily invested in the narrative from the beginning and felt a building sense of fear as the scale of what the two were facing became clearer.


I don’t really want to go into any more detail; a large part of the joy of reading Dark and Lonely Water is the experience of the narrative unfolding in front of you. Reynolds is an assured and skilled storyteller; a master of pacing, characterisation, and narrative flow. He has a surefooted grasp of when to take a moment to pause, allow the characters to breathe and interact, and when to put the foot back down on the gas, And the final quarter of the novel is a relentlessly paced descent, as Reynolds pulls together all the threads of the story to deliver a shocking and twisted climax  that I suspect will live long in my memory.


Dark and Lonely Water is a slick read, but not an easy one; Reynolds is as serious about delivering his horror as he is realizing his characters, And, of course by creating such a level of investment in those characters, Reynolds knows the fear we will feel as they come into danger will be that much more acute. That said, this novel feels to me like a modern pulp classic in the proud tradition of past masters like Herbert and Hudson. Reynolds deftly avoids many of the pitfalls and flaws of those writers, however, forging his own path with no-nonsense prose and characters to deliver a 21st-century pulp horror novel of an exceptionally high quality. Highly recommended; but only those with strong nerves and stomachs need apply.




KP
5/3/23

Dark and Lonely Water by Graeme Reynolds 

ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0BSVBRXSL
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Crystal Lake Publishing (10 Mar. 2023)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
File size ‏ : ‎ 1091 KB
A Horror Book Review by Jim McLeod 

There have been far too many lunar cycles since the last time Graeme Reynolds published a novel, his High Moor Trilogy, cemented his reputation as the master of the werewolf novel, with a genuinely brilliant trilogy of books, but sadly his time running one of the UK's most crucial indie publishing houses took time away from his writing. Thankfully Graeme has found his muse again, and his latest novel from Crystal Lake Publishing,  Dark and Lonely Water, is unleashed this Saturday. But has the wolfmeister managed to retain his bite, or is Dark and Lonely Water more of a wet dog?  




Samantha Ashlyn is a single mother and a journalist. When she is strong-armed into covering a story about a series of missing people, she is thrust back into a world that she thought she had long left behind, a world where old rules and old ways reign, where a dark secret has shaped not only her hometown but her life as well. Aided by a disgraced police diver, Samantha must fight for her life in a battle that will reveal secrets no one could ever have guessed.  


Review note


Since writing this review, recent events in the UK around Nicola Bulley might mean that this is a difficult read, as it concerns missing people, disgraced police divers and the waterways of the north of England.  


I was one of the first people to review Reynolds High Moor, and even way back then, I knew I was reading an author with a talent for writing horror stories that bring a grin to my face. Brought up on Masterton, Lumley, Herbert and Smith, the "monster of the week" horror novel has always been a firm favourite of mine; sadly, this horror subgenre has somewhat fallen by the wayside over the years. Many authors and publishers are desperate to push boundaries and explore the new narrative structure, which is no bad thing. Still, sometimes you crave an exceptionally well-told tale of heroes versus unspeakable evil.  Dark and Lonely Water fills that hole, scratches that itch, and warms the cockles with a brilliant mix of tight writing, a rocket-paced narrative and well-thought-out characters that are at once recognisable without falling into the pitfalls of genre cliches.  


Reynolds has a writing style that is cinematic in its scope; the set pieces in this novel are epic in scope, and even the smaller ones, such as when the monster is first encountered, are delivered in glorious technicolour, resulting in a punchy no holds barred narrative that cannot fail to keep the reader fully engaged.  


However, Dark and Lonely Water has much more to offer than action set pieces strung together with the thinnest of bridging chapters. Never mind loading the story with a dark, sinister subplot about secrets and pacts. Reynolds packs this novel with rich descriptive passages and a character arc for the two protagonists that are well thought out, logical and completely satisfactory. Reynolds cleverly and out from the left field will leave you reeling with pure WTF as he reveals the creature's true nature.  


And as for the creature, Reynolds goes full-on Masterton with its use; like Masterton, Reynolds takes what could have easily been a one-dimensional monster and gives it a new life with a proper backstory about what it is. Small touches like these lift Dark and Lonely Water from a great read to an exceptional read.  


Similarly, his handling of Samantha as the focus of this story is also handled with a solid emphasis on believability and development; a strong, single-minded parent, who goes from being somewhat passive to full-on Ellen Ripley, could easily have come across as a weak point of the novel. Still, Reynolds writes this character with a sympathetic ear, and through her journey, you will be rooting for her with all of your heart and shedding a tear on more than one occasion. The scene where she reconnects with her estranged family is genuinely heartwarming.  


But this is a horror novel, and Reynolds doesn't shy away from the horror; At the same time, it might not have the same level of blood and gore as any of his werewolf novels, Dark and Lonely Water, will keep the gore hounds more than happy if leaving them somewhat wary of any body of water bigger than a small puddle. I know I have been somewhat on edge while walking the dog along the river since reading this book.  


Dark and Lonely Water is an exciting creature feature that works on so many levels, hopefully marking the return of a writer who has once again realised that he is a great writer who needs to be more active on the writing front. I have missed reading Reynolds over these past few years, and this book was everything I could have hoped for and so much more.  ​

You don’t read an FG Cottam novel for the gore. For unmatched chills and creeping dread, yes, but also for the complexity and richness of relationships. In Cottam’s best works, emotional restlessness serves as the engine for the plot, and The Fourth Haunting triumphantly continues this form. That’s even before the spectral nun without a face makes her appearance…


The Fourth Haunting introduces a new character in the Cottamverse, media personality and celebrity ghost hunter Tom Carter. Carter set upon his career path when as a young boy he was gifted an item once belonging to a reclusive child murderer, which triggered a thoroughly chilling encounter with the item’s original owner. Carter has a teenaged daughter living in a psychiatric residential facility and an ex-wife whose heart, along with their marriage, was broken by their child’s emotional and behavioral challenges even as Carter’s career flourished. There are few coincidences in Cottam’s novels, however, and as Carter’s professional and personal future unspools, he and his loved ones are pulled ever closer to the inferno of the Jericho Society, a sinister cult with power that extends beyond the mortal realm.


The pace is not as breakneck as in many of Cottam’s earlier works, and this may be his most ambitious use yet of multiple timelines and settings. The framing device is Carter’s work on a television series seeking to document proof of the paranormal and planned to culminate in the fourth haunted location of the title. The smorgasbord of locations thus introduced includes a haunted orphanage in the mountains of northern Italy, a former speakeasy and brothel on the South Side of Chicago, an old guerrilla hideout in western Ireland, a Scottish lighthouse, and a seemingly abandoned occult stronghold on the Isle of Wight. Although some readers may find the comparatively measured pace, array of locations, and divergent timelines throughout much of The Fourth Haunting to be superfluous in comparison to some of Cottam’s other work, it strengthens the creeping sense of dread that falls and rises–and does it ever rise–throughout the text.


Major set pieces include a tooth-tremblingly chilling encounter with a long-dead and pathetically young murder victim in an abandoned penthouse, the ghostly echo of a massacre at an orphanage in wartime Italy, and encounters in the same location with both an unthinking residual echo haunting and then with an evil consciousness exerting baleful influence from the afterlife. Cottam has always orchestrated some of the best mise-en-scène in literary horror, and his use of old-fashioned children’s toys in the initial moments of the visit to the Italian orphanage is not only eerie, but poignant and handled with sensitivity. Cottam writes notably movingly of the strain that can be placed on relationships when a cherished child is diagnosed with an overwhelming health issue. He also writes with great tenderness of the trust that we must by necessity place in the caretakers of the most vulnerable, and the potential for horror in human behavior when this trust is breached. Exploitation this is not.


While familiarity with his previous works is by no means required to relish The Fourth Haunting, longtime Cottam readers are also gifted Easter eggs in the return of both living and dead faces from previous novels, though not to the extent that they distract from Tom Carter’s quest. Their appearance is more like a quick greeting to an old acquaintance as you pass in opposite directions through a horrifically haunted airport.


There are certain roles that lend themselves well to advancing Cottam’s plots, some of which appear in The Fourth Haunting–the media star, the dogged journalist, the brilliant researcher–and it is a tribute to Cottam’s skill at characterization that they resonate anew on each outing (although I would not have missed the secondary romance between Carter and one of his documentary team, had it been excised). Cottam wields his sense of place as dexterously as he does characterization. The Fourth Haunting additionally reads as a love letter to the author’s hometown of Southport, UK. There is an affectingly elegiac tone to Cottam’s descriptions of working-class childhood and youthful casual jobs, first love, coming to terms with aging, and the compromises that we accept in return for a measure of stable happiness.


It is an indication of the extent of changes in the publishing industry, as if one were needed, that a writer of this caliber has self-published this work after traditionally publishing seventeen novels. In the hands of a less confident or experienced author, the variety of locations, characters, and timelines in The Fourth Haunting would risk losing the reader’s focus or overload with queasy sentimentality. Instead, it is the kind of novel that will richly reward multiple readings. Read this first for the supernatural chills and return to it for the richly realized web of relationships between the living. But leave the lights on when darkness falls.

Leech by Hiron Ennes 
​
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Tor; Main Market edition (14 Sept. 2023)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 336 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1529073626
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1529073621


 A Horror Book Review by Ryan Tan

In “Leech”, a physician arrives at the Chateau de Verdira to look after the baron who lives there. The first two-thirds of the novel are told from the point-of-view of a parasite controlling the physician’s mind and body. This parasite, called The Institute, controls multiple hosts around the world, with the ability to relay information from a host in one location to a host in another. The Institute, in other words, can communicate with itself across space. The last third of the novel alternates between the points-of-view of Émile, the chateau’s houseboy, and Simone, the physician, who is liberated from The Institute’s control by another parasite called Pseudomycota.

Hiron Ennes skilfully incorporates the element of surprise into their creation of horror. One of the most terrifying scenes, the birth of the baron’s grandson, subverts the reader’s expectations not once, but twice. Firstly, Pseudomycota makes an appearance after the narrator sees the baby’s hair, assumes it to be Pseudomycota, and mistakenly panics. Prior to this scene, we experienced a false alarm where the narrator mistook the baron’s granddaughters for a “monstrous tangle of Pseudomycota” entering the room. We shared the narrator’s relief when they realised the truth, such that when a similar false alarm occurs during the grandson’s birth, we let our guards down, expecting a period of “immunity” following the deceptive scare. Instead, Pseudomycota takes us and the narrator by surprise. Furthermore, it arrives after Hélène, the baron’s daughter-in-law, complains of a “boil” in her head, just as she did in a previous scene, in which the narrator examined her body and found nothing wrong. Like the boy who cried wolf, she is established as dishonest, and so when she complains a second time, we do not trust her. Pseudomycota punishes us for these assumptions. I love the fact that this punishment is concentrated in a single instant, rather than dispersed throughout the novel. Like the merciless predator it is, Pseudomycota does not give us a chance to learn from our mistake.

I find it interesting that so many of the characters exist in liminal spaces. The bedridden baron exists between life and death; not even The Institute, with its extensive body of medical knowledge, knows approximately when he will die. His twin daughters are literally stuck to each other because one twin’s hair gets tangled in the other’s. This makes them half-human, half-monster, especially with their peculiar habit of completing each other’s sentences, as though they share the same brain. “For years I have attempted to pick apart [the twins’] minds in every sense but the literal,” writes The Institute, “and they have evaded explanation or diagnosis.” Likewise, Pseudomycota is resistant to categorisation: The Institute conducts rigorous tests on it, but never reaches a conclusion about its nature. Indeed, its very appearance is ambiguous. Its “tendrils” evoke a climbing plant, but its “little black arms wriggling and grasping at my shoe” conjure a vivid image of a spider. Besides these characters, Émile exhibits liminality because he belongs to a race of humans called the Montish, who are born with a tail. He is also liminal because the baron’s son, Didier, sexually harasses him, forcing him to disappear as a means of self-protection. He narrates in the second person: “The closer [Didier] came to your skin, the farther you fled from it. Though you did not intend to, you had mastered the art of stepping outside yourself, of removing Émile and letting someone else slip into his place.” In Didier’s presence, Émile is not, and can never be, fully himself.

I think this liminality validates Simone’s ambiguous identity. In the middle of a chapter, she suddenly takes over as the narrator, asserting: “I know I am not The Institute. I know that no matter what it tried to do to me, I am still, somehow, myself.” We do not know how long she has been herself; we only know when she realises that she is herself. In fact, Simone retains the ability to detect The Institute’s hosts, as though a part of her still belongs to The Institute. Therefore, she is part human, part parasite, and may have been this way since the beginning. In other words, both her past and present identities are uncertain. While I was initially bothered by this opaqueness, I find it much more acceptable in the context of so many other characters exhibiting their own liminality. After all, when everyone else is surrounded by an air of mystery, Simone’s unknowability does not seem out of place. Ennes might have made liminality pervasive for this reason. As a queer author, they could also be implying that no one is fully male or female, especially since Simone’s body is genderless.

Ennes draws on their experience as a student of medicine to describe their characters’ appearances in microscopic detail, giving them a lifelike believability. “Leech” blends elements of horror and science fiction, making it perfect for fans of both.

​Ryan Tan studies English Literature at the National University of Singapore. His fiction has appeared in Cold Signal, Bone Parade, and Bristol Noir.
​

Entomophobes beware: this book will give you the heebie-jeebies. Yes, I chose that word with deliberate care: you will feel dread, you will feel disgust, but mostly you will have a feeling that seems, on the surface, to be slightly absurd and embarrassing but that will remain an indelible, whole-body revulsion nonetheless. Is it a bit silly to be afraid of—just say, for random example—ladybugs? Probably! Will feel the irrepressible urge to brush a horde of imagined little crawlers off you? Also probably! I certainly did. I have a phobia of insects, and T. Kingfisher’s newest horror novel A House with Good Bones by T. Kingfisher slowly but relentlessly played on that fear—much to my delight. Regularly reading horror can leave you numb to horror. Kingfisher doesn’t let that happen.


That being said, I wasn’t lights-on noise-flinching scared with the book in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. For one, a fly swatter would have been more appropriate, and for two, it’s not that type of scary. Kingfisher’s other novels, Hollow Places especially, had more of a cosmic dread vibe, and A House With Good Bones continues that trend, albeit with a more down-to-earth approach.


The novel begins as our heroine Sam temporarily moves home. This is not because of dire happenings but for the simple reason that a job has fallen through. Bumming around the house, which her mother inherited from the spiteful and not-much-missed matriarch known as Gran Mae, gives Sam plenty of time to idle around and wonder whether her mother, normally a charmingly neurotic woman, has crossed the line into genuine paranoia. Strange behavior gives way gradually to strange happenings, and combines well with an equally steady transition into isolation.


Kingfisher refuses to rely on the old isolation tropes that can make horror so predictable. The internet and cell coverage may be next-to-nonexistent, but it’s more inconvenient than anything else. Certainly the plot doesn’t hinge on it, for which I am deeply grateful. Instead, Sam just…drives to where there’s better coverage. Like anyone would. Kingfisher strikes me as a deeply sensible person, and I’m so glad it comes through in her writing, because I really hate hysterics in horror. Yes, anyone can get overwhelmed or panic, but most people would be surprised at what they can get through when they have no other choice.


The trick there is to make sure characters really don’t have another choice, and Kingfisher very effectively spends the first half of the book eliminating Sam’s alternatives before unleashing the full force of the horror, both supernatural and heartbreakingly mundane. And as the author, so too the protagonist: Sam goes about handling crises and investigating possible explanations with stubborn practicality, eliminating impossibilities until she’s left with truths that are highly improbable indeed.


As with every Kingfisher protagonist, Sam tends toward the sensible, even if she does have several over-the-top (and pretty funny) reactions to the sudden presence of her mother’s handyman. She’s an archaeoentomologist, a profession that’s very literally grounded: she spends her time examining dead bugs at archeological sites to understand more about ancient life and culture. A surprisingly applicable set of skills, as it turns out, because there are several infestations she’s going to have to deal with.


I’ve already mentioned the bugs; the other infestation is history. In a more immediate sense it’s a ghost, a haunting, but in the usual way of ghosts there’s more to discover and more at stake than a single entity or a single grudge. Generational trauma has become a topic of interest in horror and SFF more recently, and Kingfisher does a great job ensuring that it’s not just an abstraction. All of the characters have a nuanced and affecting relationship to the web of family ties that binds them, and to the region in which they live, the rural American south. I might have liked to see more detail about the family involvement with Thelemic practices, if only because I know almost nothing about it, and there was a lot of fun (and by fun, I mean creepy) potential to be explored.


However, it’s clear that Kingfisher made a deliberate choice to leave it in the background. Her narrative is ultimately not about self-aggrandizing secret societies, but about individuals who hurt each other in such intimate ways. Kingfisher gives us a nuanced portrait of evil not as a force but as a choice, or rather, as a series of choices made over and over again. It’s this deliberate action that cements Gran Mae as the villain, not any kind of arbitrary ritual or accident of birth.


Evil in A House with Good Bones is comprehensible and even banal—but not ubiquitous. This is specifically not about how small towns are cesspools of hate, and equally not about how rural areas are full of inbred racist cannibals. Sure, Lammergeier Lane might be home to paranoid gub’mint-hating shut-in Mr. Pressley, but even he has a positive role to play. Besides, there’s also Gail, a wildlife rehabber who particularly tends to injured vultures, and a collection of other neighbors who are decent and largely normal.


Normal is, of course, a relative concept. One of the more chilling realizations in the novel is just how insidious the idea of normal can be, and how far people will go in order to achieve it—or at least the appearance of it.


So what’s worse, ghosts and bugs, or suffocating conformity? Porque no los dos? asks Kingfisher. She doesn’t skimp on the scares, that’s for sure, working hard to make sure you’re afraid of both extremes by the time you reach the viscerally awful climax. It’s—just--so upsetting. It’s the kind of revulsion you feel first in the back of your throat and at the back of your neck, and only then does it radiate outward to make you want to gag or shudder. And it’s all of that without being gory, which is impressive. Kingfisher never goes for tropes if she can make it weird instead.


If A House with Good Bones is then result, then three cheers for weird.

Dark and twisted family roots threaten to strangle their home's foundations in this chilling haunted house novel from the award-winning master of modern horror, T. Kingfisher.

Samantha Montgomery pulls into the driveway of her family home to find a massive black vulture perched on the mailbox, staring at the house.

Inside, everything has changed. Gone is the eclectic warmth Sam expects; instead the walls are a sterile white. Now, it’s very important to say grace before dinner, and her mother won’t hear a word against Sam’s long-dead and little-missed grandmother, who was the first to put down roots in this small southern town.

The longer Sam stays, the stranger things get. And every day, more vultures circle overhead…

If there’s one thing horror fans are known for, it’s their love of the genre’s classics, indefatigable stalwarts, and influential masterpieces. You really don’t have to spend much time talking to lovers of paperback horror novels to realise that love of the genre often equates to collections of goodwill paperbacks with trashy covers, re-issues of ‘lost’ but nonetheless beloved tomes, and a thriving marketplace for original books.

One of the publishers going out of their way to make sure genre fans get to experience the books that shaped horror is Encyclopocalypse. To be quite blunt, they are absolutely killing it. Their audiobook version of Gary Brandner’s iconic werewolf novel The Howling is a prime example.

It’s not a stretch to say that most readers of this site will be familiar with the film adaptation of this novel (and, if you’re one of those who’s thinking about The Howling IV right now, I salute you). Of course, the film is one of the 80s most iconic creature features and a rightful favourite of many. Having said that, if you haven’t read the book, you really need to check this out.

Brandner’s original novel is fantastic. Despite having a few of his books on my shelf, including this one and The Howling III, which, much to my chagrin, isn’t about marsupials, I’d never read his work before now. That was a mistake. It also shows why the work Encyclopocalypse is doing is so vital.

This is far more than a fondly remembered slice of B-Grade paperback trash. This is a superbly written novel that’s full of creeping dread, terrifying action pieces, empathetic characters and engaging relationships. Yes, there are moments when the novel demonstrates its age, but it’s so well plotted and written, that I’m surprised it’s not spoken about as much as it should be. I even had a look in Paperbacks from Hell to see if Brandner warrants a mention. Alas, he does not.

But enough about the original novel. We’ve established that it’s a top-notch work of horror fiction, and that it deserves to be read. If you’re like me, though, and your shelves are stacked with hundreds of classics, you might be wondering why you should bump this to the front of the list, particularly if all of those books are in competition with the plethora of new releases coming your way in this golden age of horror fiction.

Basically, it’s really good, and the fact it’s on audio allows you to cheat a little. Personally, I love the fact I can consume audiobooks on my morning commute, and whittle down the to-be-read pile at the same time. This is probably why I’m so enamoured with Encyclopocalypse. They allow me to do that, but they revitalise these novels with the pristine sound quality of modern audiobooks.

If you’ve ever accessed your library’s audio collection and found yourself with a really dry version of an old favourite, you’ll know that narration and sound quality plays a big role in just how engaging the book is. Sometimes, it’s tedious. With Encyclopocalypse, it never is.

Caffey’s narration in this is perfect for the backwoods setting of the novel. He lets the characters and their emotions breathe while also bringing the explosive finale to life. The sound of his read is crisp, as is expected from an expert audiobook publisher, and the pacing clips along, letting you knock over this one in just over five hours.

Put simply, they’ve revitalised one of the novels that blasted werewolf movies into the top tier level of 80s creature features, and made it accessible for everyone. Snatch it up.
​
Now, if someone wants to get this Australian creature feature writer to pen a novelisation of The Howling III: The Marsupials, I’m all ears!

​An Amazon number-one best-selling horror title

Karyn and her husband Roy had come to the peaceful California village of Drago to escape the savagery of the city. On the surface, Drago appeared to be like most small rural towns. But it was not. The village had a most unsavory history. Unexplained disappearances, sudden deaths. People just vanished, never to be found.

©1977, 2011 Gary Brandner (P)2022 Mark Alan Miller