I’m not entirely sure how I managed to miss this story or how it was kept out of the press, but evidently somewhere in New York there is a now empty grave no longer possessing its former occupant. The long since deceased Rod Serling has risen from the grave. He is once again walking among us, but living under the protection of an assumed name.

And that name is Patrick Loveland.

I realize that it comes off as somewhat of a cheesy line, but the fact is that I’m actually starting to write this review before I’ve even finished reading his most recent book. We are talking about an author who, by all rights should have been born seventy-five years ago, just so he could rise to fame and glory as one of the writers on shows like The Outer Limits or The Twilight Zone or Tales From The Crypt. Because whenever I read his stuff, all I can think is that I want this story on my television, right now and in beautiful black and white with an amazingly creepy score.

Somebody has got to make that happen.

There are plenty of writers out there with great, vivid imaginations. But Loveland always seems to take it to the next level, in a way that’s so completely out there and yet so entertaining that all I want to do is go back to the beginning of the story and look for details that I missed the first time through. It’s at this perfect level with monsters and visual effects in the stories that make you wonder what the hell is going on in this guy’s dreamscapes.

I loved how the stories felt like pieces in a larger puzzle. The stories all feel like they belong together, not simply a common theme but that they could all be happening in a common universe. Several of them are direct continuations of the stories that came before. The stories in the book are separate, but like a mass of swarming tentacles, they are all connected as well. Or, to put better in the context of the book, the stories all feel like different sets of eyes, blinking at you in the darkness which shrouds the creative epicenter that lies at the heart of all of this.

There were a few stories that stood out for me, in particular. The leadoff title, “Ekwiiyemak (The Place Where It Rains)” was a fantastic opening salvo. The genre has come to be called “weird western”, which I have had a hard time wrapping my head around. I’m just not sure what it means. Regardless of how you label it, I think that westerns and horror are a match made in heaven. There is so much unknown to westerns, just from the era they are set in, so many stretches of blank, dark territory where who knows what is going out there. Who knows what could be lurking in the trees over that ridge or in the darkness of those caves? I think Loveland plays those aspects to perfection and makes the historical setting work perfectly with his own narrative sensibilities.

“Iris and Kayyali Beyond Trolltown” presents an engaging world upon which this narrative is drawn. And I liked that Loveland didn’t bore us with a ton of dry exposition, giving us way more than we really need. What information is given comes in a natural pace with the story and did exactly what it needed to do. This was an exciting story and I think I should point out that Loveland does a great job with action and his description of that action. The fast parts of the story feel fast and exciting and I think his background in film allows him to give his writing a very cinematic feel. Whatever it is, it works well.

“R-Day for Mr. D” and “R-Day for Mrs. D” was a cool pair of stories that actually serve nicely as one larger piece. He does this as well in another pair of tales centered around a detective. In these tales, we see a husband and wife pairing off against a monstrous and powerful entity. Both stories stand on their own and also lend each other weight. It’s perfectly handled and paced out.

The last story from the collection, “Beluga” was fantastically bonkers. And yet somehow, Loveland manages to take a concept that is fully around the bend and put you in a place where it seems completely rational and probable. It starts out with the character in quite possibly the most terrifying position imaginable. It’s the stuff that the deepest of nightmares spring from and it all grows into a frantic tale of survival that I couldn’t turn away from.

This collection is incredibly unique and special. Do yourself a favor, support a fantastic human being of an author and make your way over to your favorite book peddler. You won’t regret it.

Chad A. Clark is an author of dark-leaning fiction, born and raised in the middle of the United States. His road began in Illinois, along the banks of the Mississippi and from there he moved to Iowa, where he has lived ever since. From an early age, he was brined in the glory that is science fiction and horror, from the fantastical of George Lucas, Gene Roddenberry and Steven Spielberg to the dark and gritty tales of Stephen King and George Romero. The way from there to here has been littered with no shortage of books and movies, all of which have and continue to inform his narrative style to this day. Chad has written horror, science fiction and non-fiction. He has been published by Crystal Lake Publishing, Dark Minds Press, Shadow Work Publishing, Sirens Call Publications and EyeCue Productions and his books have received critical praise from the Ginger Nuts of Horror, Ink Heist, Confessions of a Reviewer, Horror DNA and This is Horror. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

Dark City is a film that manages to get just a little more complex and interesting with each time I watch it. It’s one of the more unique and engaging sci-fi films to come out of my early adult years and is one that I am happy to have had the chance to enjoy.

The premise of the film is one that has been done in some form again and again over the years. A man (John Murdoch) wakes up in a bathtub with no memory of who he is or how he got there. There is a dead body in the room and he has blood on him. Everything that follows is a gradual unraveling of this mystery we have been presented with. And as with any mystery, the key is obviously how well done and satisfying the payoff is at the end. Do we walk away satisfied or disappointed?

The idea behind the film is that a giant experiment is taking place, with some kind of species holding mankind hostage. Each night, they cause things in the world to come crashing to a halt and in this seemingly infinite length of unaware inactivity, they begin changing things. Buildings sprout up that weren’t there before. People are moved around like chess pieces, to different houses and different families. A poor couple discussing their day over dinner may blink away and come back to consciousness now in an opulent home, having the same conversation but now in the lifestyle of the rich. How people react to these changes is what our overseers are most interested in, evidently.

Some may feel the urge to compare this to The Matrix and while I can see a connection on a superficial level, it really is comparing apples and oranges. Dark City may have the basic notion of people leading false lives, against their will and without their knowledge, but the concept is so much more rich and interesting than just that.

As Murdoch proves immune to the technology of these aliens, we are left to watch him stumbling about the landscape, trying to remember his past in a world of people who can’t remember anything. I felt the tragic notes of the story much more acutely this time around. That I find myself as well at a point in my life where all I want to do is seek out and take hold of all the things that are now behind me.

William Hurt has grown to become one of my all time favorite actors. He just has this soft-spoken ability to fully inhabit the skin of a character and bring them to life in a way many are unable to. In this film, we see him as a police detective, trying futilely to solve a series of homicides, which John Murdoch might be guilty of, clearly having only a limited picture of what is happening in the city around him. He’s also trying to unravel the crazed rantings of his former partner, trying in vain to get a grip on the mindset of someone who has no grip on anything. He can sense that something is wrong in the city. But how can you explore an answer when you don’t yet really have a question? In a way, he is searching for deeper answers on an unconscious level, just as much as John Murdoch is consciously seeking them out.

There’s this odd contrast. Visually, the movie is stunning to watch. All the beautiful city skylines and landscapes and the fact that nearly the entire movie is at night makes it feel almost like a black and white picture. But the lighting and visuals and performances from the cast also lends an incredible melancholy feel. You find yourself observing these people trying to live out their lives, but who are unable to do so, as they end each day being reset by some higher power they are unaware of and don’t understand. They have no concept of what is happening to them and instead seem to exist in this perpetual fog of a semi-depressive state, as the same scenes in their lives are played out, again and again.

One of the most poignant moments in the film for me was when Murdoch tracks down his uncle, who raised him from a child. One question Murdoch seems obsessed with is in finding out how to get to Shell Beach. He is overloaded with memories of a childhood there but despite seeming to know what Shell Beach is, no one he asks is able to tall him how to actually get there. His uncle tries to help Murdoch with his memory issues by showing him some slides from his childhood. But when Murdoch starts to ask his uncle some basic questions, everything just falls apart.

He tries to get at his uncle’s specific memories but finds that those specifics have been long since replaced by generalities, like an intricate ink sketch had been replaced with a basic painting of broad brush strokes. For me, it was a poignant metaphor for getting older, something I think I appreciate more than I did when I was twenty. Our pasts are robbed from us, a little more each day. The person I was twenty years ago has essentially ceased to exist and there’s nothing I can do to bring him back. It was this feeling that struck me most acutely as I re-watched Dark City. Every day, the people of this city are robbed of their lives, wiped clean and then shoved back into those lives, still having to function as if nothing had happened. And while on a conscious level, nobody seems aware of their experiences, it seems like behind the vacant gazes of so many characters, they’re all somehow existentially aware of everything they are going through. And the tragedy of this is brought into full form under the constant blanket of cold, dark skies.

Dark City is a special film, full of phenomenal performances. This is one of my favorite pre-Jack Bauer roles from Kiefer Sutherland. I’ve already mentioned William Hurt. Rufus Sewell is spot on as the lead role and the criminally under-recognized Jennifer Connelly puts in a phenomenal performance. And yes, the portrayal of the aliens can be a little on the cheesy side, especially with their names like Mr. Book or Mr. Hand, Mr. Wall and so forth. But the costume and makeup of the creatures was so well done that I’m willing to overlook that aspect.

So many movies anymore are entertaining but they don’t stay with you. There has been a certain amount of drama recently over remarks Martin Scorcese made about not liking superhero films. And while I do find the Marvel movies entertaining, I have to admit that I don’t think he’s wrong. I go to an Avengers film, have a great time and then barely ever think about the movie again after leaving the theater. I rarely have any desire to watch them again. With movies like Dark City, I find it gets into my head. And despite having seen it again and again, I can still find reasons to enjoy it, even though it’s the fifth or sixth time I’ve seen it. It’s a style of movie-making that I wish would become more financially viable anymore. Let movies become the landscapes of dreams again and not just plugging in a basic visual formula.

But I digress.

Dark City for me is a story about a man trying to find himself in a society where there is nothing left to be found. It’s about how powerful our innate drive to discover truth can be, no matter how heavily it might be shrouded and inaccessible to us. It’s a reminder that we might be lost to each other, we might be lost to ourselves, but sometimes there still remains that tiniest of tethers, that cord of truth and experience that can return us to what once was. We just need to learn how to operate the mechanisms within ourselves.

To find our own Shell Beach.

Who knows who might be waiting for you there?

Chad A. Clark is an author of dark-leaning fiction, born and raised in the middle of the United States. His road began in Illinois, along the banks of the Mississippi and from there he moved to Iowa, where he has lived ever since. From an early age, he was brined in the glory that is science fiction and horror, from the fantastical of George Lucas, Gene Roddenberry and Steven Spielberg to the dark and gritty tales of Stephen King and George Romero. The way from there to here has been littered with no shortage of books and movies, all of which have and continue to inform his narrative style to this day. Chad has written horror, science fiction and non-fiction. He has been published by Crystal Lake Publishing, Dark Minds Press, Shadow Work Publishing, Sirens Call Publications and EyeCue Productions and his books have received critical praise from the Ginger Nuts of Horror, Ink Heist, Confessions of a Reviewer, Horror DNA and This is Horror. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

Cloverfield is a title that seems to be quite divisive among film lovers. You either love it or you join up with the masses that have elected to turn it into an object of scorn and mockery. Despite the success of films like this and the Blair Witch Project, found footage films has become a genre that I’ve seen frequently falling into the crosshairs of critics. Either for the vomit-inducing lack of a good steady shot or for the absurdity in the logic of the premise, that a person fleeing for their life would none-the-less do so while carrying a camera and dropping one-liners the entire time.

I really do get it. I can see how people could see found footage as little more than a gimmick to publicize the film. That the credibility you think you’re gaining with a low budget film such as this can sometimes be seen as an excuse for not investing time in the writing and production quality of the product.

That’s all fine and I can’t say that I have any logical grounds to counter the argument. Although I do suspect that making a movie appear so casual and haphazard takes more effort than the average person would be willing to admit. Still, I get it. It doesn’t make sense that anyone would be clutching to a camera, filming every horrid thing they’re going through. Anyone with an ounce of sense in their head would toss the camera to the side and buy themselves that much more speed to maybe get away with their life.

The thing is, these movies, even more than the rest, aren’t about capturing the height of realism and credibility. Movies are all about the illusion of the storytelling. It’s a lesson we should have learned long ago in the earliest days of our childhood, going to the theater to see jedis clashing lightsabers or to see talking cars or pirates in outer space. Enjoying movies is about enjoying that magic.

Now I’m not saying that at the crusty old age I’ve gotten to, I’m still sitting in the theater, glowing in the magic of the cinema. But I think I’m still capable of leaving a certain amount of my disbelief at the door and allowing myself to sit back, relax and just enjoy a story, even though it might not be realistic. Not for nothing, but if you’re looking for realism in a movie about a skyscraper-sized monster rising from the depths of the ocean, you might be in the wrong store.

Cloverfield is a fun movie. And while that may make the more refined of us turn their nose up at the notion, for me, finding that thrill of excitement while watching a movie is all about chasing down those childhood experiences.

I’ve loved monster movies for a long time and what I love about this film is that it shows us what the story might look like if it was from the perspective of one of those countless screaming victims, running through the streets, looking for safety. There isn’t a booming narrative voice in this and there was only one recognizable face in the cast, although you had to be paying attention to catch him.

What the camera serves in this movie is to put us into the story as a character, sprinting in this insane race to try and survive in the face of total destruction. It was a nicely conceived and executed notion. And while very little is explained, I felt that for the kind of movie it was, this worked perfectly. We knew no more than the characters being hunted down and for me it made the experience all the more frightening and fast-paced.

I also liked the device of the occasional interludes inserted in the movie, (ostensibly bits of recordings on the tape) of two of the main characters sharing an afternoon together.

The way this is introduced is as follows. At a party, one of the characters is handed a camera and asked to film people at the event. Assuming he is supposed to use the tape already in the machine, he does so, not realizing that he is taping over the old content. So after long stretches of death and destruction, the film will cut back to what was on it originally, an afternoon at Coney Island with two people in love. And again, it makes no sense that the footage would be there. It should all be erased and gone. But for the purposes of the film, it provides some moments of levity between the characters and highlights the tragedy of events unfolding.

Cloverfield was a stunning movie experience. It was loud and fast and took no prisoners. The experiences of these characters is terrifying and the frantic nature of this chain of events is expertly laid out for you. If you can turn down the volume on your adult side and just sit back, you could really enjoy this. Let the visuals wash over you and buckle up for a bumpy ride.

If you want to watch a movie where the army guy and the scientist brilliantly save the day and vanquish the monster, you should give this one a pass. But if you might enjoy seeing a group of characters dumped into a situation where they are suddenly fighting for their lives with little chance of seeing the dawn, this movie might just be the one for you.

Chad A. Clark is an author of dark-leaning fiction, born and raised in the middle of the United States. His road began in Illinois, along the banks of the Mississippi and from there he moved to Iowa, where he has lived ever since. From an early age, he was brined in the glory that is science fiction and horror, from the fantastical of George Lucas, Gene Roddenberry and Steven Spielberg to the dark and gritty tales of Stephen King and George Romero. The way from there to here has been littered with no shortage of books and movies, all of which have and continue to inform his narrative style to this day. Chad has written horror, science fiction and non-fiction. He has been published by Crystal Lake Publishing, Dark Minds Press, Shadow Work Publishing, Sirens Call Publications and EyeCue Productions and his books have received critical praise from the Ginger Nuts of Horror, Ink Heist, Confessions of a Reviewer, Horror DNA and This is Horror. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

This is not the first time I have reviewed this movie. In fact, it isn’t the first time I have reviewed this movie for this site. But it happened to come up as relevant to the theme for this month and all I could think was, “I couldn’t just recycle the old review, could I? That wouldn’t be right.”

There are certain plot formulas that will win me over, just for coming into the room and saying, “hello”. And one such formula is that of the ghost ship, especially if you add in a kind of cautionary angle. The ship had gone off on some kind of exploratory mission, was never heard from again and then, decades later just shows up, abandoned. I love the inherent darkness and peril that hovers just outside the borders of those stories and the first time you read or watch something like that, you spend most of your time clenching, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Now if you were to make that concept into a sci-fi movie, there’s going to be little chance I won’t like it. You’d have to try pretty hard to turn me away.

Enter into the conversation, Event Horizon.

So maybe you shouldn’t give this review any weight because the person writing it isn’t coming from an impartial point of view. Maybe I should adopt a more discerning eye for the more important flaws of a movie and be willing to put my feelings aside in the essential dissection of the mechanics of a film in review.

Maybe there’s some value to that point but I’m not doing it. Sorry.

I mean, not really but you know what I mean.

The premise of the movie is (as ideal for horror) simple and effective. Sam Neil plays Dr. William Weir, a man who is in mourning for the death of his wife and in the midst of this is called to duty in the investigation of an exploratory vessel he helped design, years ago. The Event Horizon, created for deep space exploration, has suddenly reappeared after vanishing without a trace and with no explanation.

A salvage crew led by Captain Miller (played by the outstanding Laurence Fishburne) has been scrambled to go to the ship and Weir has been tasked to accompany them, as an expert on its technology.

What happened to the Event Horizon? Where has it been all this time? Why has it come back? What happened to the crew? All questions that will need to be answered in the course of their mission. And after a quick introduction to our cast of characters, the story is moving full speed. What I think the film uses most effectively is that of isolation and foreboding. As soon as the ship catches up to the Event Horizon and boards her, you have a sense of something dark about the ship and that Weir knows something that he isn’t sharing with the rest of the crew. All of this unfolds nicely as most everyone starts to come unhinged and eventually they are trapped on the Event Horizon.

As the ship’s creator, Weir seems to be especially affected by the ship as his recent emotional traumas are exploited to bring him around to a rapidly descending path into madness.

For me, Event Horizon is all about the claustrophobia you manage to feel within the immense vastness of space. Every scene is oozing tension with the mystery of what might be lurking around the corner and what entity may have returned as a part of this cursed ship. You spend most of the film bracing yourself for coming upon the brutal end that you know most of these characters are destined for.

There is a certain mythology around this film on the subject of the infamous director’s cut. Evidently there was quite a bit of footage in the film that was removed as it was thought too disturbing and considering what did end up in the final product, I can only imagine what that would entail. However, while footage like this would normally be reserved for an eventual re-release as a blu-ray collector’s edition, that footage has sadly been lost forever as it was evidently exposed as a result of being improperly archived. For some reason, for me this gives the film a little extra bit of aura, somewhat along the lines of all the mysterious problems that existed on the set of The Exorcist. After being simply missing for years, the lost footage from Event Horizon was found in a Transylvanian salt mine. That in and of itself is begging to have a book written about it.

Event Horizon is a beautifully shot film with fantastic atmosphere and tension. I love all the scenes on the ship with thunder rumbling outside even though it makes no fracking sense that they would be able to hear thunder while in orbit. After all, in space no one can hear…well you get the point. Still, I love it. Maybe I’m being suckered into the fly trap of the film’s superficiality but I don’t care. It’s a movie I love to watch and I would place it on a level as being a later generation’s version of Hellraiser, another favorite of mine.

Sometimes things that we think are lost come back. And sometimes they bring friends. Check this film out and you can see a pretty good example of this.

Chad A. Clark is an author of dark-leaning fiction, born and raised in the middle of the United States. His road began in Illinois, along the banks of the Mississippi and from there he moved to Iowa, where he has lived ever since. From an early age, he was brined in the glory that is science fiction and horror, from the fantastical of George Lucas, Gene Roddenberry and Steven Spielberg to the dark and gritty tales of Stephen King and George Romero. The way from there to here has been littered with no shortage of books and movies, all of which have and continue to inform his narrative style to this day. Chad has written horror, science fiction and non-fiction. He has been published by Crystal Lake Publishing, Dark Minds Press, Shadow Work Publishing, Sirens Call Publications and EyeCue Productions and his books have received critical praise from the Ginger Nuts of Horror, Ink Heist, Confessions of a Reviewer, Horror DNA and This is Horror. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

Growing up, zombie movies were something that really fueled my love for the horror genre. They scared all holy hell out of me and I think the main reason was the implacability and inevitable nihilistic doom to which the movies all seemed to portend. A zombie by itself might pose no threat. But bring on a herd of the shambling monsters and your odds were a lot worse. Add the fact that as the movie goes on, there just seems to be more and more of the things and the outlook is bleak, indeed.

This was the benchmark I used as I began to develop my own sensibilities in crafting horror and it is something I will always be grateful for.

So reading this series from Thomas Flowers I find myself appreciative on several levels. First, it returns the zombie genre back to those days I remember from so long ago but as a bonus, he has also grounded these stories heavily in the eighties. Doing so only helps me feel an even stronger connection as the books have now become tied up in my own fuzzy, happy memories of times gone by.

This series, currently standing at two books, began with Island of the Flesh Eaters. And as the VHS video tape-style cover and title would suggest, this is one story that goes after you from page one, taking little time for fluff or ceremony. You are thrust into the story along with all the gore and glory you would expect. It’s a quick read and well worth your time.

Just last month, we got the next book in the series, City of the Flesh Eaters. And what I think works most effectively here, besides the writing, is the fact that while it exists as a sequel, it runs more concurrently to the events from book one and as a result, the two books could be theoretically read in any order. It’s something that can be hard to pull off but Flowers has done a good job in this effort.

The book follows a format of moving the camera around between a group of characters, giving individual chapters to specific people. The story-lines don’t all occur necessarily at the same time and while it can be jarring to jump from one character to the next and back again, I think this feeling is actually important to the experience of the book. After all, isn’t disorientation exactly what the characters are experiencing themselves?

As would be expected, this story moves along quickly and as the reader, I was waiting for everyone to be brought together and the point where the book would become unified and moving in the same direction. And then, in one brilliant, extended chapter, Flowers takes hold of the different threads of the plot, brings them all together and makes them one with a heavy piece of twine wrapped tightly around everything. It is a plot that is deceptively complex, fooling you with how simple it seems. It is a project that requires organization, even being of shorter length and again, Flowers has proven up to the task of keeping a lot of narrative organized and up in the air.

If you cut your teeth on the glory of eighties horror, this is a book that you should check out. While store-bought nostalgia has become more of the norm anymore, this one feels quite different, coming from the creative mind of someone who has a clear love for that time and for the culture which came out of it. Reading this as well as his Planet of the Dead series gives me little glimpses into what it is I love about zombie movies in the first place. Do yourself a favor and dive in today.

Chad A. Clark is an author of dark-leaning fiction, born and raised in the middle of the United States. His road began in Illinois, along the banks of the Mississippi and from there he moved to Iowa, where he has lived ever since. From an early age, he was brined in the glory that is science fiction and horror, from the fantastical of George Lucas, Gene Roddenberry and Steven Spielberg to the dark and gritty tales of Stephen King and George Romero. The way from there to here has been littered with no shortage of books and movies, all of which have and continue to inform his narrative style to this day. Chad has written horror, science fiction and non-fiction. He has been published by Crystal Lake Publishing, Dark Minds Press, Shadow Work Publishing, Sirens Call Publications and EyeCue Productions and his books have received critical praise from the Ginger Nuts of Horror, Ink Heist, Confessions of a Reviewer, Horror DNA and This is Horror. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

The plane set down in New Orleans in a pouring rain. He stepped out of the terminal, his bright red alligator boots crunching down on broken glass. He raised up a hand, clutching a pack of cigarettes, as he waved for the next cab.

He walked down Bourbon Street, glancing up at the balconies, and remembering how her hair had flowed in the breeze as they pelted the Mardi Gras crowds with peanuts. He took long drags from the cigarette, the smoke rising up to mingle with the banners and elaborate flower arrangements that lined the street.

The coffee shop where he had met her was still there, now sandwiched between trendy chain restaurants. The ragged poster of Louis Armstrong still stood guard over the patrons, partaking in burnt espresso and stale sandwiches. He had never cared for the place, but the essence of her still lingered there and who was he to fight the pull of tradition?

On the next corner, as he tried to fight the taste of caffeinated memories, the smell of catfish frying wafted down from the balcony above, and he could make out the sound of someone inside, banging on an old piano. It was the same corner he had walked past with her, the preacher standing on his apple crate, reaching out to the crowd, reaching out for him.

She had always loved the city, the people and the music, the food and festivals. Loved the smell of spice in the air, and nights spent trudging through the worst parts of town to find restaurants hidden behind heavy metal doors. He was often surprised that they hadn’t needed a password, just to get in.

She had always been there next to him on these trips, here in the city and beyond. She was supposed to stay there, always at his side. Now the only presence he felt around him was the weight of absence.

So, hours after his informal walking tour, he blinked and found himself on the bed of a hotel room. He reached across to return the now empty bottle of gin next to the empty bottle of scotch. Satisfied that he had finished both, he reached to the table on the other side of the bed, took hold of the tiny prescription bottle and laid back, steeling himself against the imminent comfort of the outstretched shades of eternity.

Read more short stories like this in Chad A. Clark’s collections, A Shade For Every Season and Two Bells At Dawn.

Chad A. Clark is an author of horror and science fiction. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

It’s been a long held fact that you can’t judge a book from its cover. I would disagree with this notion from time to time but the relevance to this discussion is the incredible cover art that perfectly sets the mood for this book. This cover looks like the book was published, ready for John Carpenter to come swooping in to do the film adaptation. And in all seriousness, if this book makes it into the right hands, I can only hope that that adaptation becomes a reality.

I have been a fan of Rich Hawkins from the early days of the Last Plague. He has taken his books in any number of different directions but what I constantly find myself drawn to as a unifying factor in his books is a profoundly ingrained and yet beautiful sense of bleak darkness. There’s an almost nihilistic drive to the writing that, while sad on the surface is also compelling enough to keep me turning the pages and pulling me through the story.

The Cold starts abruptly and while many would call for more information and context, I think this works better. Rich is superb at putting the reader into the story, along with the characters. The book opens on a train and we have about that much time to acclimate before things kick off. It begins to snow and the train stops, stranding the passengers. And hidden within the misty snow and driving wind are creatures that are powerful and terrifying.

I hate retreating back to the tried and true catch phrases like, “Truly no one is safe in…” But in this case, I can say with total accuracy that no one is safe in a Rich Hawkins book. As our characters do what they can to make their way across this nightmarish landscape, new people are quickly introduced. And just as quickly, they are obliterated out of the story in spectacular fashion.

And while you aren’t given a ton of back-story up front, I felt like the protagonist managed to grow in my mind as the book wound its way to the gripping finale. Rich does a great job keeping with what you know and mixing all of that into a great tale, even when there’s more still yet to come.

Rich has some of the most vivid and visually creative descriptions I think I’ve read in some time. So while the book could be seen as maybe a touch plot-heavy, I find that the plot is so great I just don’t care that much. The book could have been twice as long and I would have happily gone along for the entire ride. A meal as good as this one, you don’t never want it to end.

We live in a world in which every day, people seem to be a little bit angrier. For whatever reason, so many people seem all the more invested in finding reasons to take issue with each other. And I’m not putting down the more politically inclined of our society or those who speak up in favor of those who can’t speak for themselves. But there’s no reason why that has to completely take over our lives. It’s also refreshing to be able to pick up a book and take in a really great story. This is a frightening tale that is paced brilliantly and leaves you wanting to immediately know when the next Rich Hawkins book is going to finally hit the shelves.

Or at least wondering when John Carpenter is going to get around to doing an adaptation of this book.

Chad A. Clark is an author of horror and science fiction. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

Before the crew had even finished the landing sequence, the delegation of Khaln’aari had emerged from the forest to greet them. Captain Altranor led them down the ramp to meet the party with the crew already in full dress uniform. Theirs was one of the first crews to come to the planet, and it lifted their spirits to find such a warm reception.

The digital network that was streamed through their comm badges was able, albeit slowly, to translate what the Khaln’aari were saying. Before long, the formalities of the reception had lessened somewhat to a more comfortable familiarity. They exchanged gifts, the Captain giving the Khaln’aari a glass figurine of Thoth, the Egyptian god of wisdom. The Khaln’aari had given each of the crew necklaces of tiny, but intricately sculpted pieces of brawn’dak stone.

The two groups entertained each other at the reception site with traditional myths native to each others’ cultures. They traded the stories, back and forth, until the sun was starting to set beyond the southern horizon.

The food was by far, the highlight of the evening.

Being nighttime hunters, the Khaln’aari allowed several members of the crew, including the Captain to join them on that evening’s excursion. The crew had been able to achieve several kills, even though all they saw of the animals were dark shapes running through the trees. The Khaln’aari had several dozen kills, and they sent the younger hunters of the tribe to collect the bodies and clean them for the feast.

Hours later at dinner, the servers brought out pots, steaming from within. The stews, all different, were served to everyone, dark and rich, with the most moist, and flavorful meat any of them had ever eaten. The over-sized glasses of blood-red wine went straight through them, and soon, most were seeing the table through an unsteady haze of pre-intoxication.

The Captain stood to toast the hospitality of their hosts and to thank the Khaln’aari for the feast.

There was a tittering of laughter in response to the toast and for the first time, the Captain looked uncertain. The leader of the Khaln’aari rose and spoke loudly for quite some time, the rest of his delegation chuckling as he went on. It took a minute before the neural network was able to fully translate what was being said, and another minute before the implication of his statement set in.

“That is precisely what the last group of humans who visited here said. I know that you believe you were the first to set foot here, as did they. You were incorrect in that assumption, as were they. They enjoyed their meals as well, that is, before they knew what they were eating, or rather, who they were eating. As great as their anger was at being tricked into hunting their own kind, the humans who had visited here before them, it paled in comparison to the revelation that it was those fellow travelers who they had been dining on.”

The crew all pushed back from the table, meaning to stand, reaching for weapons that the Captain had not let them bring for fear of offending the Khaln’aari. Before they could even rise to their feet, guards stepped forward out of the shadows and held them down in their chairs. The Captain stood frozen in place, unable to move or react. The leader spoke one last time, “I wonder,” he said as he lifted a glass, “how the next crew will feel about hunting you. Do you think they will enjoy the food?”

Read more short stories like this in Chad A. Clark’s collections, A Shade For Every Season and Two Bells At Dawn.

Chad A. Clark is an author of horror and science fiction. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

Compliance is a movie that I watched ages ago, back in the days of old of Netflix and bright red envelopes. But the movie recently popped up again on my Amazon prime list so I thought it would be worth paying it a revisit.

Compliance isn’t a horror movie necessarily. It doesn’t have monsters or the supernatural or any kind of ghoulish threat to our main characters. However, the experience of the protagonist in this movie definitely crosses over the border into what anyone in their right  mind would consider to be horrific. It’s the kind of story that shines a disturbing light on how easy it can be to get people of strong moral character to do the most depraved and horrible things.

The film is based on actual events which maddeningly could be accurately be described as a series of phone pranks. For the most part the basic details were the same. An individual calls in to a restaurant claiming to be a police officer. He tells the manager that he has just taken a complaint from a customer who claims that a cashier from the restaurant has stolen money from her purse. And because there isn’t an officer available to come to the restaurant, he needs the manager to pull the employee aside, detain her and go through her belongings to try and find this money. Continue Reading

A few months ago, I began writing what I thought was going to be a short story. As I got into it, however, I realized that this was likely going to end up being a full novel. For posterity and maybe to motivate myself, I am sharing the first chapter with you now, in all it’s rough-draftiness-glory. I’ve done very little to this, keeping it pretty close to how it sprang out of my mind. I’ve given it a quick read to make it (hopefully) not completely embarrassing. Still, it’s a project that I’ve been intrigued to see what direction it’s going in. Check it out, I hope you enjoy it. It will be some time before this project sees the light of day but it’s from here that it begins.

Nolan picked up the battered Zippo from the gravel. He took note of his fingers trembling as he wiped the greasy leavings of blood from the tarnished metal. The thing was frail-looking, despite the breadth of time and destruction that it had borne witness to. He wondered at how many fire-fights it had gone through, tucked away in his grandfather’s uniform as he struggled to find warmth in the Ardennes Forest. A battered landscape long since given itself up to the cold of empty death.

Now the thing was no better than a token for drunk rednecks to go bare-knuckles over in the parking lot of a bar that looked like it only served as the last stop before the end of the line. He hawked up the gunk in his throat and spit, feeling something dislodge in the process and watched detachedly as a tooth skittered off towards the sewer. Considering how much the side of his face still burned from where the guy had put the pool que, one tooth was probably getting off easy.

Maybe it was time to call it quits on this town. Put boots to that dusty Iowa road and depart for yet one more point B. It was a bit far to the next town but he could always get a good start now, thumbing his way for the rest. Someone would be willing to pick him up and toss him a ride. Even if it was in the flatbed of a pickup that wheezed and groaned, like it was on the verge of giving up the ghosts. He just had to be patient and put himself in the right position to catch a ride. Continue Reading

At some point, author Jack Wallen made the decision to climb the literary mountain and write his own interpretation of one of the classics, Mary Shelley‘s Frankenstein. And as we currently sit in the era of the reboot and the remake, I think it would be totally understandable if the reflexive reaction to something like this would be to dismiss. To bemoan the general lack of originality and new ideas that are popular culture seems unable to produce anymore.

Chad A. Clark is an author of horror and science fiction. For more information on his literary universe, check out his official website or take a peek at his Amazon author page

Tune in tomorrow for our review of Jack Wallen’s latest book, Frankenstein Theory. For now, check out this interview we conducted with him as well.

MM : Tell us a little about yourself and what put you on the road to being an author.

JW :I spent the first 30 years of my adult life as a professional actor. I was on the road, traveling across the country, from gig to gig, and finally landed at my current home state, where I performed for one of the largest theater for young audiences in America. During my ten years as a resident actor there, I realized that Actor’s Equity Association’s retirement plan was, in a word, sad. When that hit home, I knew I had to find something that could serve as a retirement.

Flash backward to graduate school (go, Purdue!) and I had a very tight-knit group of friends who played a lot of role playing games. We spent an entire year playing Vampire: The Masquerade. I became so connected with the character I played, I decided I wanted to continue his story. After leaving Purdue, I had no one around me to play with (sad panda), so I decided the best way to keep that character in my mind was to write out his story.

Turns out, I actually had a knack for verbiage. That story never saw the light of day (although I do still have the manuscript), but it kicked off my love for writing.

MM: How would you characterize your writing? Genre? Ideal audience?

JW: To sum up my writing is tough, because I write in so many genres. I tend to allow the Universe to instruct me what to write next, so I never know what genre I’ll be playing in. Outside of that, my writing tends to be intellectual and lyrical. I’ve always felt, as a writer, words are my tool to convey plot, character, relationship, ambiance, mood, style, rhythm … and so much more. And so, I use those words as a composer uses notes, a painter uses paint, or a sculptor uses a chisel and clay. To me, it’s artistic expression on a high level.

MM: A number of your books have connections with music. The Kitty in a Casket series as well as Punk Ass Punk. Music certainly plays a central role in Frankenstein Theory. How does your background as a musician and an actor inform your writing?

JW: It’s one of the things I hold most dear, as it helps me to understand things like point/counterpoint and rhythm. As an artist, one of the things I talk about a lot (when I teach) is a bit of music theory call non-harmonic tones. These are tones which color melody as it passes from phrase to phrase. It’s a bit of a stretch to use it with the written word, but there are ways – as in transitions from beat to beat, or scene to scene. Being able to blend those moments together with tension or resolution really brings the writing to a new level. Those “passing tones” help the characters to navigate the waters of plot with grace, precision, empathy, pain, wit … you name it. Outside of that rather esoteric notion, the use of rhythm is incredibly important to my writing. When I see paragraph after paragraph written as big blocks of text, I immediately see a writer who has no sense or understanding of the role rhythm in the written word. Most humans don’t speak or think in that manner … they think in spurts and sputters, intermixed with long, drawn-out thoughts. Writing should reflect that type of rhythm.

MM: I’m old enough that I can still just remember the end of the era when going to the movies was more of an event, almost on level with going to the theater. I see the Universal Monster Franchise as a great symbol of that era. What drew you to these stories?

JW: First of all, I adore those old black and white films. When I was a child, my favorite memories are watching the horror films of old. I couldn’t get enough of B-Horror and B-Scifi. I think there’s this layer of innocence to those films that allowed people to be so much more frightened of the unknown. These films brought to the celluloid table something no one had ever before seen, so even the original Frankenstein was able to frighten them to nearly fainting. Today, we’ve pretty much witnessed every possible horror and calamity that there is to behold, so there is no longer such thing as innocence in the cinema. The same thing holds true with books.

MM: How did Frankenstein Theory come to be, specifically?

JW: It actually started out as a short story. A gent reached out to me, saying he was going to be doing an anthology of short stories, based on the Universal Monsters. He gave me Frankenstein, and I decided to do a sort of prequel to the film … a sort of “What happened to lead up to Victor reanimating a human?”  After submitting the short story, the gent had to abandon the project (for reasons unknown). I loved the story so much, I decided it needed to be fleshed out. That led to me taking on the story with the twist found in Frankenstein Theory.

MM: You seem to engage much more directly the contrast between Dr. Frankenstein and his monster. How the morality of the Doctor seems to decrease as the morality of his creation seems to increase. Is this something that was on your mind as you wrote?

JW: Yes. One of the biggest themes in all of my horror writing is turning the mirror back on humankind, to illustrate how, left unchecked, we are the most horrific monster of all time. So I spend a lot of time in much of my work on that theme. Why? It serves as a way to help remind readers that we are only a twitch away from the monstrous … so keep yourself in check. Without keeping tabs on our morality, the human condition wants to spiral down into a rather dark abyss. It is that dance, I find, where so much horror gold can be mined.

MM: There is such a disconnect between Mary Shelly’s book and the way the monster is represented in the films that followed. Have you ever wondered how point A led to point B in this case?

JW: At the time, Hollywood believed Shelly’s book to be too intellectual for the standard audience. They couldn’t offer up a “monster” who was not only intelligent, but worthy of sympathy. The “monster” in the book speaks with an eloquence we don’t find in most villains (save for the likes of Hannibal Lecter).  There is no way Hollywood could have placed the burden of sympathy on a character like the “monster” and turn the protagonist into a villain. In the book, the monster says “I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me?” That is far too moralistically confusing for audiences of the period. Because of that, Hollywood opted to strip the monster of eloquence and make him hideous.

MM: Can we expect more from you in this series?

JW: Yes. I am about to release “Dracula Theory”, which does the same thing (for similar reasons) that I did with “Frankenstein Theory”. I also plan on continuing the series with the rest of the Universal Monsters and beyond. I love writing these types of period horror, because their tapestries are so rich and lush.

MM: The landscape out there for authors seems to experience constant tectonic shifts. What advice would you have for authors who are trying to get noticed?

JW: Patience, patience, patience. Back in 2014, it was reported that a new book went live on Amazon every five minutes. I would imagine that number to be exponentially higher now (more like 100+ every five minutes). That translates to a very large number of new books every day, which (in turn) translates to it being harder and harder (with each passing day) for authors to be seen. That means you have to work … hard. At what? Your craft. Make it your goal that the book you’re working on now is better than the book you previously finished. Never. Stop. Pushing. Yourself. Also, don’t adhere to someone’s advice as though it were gospel. Why? Just because it worked for them, doesn’t mean it will work for you. I have witnessed so many authors fail, simply because they were trying to recreate what succeeded for another. Pave your own way. Know the rules, break the rules, make your own rules. I’ve pretty much lived and died by that mantra, and it pays off.

The beat I march to is my own. Find yours and make it something glorious.

MM: Is there anything coming up for you on the horizon that you would like to share?

JW: As I mentioned, I have “Dracula Theory”, which is my take on Bram Stoker’s fabulous tale. My version is in the same period, but flips the whole narrative on its head. Besides that, I’m working on my first romance novel, called “Beautiful Complication”. This is far from a standard romance, so expect the unexpected. Beyond those two pieces, I have a “to be written” file that’s massive, so there’s never a lack for ideas.

In one week, the final chapter in Chad A. Clark’s apocalyptic trilogy will be released. It’s now available for pre-order. Are you curious? Interested in checking it out and don’t want to wait? Machine Mean has for you an exclusive look at the first chapter. Enjoy, and please considering pre-ordering, via the link at the end of this piece.

-1-

The dime was what first caught her attention.

As she walked along the street, Roxie caught a flash from the corner of her eye, glancing to her right to see sunlight reflecting off the small piece of metal on the ground. She slowed and veered towards the coin, bending down to pick it up. As she did so, her feet absurdly tangled and her balance began to slip. With a mocking laugh from within, she realized that there would be no way to prevent this as she held out her hands to try and brace herself, with nothing but open air to stop her. Two pedestrians offered their help in the form of deftly stepping out of the way when she fell, grunting as her shoulder hit the ground and possibly in an unconscious attempt to escape from reality, she allowed her momentum to carry her on as she rolled between two newspaper machines.

The world erupted in bright white light.

Roxie squeezed her eyes shut, putting her arms up over her head as a blast of heat flowed over her. There seemed to be a collective outcry as the ground shook, glass breaking all around. Car horns seemed to go off all at once, only to be immediately silenced as if from some higher power and above, tendrils of darkness stretched out into the sky.

“What the fuck?” She looked at the blood on the pavement, rubbing the side of her head at the unexpected warmth. It was like an oven door had been opened next to her head.

It took a moment for her to register the screams.

Ten feet away, two people were on the ground, kneeling and shrieking in clear agony. One woman had clamped hands to her face, blood seeping through clutching fingers. The other was trying to rise to his feet, blinking with bloodshot eyes, looking like they couldn’t draw a focus, screaming as he did so.

“I can’t see! Someone please help me, I can’t see!”

And as she looked up and down the street, there was more of the same. Either prone bodies littered across the ground or people doubled over in pain and confusion. She looked up to City Hall when her breath caught at the sight of the clouds roiling up into the rapidly darkening sky. There was no denying the sight of the mushroom cloud, something she had only previously seen in documentary footage.

“Fuck.”

The muttered protest was all she could think to do as she averted her gaze from the explosion, thinking of all the people around her who had evidently lost their vision. They writhed on the ground everywhere, plunged into their own pain and confusion. An odor of something burning was in the air and all she could wonder at was how she had managed to avoid being hurt herself. How she had the luck to not be looking into the sky when the detonation had happened. There were more vibrations under her feet and part of her wondered how long it would be before the ground itself split open.

“Hey!” The voice came from behind her as a hand landed firmly on her shoulder to drag her to the ground.

“What…what the hell are you—”

“Shut up and follow me. There isn’t time!” The tall, reedy man darted off through the crowd and as she struggled to keep up, she pulled up at the sight of him pulling on a manhole cover, stepping onto the ladder below. She detected a foul odor as she stepped closer, watching him descend. He snapped at her again, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Come on, we don’t have a lot of time!”

She shook her head at the insanity that somehow, climbing into the sewer with this stranger was almost more crazy than what she had just witnessed. The crashing report of a car colliding with a signpost across the street snapped her back to reality and she stepped onto the ladder.

“Who are you, do you know what’s—” Her question died on her lips as she stepped off the ladder and found her new friend stripping off his clothes and dropping them onto the concrete next to them. “What…the hell are you doing?” she asked him.

He shrugged as he continued to undress. “You know what that was, right? That was a nuclear explosion. That means your clothes are contaminated. You got to get them off. Careful not to get them in the water, though.”

Roxie glanced at the wide, man-made stream flowing past in the trench. She wanted to protest as every instinct screamed how insane it was to simply strip in the presence of this man. Still, if what he said was true, she had to do it. Pulling her clothes off, she looked over as he stood there, down to his bare ass and glancing off to the side as if he was trying not to watch.

“All of it,” he said, almost sounding apologetic. Roxie slipped out of her underwear and added it to the pile. Reaching down, he added her clothes to his but as he turned she had a sudden thought.

“Wait!” she cried out. He paused and turned back, clearly agitated, one foot already on the ladder. “Wait, my keys are in my pants pocket.”

He snorted and shook his head. “Kid, you aren’t going to be driving anywhere anytime soon.”

“No, you don’t understand, the key-chain!”

He reached into the pockets until he found the keys and held them up, looking but clearly not understanding.

“The key-chain!” she repeated. “That’s a picture of me and my brother. Please, I can’t lose that. Please give them back.”

He let out a slow breath before nodding and tossing them to her. She had a brief, terrified vision of missing and watching them slide into the water but she managed to catch them cleanly, clutching them to her chest while he scampered up the ladder. He threw the clothes up and out, coming back down after he had disposed of them.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got clothes where we’re going.”

“Christ,” Roxie muttered to herself. The guy acted like he hadn’t heard, leading her down the walkway along the water. At some point, he bent down and picked an object up off the ground. She heard a clicking sound and light emerged from the flashlight he now held. After what seemed like an eternity and as the echoing sounds of explosions above began to fade, he stopped abruptly and reached for a ladder. Her mouth gaped open as he stepped down and began towards the water.

“Don’t worry, it’s only about four feet deep and the current isn’t that strong. Just keep close to the side.”

“You want me to—”

“Come on! I promise we can talk all this over but we need to get to a safer place. Please just shut up and—”

“Okay! I’m coming, for fuck’s sake. Just hold on.”

The water was surprisingly cold as she eased into it. It came nearly up to her armpits but the foothold underneath was more secure than she had been expecting and it was relatively easy to move along the wall without losing control. From above, there were occasional tremors, followed by a shower of dust. All she could cling to was the hope that at any moment she would wake up, having had the most surreal dream.

“Come on. In here.” He stopped and turned into what looked like a small alcove. She could see the top of what looked like an arch of some kind but it seemed to be a solid wall, inset somewhat from the main tunnel.

“Okay,” he said, turning to her. “This is the point you’re going to have the hardest time with and I need you to trust me. Take my hand. Now what we’re going to be doing is going underwater and swimming straight ahead. I know it sounds crazy but just close your eyes, take in a deep breath and stay with me, all right?”

Roxie barely had time to nod before the light clicked off and they were going down. The water swirled up above her as they submerged and the world took on a tinny, hollow echo. They swam forward but the wall she had expected to find before them wasn’t there. Instead, they swam through a secondary tunnel that had been obscured by the water level. She had the vague thought that she wished he had told her how far it was going to be but they were already angling up.

As they broke the surface, she coughed out the moisture that had managed to seep in, looking up into the chamber they had just entered. The water went another ten feet before reaching a dead end. The room itself was shaped like an over-sized horseshoe, with the water at the center. At the very end, another ladder took them up to the platform, at least ten feet above.

“Wait for a minute,” he said as he climbed out of the water. He moved away, out of sight for a moment before returning with a towel, holding it up for her as she climbed. He averted his gaze as she wrapped it around herself and pointed off towards one of the walls. “There’s some clothes over there you can choose from. Sorry I don’t have more but it’s better than nothing.”

Roxie wasn’t interested in clothes, though. She looked around the chamber, seeing that there was no way in or out, other than the submerged tunnel they had just swam in through.

“What is this place?” she asked.

He shrugged in response. “I don’t really know. I found it about a year ago.”

“And you…you’ve been living down here?”

He smiled for the first time. “Beats the alternative at the moment, doesn’t it?”

“So…what the hell just happened? What are we going to do down here? Where are we…” She trailed off as she began to feel her breath running short. The questions flew into her head too quickly to articulate them.

“Let’s take that slowly and start simple, okay? I’m Jeff. What’s your name?”

“Roxie. I…why did you help me?”

It was the only question she could phrase from the stew of confusion brewing within her.

“Honestly, I don’t really know. Everything happened so fast but you had been lucky enough to not be looking into the blast and I…whoa, easy there!”

Before she could speak, she threw up what was left in her stomach, feeling her eyes dropping shut and the last sensation she could mark before darkness rushed in was pitching forward into his outstretched arms.

Click HERE to preorder today!