P.L. McMillan's Blog

Withered Hill: Novel Review

Another book I read on holiday. I guess I was on a folk horror journey, haha. There are some spoilers in this review, after the spoiler. So if you don’t want the ending spoiled, just don’t venture past!

The Author

David Barnett is a journalist, novelist and comic book writer based in the North of England. After many years working in regional newspapers he became a full-time freelance writer in 2015 and as a journalist works primarily for the UK press. He is also the author of several published novels, including the bestselling CALLING MAJOR TOM, and writes comics for DC, IDW and others. David has also worked in training and lecturing, principally in journalism, and takes on commercial content commissions.

— David Barnett’s website

You can check out more on Barnett’s website.

The Book

If you find your way here, you’re already lost.

Inside

A year ago Sophie Wickham stumbled into the isolated Lancashire village of Withered Hill, naked, alone and with no memory of who she is.

Surrounded by a thick ring of woodland, its inhabitants seem to be of another world, drenched in pagan, folklorish traditions.

As Sophie struggles to regain the memories of her life from before, she quickly realises she is a prisoner after multiple failed escape attempts. But is it the locals who keep her trapped, with smiles on their faces, or something else, lurking in the woods?

Outside

In London, Sophie leads a chaotic life, with too many drunken nights, inappropriate men and boring temp jobs. But things take a turn as she starts to be targeted by strange messages warning her that someone, or something, is coming for her.

With no idea who to trust, or where to turn for help, the messages become more insistent and more intimidating, urging Sophie to make her way to a place called Withered Hill…

An utterly bewitching, dual timeline folk horror novel, with a truly devastating twist you have to read to believe.

– Goodreads page

Published September 2024 by Canelo Horror, Withered Hill is a mind-bending British folk horror told through two timelines side-by-side and an ending you will not see coming.

The Review

Sophie is our main character – she’s not exactly living her best life and she feels left behind by her friends, who are getting married, getting jobs, moving away.

The novel is told with alternating chapters – days before Withered Hill and days in Withered Hill. How did she get to Withered Hill, how did she lose her memories, and what is Withered Hill, who are its people, and what lives in the deep dark woods?

The plot unfurls, slowly, in twists and turns. The ending had me stunned.

I loved the folk horror elements and the use of dual timelines, I loved how the mystery slowly unfurly in trickles and drops, I loved the strangeness of Withered Hill, and I loved the brutality of the ending.

I honestly can’t say any more without risking spoilers and I really, really think you should just go out and read this book. I am obsessed with it. I don’t know how to put it well enough in words. I coulnd’t put this book down and I can’t stop thinking about it now. Just go. Come back later and let me know your thoughts.

11/10

x PLM

Beware thee! Stay back unless you are prepared for spoilers!

Seriously though.

Oh my God.

Okay so the reveal is that the Sophie in Withered Hill isn’t the Sophie from before. It’s like a changeling created by Owd Hob to take her place. The timelines aren’t Sophie before and than in Withered Hill, they are happening essentially at the same time with the book ending when Real Sophie is brought to Withered Hill so Fae Sophie can give her to Owd Hob.

I literally stopped and had to reread this chapter again. I never saw this twist happening.

Essentially, Owd Hob requires a wife every year. In return he gives Withered Hill bountiful harvest. He also creates a twin of the wife that’s meant to go out into the world and infiltrate the populace. The women are chosen because they are considered bad in some way and thus, worthy of replacement. I gathered that part of the goal for Withered Hill was to replace the human populate (who are obsessed with materialism and consumerism) with fae replacements, who can guide the world back to the Old Ways.

As for Real Sophie? Well, it’s slowly revealed that Sophie killed her own sister, almost drove someone else to suicide.

Does that mean she deserves to be wifed by Owd Hob (which essentially means rape and then being consumed and shat out, used as the soil to sprout a new doppleganger.)?

Through the book, I never grew to like who I thought was Before Sophie and felt a lot of empathy for After Sophie so when the truth was revealed, I was conflicted.

The punishment of becoming Owd Hob’s wife is horrific. Yet, Sophie never did try to better herself. Even now, I keep thinking about it.

This was an astounding book. I loved it. I think it will haunt me for a long time.

There was only one thing that kinda bugged me. When it’s revealed that Real Sophie drove someone to attempt suicide, we then meet that woman who says something like “we can be friends once you’re a better person.” After Fae Sophie takes Real Sophie’s place, it’s revealed that the woman was also replaced by a fae, so they do become friends and hang out.

That felt a little convenient for me. It seemed like Withered Hill takes a year to produce a fae twin ready to replace her human twin, meaning only one a year. Even if they had been doing this for 100 years, that’s only 100 people so what are the chances that someone else Sophie knew was also a fae?

It’s a little thing but I felt it was unnecessary for the plot and could’ve been cut as it didn’t feel so realistic. Does that make sense? Still, just a small thing and I really really loved this book.

 O B S E S S E D.

Something in the Walls: Novel Review

Got witches in your village, who you gonna call?

A child psychologist, I guess! This is one of the books I read on my recent vacation, all spoilers are kept below the spoiler line so don’t go past that if you don’t want the ending spoiled!

The Author

Daisy Pearce was born in Cornwall and grew up on a smallholding surrounded by hippies. She read The Hamlyn Book of Horror far too young and has been fascinated with the macabre ever since.

Daisy began writing short stories as a teenager and had her first short story ‘The Black Prince’ published in One Eye Grey magazine. In 2015 ‘The Silence’ won a bursary with The Literary Consultancy and her short story, ‘The Brook Witch’, was performed on stage at the Small Story Cabaret in Lewes.

Daisy’s debut novels ‘The Silence’ and ‘The Missing’ were published by Thomas & Mercer in 2020. Her third novel ‘Something In The Walls’ was published in the US in 2025 and will soon be available in the UK. Daisy currently works in a library and hunts ghosts.

— Daisy Pearce’s website

You can check out more on Pearce’s website, or follow her on Instagram.

The Book

Newly-minted child psychologist Mina has little experience. In a field where the first people called are experts, she’s been unable to get her feet wet. Instead she aimlessly spends her days stuck in the stifling heat wave sweeping across Britain, and anxiously contemplating her upcoming marriage to careful, precise researcher Oscar. The only reprieve from her small, close world is attending the local bereavement group to mourn her brother’s death from years ago. That is, until she meets journalist Sam Hunter at the grief group one day. And he has a proposition for her.

Alice Webber is a thirteen year old girl who claims she’s being haunted by a witch. Living with her family in their crowded home in the remote village of Banathel, Alice’s symptoms are increasingly disturbing, and money is tight. Taking this job will give Mina some experience; Sam will get the scoop of a lifetime; and Alice will get better, Mina is sure of it.

But instead of improving, Alice’s behavior becomes increasingly inexplicable and intense. The town of Banathel has a deep history of superstition and witchcraft. They believe there is evil in the world. They believe there are ways of…dealing with it. And they don’t expect outsiders to understand.

As Mina races to uncover the truth behind Alice’s condition, the dark cracks of Banathel begin to show. Mina is desperate to understand how deep their sinister traditions go–and how her own past may be the biggest threat of all.

“Unexpected, mesmerizing, and totally original…will keep you guessing until its wild end.” -#1 International Bestselling author Darby Kane

“Harrowing and moving…Pearce has written something magical. There are scenes in this book I’ll never forget.” -Kristi DeMeester, author of Such a Pretty Smile

— Book page on Pearce’s website

Published February, 2025 by Minotaur Books, Something in the Walls by Daisy Pearce is a British folk horror about witchcraft, small towns, and the dangers of crowd mentality.

The Review

Something in the Walls was a fun, wild ride. From the twists and turns, the superstitions and madness a group of people can be consumed by, this novel did not let go.

From the start, Pearce sets the tone of uneasiness and unbalance. The main character, Mina, seems lost. Anxious. She thinks she sees her dead brother in a photo and, on the urging of her stoic fiancé, goes to a grief group.

She meets someone else searching for what might lie beyond and that leads her on a witch hunt.

Literally. A small town believes young Alice is a witch.

I grew to love Mina’s character so much. She starts off rather meek, soft, listless. Yet in the face of events she can’t explain, in a strange place surrounded by strange people, she stands strong and shows her courage.

The heat of the British summer seems to drip off the pages suffocating you as you read. The small village seemed to crowd me even through the pages.

As Mina seeks to find answers and help Alice, things get weirder and weirder. But what really lies beneath the quiet surface of the small town? I loved loved loved how Pearce set up the slow unspooling of the mystery, setting up foreshadowing that led to the shocking end.

If you’re a fan of psychological, suspenseful folk horror about witches – this is the book for you.

10/10

x PLM

 Spoilers ahead! You’ve been warned.

Seriously though, this will spoil the ending!

In the beginning, it seems like there is something supernatural going on. Mina sees things, things happen – undeniable things – then it all twists. Mina doesn’t flinch away from hunting for the truth, even as it leads to her own life being in danger.

Like I said, there are some serious supernatural things that happen but then there are other things. Women talking about gaps in their memories, talk of a “Riddance” festival to curb young women into “good” behaviour.

Then you learn the messed up truth.

Mina’s brother’s death? She smothered him to relieve his suffering.

The knocking on the walls? The next door neighbor’s wife signalling SOS.

The next door neighbour’s “harmless” cocktails he feds to the young girls he babysits? Drugged.

I was not expecting the reveal. Obviously – trigger warning if you’re someone sensitive to SA and CSA. It might mean this book isn’t right for you. I wasn’t expecting it at all.

But I loved how Pearce spun this twisted web. When the old man tricks everyone including Mina herself, into thinking she’s a witch – I actually thought maybe she’d gotten possessed as well! I was gaslit! Well done, legit Pearce, well done.

The final scene of the book was also a masterpiece. Mina is in the hospital, her fiancé leaves her. Then someone lets Mina know the old man survived and is in the same hospital. She goes to him and smothers him too, her last words to him “good riddance.” Genius. So satisfying and takes you full circle.

Seriously. Absolutely loved this book.

In The Valley Of The Headless Men: Novella Review

Does anyone really like camping? Are we all just prey to be eaten alive by whatever lurks in the bushes? If LP Hernandez’s book is to be considered, then stay away. Stay far far away.

No spoilers where we’re going, dear reader, grab your sleeping bag and let’s hike.

The Author

I am LP Hernandez, writer of horror and speculative fiction. You may have heard me on The NoSleep Podcast. You may have read me in anthologies from Cemetery Gates Media, Sinister Smile Press, and Dark Matter Magazine. You may have seen me across the street from your home, taking studious notes. What are you doing up so late? Why so many piles of dirt? Wh- sorry, a bit off track there.

When I am not writing I serve as a Medical Service Corps officer in the Air Force. I love heavy metal, using cruise control to save gas, my wife and kids, dogs of all sizes, and a crisp high five.

— LP Hernandez’s website

You can check out more on Hernandez’s website, or follow him on BlueSky.

The Book

Nahanni National Park is one of last truly wild places on earth. Accessible only by plane, and only when the weather cooperates, it's the perfect place for estranged brothers Joseph and Oscar to have an adventure following the death of their mother. Gillian, Joseph's first love, invites herself along in the spirit of friendship. The park is much more than beautiful. It's mysterious, with legends of giants and hidden, prehistoric animals. And among its few visitors, an outsized number of violent deaths inspire its second, more seductive name. While dreaming of the future, the group finds themselves confronted by the past. Far from home and far from help. In the Valley of the Headless Men.

"LP Hernandez is one of the most entertaining and much needed voices in horror fiction's new vanguard." - Brian Keene

— Goodreads page for In The Valley Of The Headless Men

Independently published and written by LP Hernandez, In The Valley Of The Headless Men is a supernatural horror novella set in the legend-ripe Canada’s Nahanni National Park.

The Review

Another reason never to go camping! Forget the mosquitoes, the sunburn, and annoyance of setting up tents – here come the headless men of Nahanni! Hernandez’s novella explores grief and regret, as brothers Joseph and Oscar, along with Jillian the tag-along, visit the isolated park known as the Valley of the Headless Men.

More than memories haunt the three as a mysterious guide leads them to stranger and stranger sights. A simple journey to connect, to grieve, to move on becomes so much more.

Each page is ripe with dread as the characters are pulled towards the heart of the park. The closing grip of the land feels inevitable, like quick sand, as the tight pacing and thick atmosphere draw you in.

What does it cost to confront your inner scars? How much to finally let go? What happens if you can’t?

And what are the headless men?

In The Valley of the Headless Men is as poignant as it is chilling. Definitely pick up a copy if you’re a fan of folklore and wilderness horror!

8/10

x PLM

Lure: Novella Review

Under the sea! Wish we could be… wait no. Never mind.

Here’s my spoiler-free review of Lure!

The Author

Tim McGregor is the author of EYNHALLOW, WASPS IN THE ICE CREAM, TABOO IN FOUR COLORS, the Shirley Jackson Award nominated LURE, HEARTS STRANGE AND DREADFUL, and the SPOOKSHOW series. A former screenwriter and active Horror Writers Association member, Tim lives in Toronto with his wife and two kids.

— From McGregor’s website

You can check out more on McGregor’s website, or follow him on BlueSky.

The Book

In the chapel of a forsaken fishing village on another world's shore, the seawashed bones of old gods hang from the rafters. When a new god drifts into the bay, the menfolk fear nothing as they reach for their spears; but capturing Her may be their last act of reckless bravado. Her very presence brings dissent and madness. Her voice threatens to tear the starving, angry community apart. Setting a siege of relentless horror against the backdrop of brine and blood, Lure blurs the line between natural disaster and self-destruction.

Praise for Lure:

"Immersive and utterly compelling, Tim McGregor's Lure will stab you in the heart with a hook and plunge you deep into the blackest depths where sunlight cannot follow. A monstrously inventive seaside fable of tradition, adolescence, and loss." — Eric LaRocca, author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

“Lure: an appropriate title for a novella that gripped me hook, line and sinker. Evocative of the sea, with the feel of a folktale, Tim McGregor’s talent for subtlety is bewitching; but when it berths, the horror is visceral.” — Catherine McCarthy, author of Immortelle

"Tightly told, with great tension and pacing; an eerie tale with great social commentary. It's fantastic and stands apart from the crowd." — Laurel Hightower, author of Crossroads and Below

— Description from Tenebrous Press

Published by Tenebrous in July 2022, Lure is a folk horror novella written by a fellow Canadian author Tim McGregor. Who doesn’t love killer mermaids? Also if you end up wanting a copy, I recommend buying direct from Tenebrous as they offer a free eBook copy in PDF, ePub and mobi formats if you buy a paperback.

The Review

Folk horror by the sea?

Old Gods and strange skeletal remains?

Superstitions and a song only some can hear?

Hell ya.

McGregor’s tale is set in a barren fishing village somewhere far away in a dark time long ago. The Pastor and his children rely on the charity of the other villagers, women are helpless to the male-centric customs, the sea is cold and hostile. Themes of hubris, selfishness, self-destruction swept through this isolated village like a screaming wind.

The plot pulls at you like a riptide, you’re swept away, choking on the salt, as you watch the villagers suffer the curse of the sea. The main character, the son of the pastor, makes you want to cheer him on and strangle him in turn. You’re hooked, netted, gutted, and eaten alive by the tension.

Okay that’s enough fishing puns (maybe).

If you like folk horror and sea-themed horror, grab Lure.

The novella is tightly paced and filled with dread, the ending caught me by surprise and was haunting in its horror and satisfying in its brutality.

8/10

x PLM

I Believe in Mister Bones: Novel Review

This week’s book literally gave me weird dreams. I woke up one morning and the bottom of my foot hurt. My first thought was “Mister Bones!?”. Read on, dear reader, this review is spoiler-free. Just ask yourself, do you believe in Mister Bones?

The Author

Max Booth III is a writer, publisher, editor, and indie bookstore owner. They are the author of numerous works, including I Believe in Mister Bones, Abnormal Statistics, Maggots Screaming!, Touch the Night, and many others too spooky to name here. Their novella, We Need to Do Something, was adapted into a feature film from their own screenplay and distributed by IFC Midnight in 2021 after debuting at the Tribeca Film Festival. Their non-fiction has been published in outlets such as LitReactor, CrimeReads, the San Antonio Current, Film 14, and FANGORIA, and their short stories have been included in 50+ magazines and anthologies. They host three podcasts—GHOULISH, Decayed Tapes, and Dog Ears—and co-run Ghoulish Books, a publisher/bookstore hybrid, with their wife Lori Michelle Booth. Together, the two of them also co-founded the annual Ghoulish Book Festival. Additionally, Max serves as the head editor and publisher of Ghoulish Tales. Born and raised in Northwest Indiana, they now live in San Antonio, TX.

— Max Booth III’s website

You can check out more on Booth’s website, or follow them on Instagram or TikTok.

The Book

The email’s subject line reads: DO YOU BELIEVE IN MISTER BONES?

The recipient: Daniel Addams, one half of the Texas small press known as Fiendish Books, co-run with his wife Eileen.

Despite being closed for submissions, curiosity gets the best of him and he takes a look at the anonymous author’s bizarre manuscript—only to find himself obsessed with the titular Mister Bones, a mysterious entity rumored to steal your bones as you sleep, one by one, until he’s replaced your entire skeleton with an unknown substance.

But is Mister Bones real, and has Daniel unintentionally summoned him?

Or, as Eileen suspects, has he finally cracked from stress and lost his mind?

From the writer of WE NEED TO DO SOMETHING and ABNORMAL STATISTICS comes Max Booth III’s I BELIEVE IN MISTER BONES, a harrowing exploration of indie horror publishing, internet curses, and the universal terror of the human skeleton.

— Description from Apocalypse Party Press

Published by Apocalypse Party in October, 2024, I Believe in Mister Bones is a comedy/bizarre written by Max Booth III. With some heavy creepypasta/urban legend vibes, it also offers a unique, bare bones (bahdumtsh) look at the indie publishing world.

The Review

My podcast co-host Carson Winter heavily recommended this book to me. At first I wasn’t sure to expect from the title and description. I am so glad I read it.

It was bizarre, fun, and spooky. I had so much fun reading it! I originally read it as an ebook and I flew through it so that it felt like it wasn’t that long of a book. I liked it so much that when I was at Ghoulish (run by Lori Michelle Booth and Max Booth III) I bought the paperback and was so surprised at how actually hefty it was!

Besides being a book about an urban legend about a monster named Mister Bones, the book also offers a pretty candid view on the horror indie scene. It was refreshing and fun honestly.

The characters are a couple who runs a small press: Daniel and Eileen. Daniel gets a strange email and thus begins his descent into the horror that is Mister Bones. No one believes this creature is visiting him at night, stealing his bones.

There is a bizarre scene with a doctor working pro bono for people without funds, there’s pie (IYKYK), there’s a snapshot of the struggles of a couple trying to run a small business, there’s drama and there’s Mister Bones.

I feel like I can’t say too much more without spoiling it. I would just 100% recommend you pick up a copy – I would recommend the paperback, the formatting is divine.

10/10

x PLM

Crushing Snails: Novel Review

I can’t promise anything, dear reader, but here’s a review and there may be some in the future! My life has been in some big fluctuations but hopefully I’ve gotten it to settle!

Keep an eye on my blog, I do intend to update more – especially about my writing and events I’ll be attending.

For now – amazing news. I’ve finished a space horror novel and am working with beta readers to polish it up. I am really excited for this one, it’s over 300 pages! I am hoping to get it ready for publication soon! I’ve also started writing my next one! How do we feel about more space horror?

Onwards to the spoiler-free review!

The Author

 Creator of unsettling dark speculative fiction

As a writer of horror and dark speculative fiction, I find inspiration in the macabre and unsettling, a reflection of my fascination with the human psyche, nurtured by my background in psychology, education, and literature. What you’ll find in all my work are morally gray characters, struggles with complicated grief and mental illness, and a queer, feminine lens of horror.

While I loved my years as an elementary teacher, getting to know and teach many wonderful students, I’ve now embraced my true calling as an author.

As a southern girl who’s lived all over the U.S. (as well as overseas), I have stories set in many places, but I seem to keep coming back to the South.

Besides writing, I love playing pretend with my daughter, hiking, retro video games, and playing Dungeons and Dragons.

Also, my debut novel Crushing Snails won the 2024 Goblin’s Choice Award from The Dead Languages Podcast.
— Emma E. Murray’s About Me page on her website

You can check out more on Murray’s website, or follow her on Instagram or TikTok.

The Book

Winnie Campbell is sixteen and a burgeoning serial killer. Her father blames her for her mother’s death, dotes on her little sister, and executes increasingly cruel punishments meant to humiliate Winnie. As the punishments morph into torture, she begins fantasizing about regaining some semblance of power, eventually working through her rage by killing small animals.

When her violent games escalate and she accidentally kills an infant while babysitting, Winnie gets a taste of a power she doesn’t want to let go of. Her obsession with killing grows, and so does her fascination for Leigh, a girl that reminds her of her younger self.

Winnie wants to kill. She wants to die. She wants to be someone other than herself. And killing Leigh, a symbolic suicide, could be the key to her metamorphosis.

“A shocking and utterly harrowing examination of the creation of a murderer. Although Crushing Snails excels in many areas, this novel is perhaps most skillful at effectively illustrating the very human compulsion for violence and depravity. Murray’s excellent novel showcases the very human possibility of carnage—the horrifying prospect of brutality—when curiosity is sated and when we finally surrender to our most feral desires.”

—Eric LaRocca, author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

"Masterfully executed and chilling to the core, Crushing Snails is a terrifying look into the darkest depths of the human mind and the ways in which monsters are formed. With the intensity level set to high, Murray draws you into complicity as you witness one girl’s spiral into obsession and depravity, culminating in a horrifying conclusion you’ll never forget."

— Kelsea Yu, Shirley Jackson Award-nominated author of Bound Feet

"A nightmare of power and control, or perhaps even something more wayward. Crushing Snails is provocative and demanding, spiraling and unapologetic. Emma Murray is an exciting emerging voice in horror challenging what is normal and what is safe."

—Cynthia Pelayo, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Crime Scene

“Sick, twisted, and compulsively readable—Emma E. Murray’s Crushing Snails is a coming-of-age story that goes to dark and darker places, leaving me constantly hanging between two modes of thought: one-more-chapter and holy-fucking-shit.”

—Carson Winter, author of The Psychographist

— Crushing Snails book description from Goodreads

First published August, 2024 through Apocalypse Party, Crushing Snails is an extreme horror novel by Emma E. Murray and deals with some pretty heavy topics of abuse and child death. It also won the 2024 DLP Goblin’s Choice Cummies Award!

The Review

Dear reader, you might be thinking – but PLM, you have always been adverse to reading extreme/splatterpunk horror! What happened?

Actually, Emma was a guest on the podcast I co-host with Carson Winter. We were discussing extreme horror and I did voice that I was hesitant to dive into the sub-genre because of the prevalence of SA and all that. Carson gushed about Crushing Snails and Emma said she still had some signed copies left. I threatened to live-tweet my reactions as I read.

And I did. Mainly in emotes to keep it spoiler-free. Feel free to check it out, haha.

I couldn’t put the book down. Yes it was brutal, yes it still haunts me. In equal turns I was enthralled and repulsed.

One talent Emma has is writing about the grotesque with a delicate touch. Her descriptions of horror and scenes that would turn my stomach was poetic. There were times when I would stop and admire the way she would frame certain scenes with such artistry.  

Breaking it down: the realism. You know I love me some supernatural horror and that’s also why I tend not to read serial killer/slasher horror. I really enjoyed this portrait of a killer that Emma painted. I watched the main character, Winnie, descend into darkness – influenced by past trauma and her twisted family life. I watched her obsession spark to life. It was painful, it was horrifying, it felt so very real.

The setting, the family: they could be anywhere. They could be your neighbours, they could be family friends. I think that’s what added to the horror of the book. How real it felt.

The end was a slowly tightening noose, a part of me wished Winnie would fight against it, the majority of me accepted this slow sinking into darkness along with her.

It was horrible, it was beautiful. I could not look away.

10/10

x PLM

Spooky Challenge 2024 — Day 7

It is the final day. It is Halloween. Night has fallen. Are you ready for my last tale of tantalizing terror?

Today I wanted to do something different. I’ve been using prompts sent to me, but tonight I want to use a prompt from a special little book created by J.W. Donley: 100 Unusual Prompts For Writers of Horror, Weird, and Bizarro Fiction. I was invited to submit a prompt for inclusion in the book, so if you’re looking for inspiration, be sure to grab a copy!

So, for my last prompt for my final story: 

The Butcher of Edge Fallow

“Fuck.” Joe looked down at the twisted body of the once perfect 10/10 blond jock.

The kid lay twisted at the bottom of the dried up creek, having fallen trying to escape Joe. His body was face down, his head was face up. Kid was def dead.

Joe looked down at his machete. Shiny in the moonlight. Absolutely fucking unstained by any goddamn virgin/jock/stoner/nerd/outcast goth kid blood. He sighed.

Thirteen years in a row and no goddamn real kills.

Frustrated, only hours to go before midnight this All Hallow’s Eve, Joe turned and began to make his way back to Lovers’ Lane. Surely there were some sexually active youths there to kill. This jock had been too fast for Joe, outrun him like this was the goddamn football field. Up until the kid had fallen head first into Dry Skull Creek.

Joe shook his head again. “What a waste.”

Joe made his steady way through the woods, always a power walk, never a run if he could help it – running made him dizzy. His blackened dead heart couldn’t keep up.

Joe thought about his predicament. Thirteen years ago, he’d been a teen at Cordel High School – Go Warthogs! – a nerd, bullied relentlessly. When Cindy, the head cheerleader, asked him to Homecoming, he’d really thought he’d been noticed. Been seen.

Instead, the football team and cheer squad had chased him from the dance with cow prods, eggs. They’d chased him through the fields and down country roads, until his heart had given out under a cold sickle moon at the crossroads of Sulphur St and Main.

The following Halloween, he’d woken. Woken with the knowledge that he could never rest until he’d wet a blade with enough blood to fill his heart again.

Up ahead, he spotted moonlight glinting off the roofs of several cars. Far enough apart that the passengers had privacy from each other.

Joe lurked in the shadows beneath the trees.

Of course, they didn’t call him Joe anymore. Or Joe the Poor Shmoe as they’d mocked him in high school.

Now he was The Butcher. Joe flexed his wrist, hearing his tendons creak, his skin cracked in deep fissures that reeked of rot.

He sucked in a breath, straightened his shoulders.

The girls in the front bench seating of the nearest car were too busy necking – did they still call it that? – to notice his approach. In the fogged side window, Joe caught sight of his chosen face before he yanked open the door.

The girls screamed. He pulled out the closest one with a bit too much enthusiasm and ended up landing on his ass. The girl kicked at him, her slim legs surprising powerful, screams alerting the others.

Headlights turned on, blinding him. The other girl in the car kept screaming and screaming, as she slid over to the steering wheel, threw the car in reverse, and promptly ran over her girlfriend – popping out intestines and blood all over the dirt – before squealing away.

The other cars followed, leaving Joe and his non-victim, alone in the dark.

He adjusted his mask. It was the old Warthog mascot head he’d stolen his third Halloween. After he’d claimed it, it had stayed with him ever since. It made him feel more powerful.

Looking up, Joe sighed. The moon was lower. Daybreak was coming and, with it, another year of purgatory. He had to kill someone with his blade, anyone.

Power walking with a purpose, Joe made his way to the local campground. Kids loved that place. Drinking, drugs, whatever. As he approached, he smelled the bonfire before he saw it. A ton of kids there, easy pickings – hopefully. Most were stumbling around, necking it on the dirt, dry humping to some ugly thumping music.

Joe lurched into the clearing, machete raised.

A kid noticed and screamed; “The Butcher!”

They stampeded. It was chaos.

Joe swung his blade, he had to hit someone at this rate – there were so many. His pig mask slipped on his sweaty face and he missed the nearest teen by a mile.

Several of the idiots fell into the bonfire, their booze stained clothes catching instantly and setting them ablaze.

Another asshole ran straight into a sharp branch, popping his own eye, piercing his brain.

Joe grabbed someone who tried to pass him, raised his blade again. A girl shoved him and he fell onto his back. The same girl fell over him, a broken bottle impaling her straight through the mouth and out the back of her neck.

Rolling over on his belly, Joe adjusted his mask, and reached for his dropped machete.

Some gym rat with a buzz cut ran at him, axe in hand. Gripping his machete, Joe struggled to get to his knees.

“Die, you monster!” the kid yelled, his voice breaking on the last syllable, and the kid’s foot rolled on a beer bottle.

Unbalanced, the boy windmilled his arms, managing to catch two others in their throats with his axe. The three went down.

“Fuck me,” Joe said, frustrated. He could feel the night waning and, with it, his chance at rest, at peaceful oblivion.

He had no idea who decided he needed to “get revenge for his torments” but he didn’t think it was fucking fair. Joe had been happy to finally escape his bullies, the terrible life he lived in the town of Edge Fallow. But here he fucking was, forced to chase after idiots every fucking Halloween for a chance to finally be left alone.

Blue and red lights washed over the scene. He sighed, stood with his machete.

“Put your fucking hands up!” a man yelled.

Joe didn’t bother.

“Kill him! It’s The Butcher!” a girl screamed.

The cop reacted – poorly to say the least – jerking his arms towards the sound and the girl’s head exploded with a pop.

Another cop approached. A woman. “Joe?”

He paused. The voice was familiar. One he hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

“Joe,” the woman steeled up to the bonfire and the flames revealed her face. “It’s me.”

Dolly.

He looked at her through the narrow eyeholes of his mask. They’d had Chemistry together. She’d always made a point to be his partner for projects and labs, to talk to him. She’d been away that fateful night, some sort of Bible retreat or something her parents had forced her to attend.

Dolly. Dear Dolly.

“We have to take you in, Joe.” She approached with handcuffs. Had she come here for him, to see him? After all this time.

He allowed her to cuff him, to put him into the back of the cop car. The other cop was crying.

“He’s a monster!” A kid wailed. “He killed all of us! All of us!”

Joe rolled his eyes as the car pulled away. He wished he’d killed all of them. Then rest would be on the horizon. Instead, it was just the sun and another condemnation until the next Halloween.

As Dolly drove, Joe felt his body falling apart, turning to colourful leaves. He would return, of course. He always did.

Happy Halloween, dear reader!

x PLM

Spooky Challenge 2024 — Day 6

It’s day 6. Tomorrow is Halloween. I have cat fever. I’ve been looking at shelters, looking at cats, someone talk me down.

Will PLM end up with a cat crew? Maybe. Very well maybe.

Today, I’m using a prompt I received from my podcast co-host, Carson Winter, who also participated in this challenge with me! Yeah, if you didn’t know – Carson and I have a podcast called The Dead Languages Podcast

Carson started before me so he finished already, collecting his seven stories into a fun little book, A Cold Wind in Autumn – and you can actually read it for free (one of the stories is based on a prompt I gave him!) Check it out here:

A Cold Wind in Autumn

The prompt for today:

“A gothic horror kaiju story.” – Carson Winter

The Widow’s Walk

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hughes.” Mr. Sullivan, the town’s butcher, didn’t actually look sorry. Just uncomfortable. “This’ll be the last I can deliver ‘til you pay your tab.”

Henrietta tightened her clasped hands, letting her nails bit into her palms. “Sir, you know my husband will make right just as soon as he’s back.”

The butcher sucked his teeth, shifting uncomfortably as he glanced over his shoulder at the crashing gray sea visible past the cliff’s edge. Today the sky was as colourless as the water, both seemed to merge seamlessly at the horizon creating a dizzying illusion of a heaven’s high wave.

“Happy to start deliveries again.” He wouldn’t look at her. “Once the tab’s paid, ma’am.”

Mr. Sullivan held out the small crate he carried and she took it. Normally a servant would receive the deliveries but there were none. The last of them had left two weeks ago when Henrietta had let them know she couldn’t afford their pay.

Her husband had been gone for nearly a year now.

The crate felt woefully light.

She watched the butcher pull himself up to the front of his wagon – the new one that her husband had gotten for Mr. Sullivan when his old one had broken down – clicking his tongue at his chestnut nag, and left without a look back.

#

Henrietta opened the narrow door that stood between the bay windows in her bedroom. A walkway extended out, surrounded by pretty white railings. She knew people called them widow’s walks. Places where forgotten women haunted, waiting for their loves to return.

She walked down, standing at the end, peering out at the ocean. Vicious waves crashed against the side of the cliff with resounding thunder. Henrietta could feel the salt spray on her face even where she stood.

Above, the clouds remained heavy and constant, hanging low over the land like a shroud. The sun had drowned long ago. It had been weeks since Henrietta had last felt sunshine on her face.

Her belly rumbled with hunger.

#

Lying in bed, Henrietta watched the ceiling. The lighthouse’s cold light swept across it at regular intervals, creating deep arching shadows that then disappeared.

She rolled to her side, reached out, brought her husband’s pillow to her chest. Squeezing it tight, she buried her face in it, but his smell was gone. Long gone.

Antony was supposed to have returned long ago. Owner of the Horizon Shipping Company, Antony’s business had helped the town through so many hard times – providing jobs, boosting businesses. A sailor at heart, he often went on shorter trips. To network, shake hands, make connections – that’s what he’d called it.

 The year had been bad for storms. Henrietta had begged him not to go.

“Wait for me, my love,” he’d said. “I promise, after this, I’ll return and settle.”

“What if you don’t return? With the storms – ”

“Death himself could not keep me from you,” he’d said. “My love for you would drink the oceans and swallow the sky.”

#

“I understand your…troubles, Mrs. Hughes,” Mr. Doyle, the banker, said, nodding vigorously. “But it wouldn’t be fair to keep…adding to your debt without further payment in sight. What would my other clients think?”

Henrietta looked down at his hands, covered in gold rings and gems. “Sir, you know that my husband will return your kindness ten-fold if you would just—”

“Have you thought of…selling some things?” he interrupted. “At least to tide yourself over until your husband returns?”

She nodded, though there was nothing of value to sell anymore.

“Or perhaps…seeking alms from the Church?” Mr. Doyle cleared his throat, bowed, and retreated through the thin fog back to his horse.

#

Standing at the end of her widow’s walk, Henrietta scanned the sea for the Light Runner. She knew what the townspeople thought.

Beneath her, the land was swathed in fog. It crept about like eels. From where she stood, Henrietta couldn’t see the road, the town, or even her back garden. Only the sea and a hazy horizon sliced open by the lighthouse’s beacon.

“Come back to me, Antony,” she cried. “You promised!”

#

The house creaked in the night and Henrietta opened her eyes with a shiver. Her husband’s pillow was wet with tears, crushed against her face.

In the brief illumination from the lighthouse’s beam, she saw fog curling across the floor.

The door to her widow’s walk was open, she could taste the sea on her lips.

The night wind gusted in and out through the door, tossing the curtains, making loose papers dance across the room, filling the halls and rooms like deep, calm breaths.

Henrietta got up, feeling dizzy. She went to the door and looked out.

The waves crashed loudly against the cliff wall and the night was dark, so dark.

She shut the door and returned to her empty bed.

#

“We’ve not much to spare, I’m afraid,” Father Reed said, handing over a basket of tomatoes. “It’s been a bad year for everyone.”

Henrietta took the basket, stared at the priest’s new leather shoes.

“We are praying for you and Mr. Hughes every Sunday,” Father Reed said. “You should try and attend a service. God provides.”

She didn’t bother to reply.

He cleared his throat, looked out at the sea. “They say the storm of a century is coming. Be safe, my child.”

Henrietta watched the priest mount his horse and gallop away, as if afraid she would chase him down. The fog was thicker now and swallowed the thin man up instantly.

#

Something towered in the fog, in the water. Taller than the lighthouse, taller than anything Henrietta had ever seen before. It was miles out, where the ocean would be deep. It did not move with the waves. It stood and watched her.

Its features were obscured by the fog, which grew ever thicker each day, but its two round eyes were dark and unwavering.

Hands gripping the sea-damp railing, Henrietta waited for it to move, to disappear like a figment in the fog. She watched until the invisible sun set and doused everything in darkness.

#

The deep hungry ache in her belly woke her. The townspeople had been true to their word. No one had come for her in weeks. Her bones stretched her skin, her head spun when she stood too fast.

Henrietta sat up, pushing herself against the pillows.

The door was open again and fog had flooded in.

“If only I could eat the fog,” she whispered, her eyes prickling with tears.

The night wind rushed in and out, sounding like Antony’s deep, gentle sleep breaths. Henrietta stood, knees shaking, hands gripping the bedframe for support. She went out onto the walk and stared out at the sea.

The lighthouse flashed by, revealing the towering leviathan closer than before. The brief light caught the briefest angles of many limbs, the sleekness of an endless flank, the curve of a vicious tail, and black eyes as deep and fathomless as the ocean itself.

Warm wind rushed over Henrietta, chasing away the midnight chill. She stayed on the walk, waiting for more glimpses as the light passed by, hunger forgotten for just a little while.

#

The cupboards were empty, the icebox barren. Henrietta held the last crust of bread she had, stale now. She took it and a glass of water up to the widow’s walk. It took a long while to ascend the stairs. She rested every third one.

Her head spun, as light as the fog that now filled every room of the house. It had taken her several hours, resting frequently, but she’d opened all the doors, all the windows, to let the fog in.

Now, hanging over the edge of the railing, Henrietta dipped her bread in the water to soften it.

She savoured the texture of the food on her tongue.

Out in the ocean, it waited, a storm raging at its back. Lightning spiked out around it, slicing sizzling wounds into the water, which had drawn away from the shore in the night. Dying fish flopped in the thousands on the newly exposed seabed. The wind howled, waiting to be released with the rain. Its eyes watched her as she slowly, resolutely, ate the last of her food.

She wasn’t worried. She only needed strength for a little while longer.

The bread finished, Henrietta drank the water, catching lost crumbs on her tongue.

Fog curled up her dress, her arms, her neck, danced through her hair and caressed her cheeks.

Henrietta looked at the lurker in the fog.

“Go,” she said.

#

The storm raged the entire night and, even through the thunder and wind, Henrietta could hear the savage rending of houses and the screams of those who had turned their backs on her.

She stayed on the widow’s walk, where this last hidden reserve of strength came from she did not know, but it allowed her to watch the sun rise for the first time in months and burn away the fog.

The town was gone, now a flooded graveyard of splintered walls and shattered stone. The lighthouse was cracked in half, its beacon in shards on the beach.

The way revealed, Henrietta took the cliffside path down to the pebbly beach beneath her home.

The tide was low, crabs raced by with claws full of fish flesh.

There, tucked under the cliff, was the battered, barnacle-encrusted hull of the Light Runner. For as he had promised, Antony had returned to her and, in the golden light of the reborn sun, Henrietta laid herself down on the broken shell of her husband’s ship and died.

x PLM

Spooky Challenge 2024 — Day 5

It’s day five, hopefully you’ve been enjoying my stories and are preparing yourselves for the most Hallo of Weens.

Today’s prompt is:

“When I found the dead man in the abandoned bowling alley, he was wearing shoes two sizes too big, and there was a rattling wheeze coming from behind the pins at the end of the lane.” – TJ Price

Waldo’s Wacky Wanes

I carefully picked my way through the ankle high rank water that flooded through the abandoned bowling alley. The air stunk of mildew. I couldn’t help but imagine mold growing in my lungs with every breath.

My flashlight picked out the bolted down tables and chairs, loose bowling bowls, floating bi-coloured shoes.

I’d risked coming inside to escape the skin rending acid rain that had come pouring down. I’d had to abandon my jacket, smoking and disintegrating, out in the lobby.

Now, I searched for a place to rest, to escape the damp and the water.

Instead I found a body.

A man, bloated and pale in my bright light. Face down, his clothes were drained grey by the water. His shoes dangled comically on his feet. A pair of nice leather boots. Too big for him. His arms were out flung at his sides, one hand resting on a pink bowling bowl spotted with gray mould.

The boots could be salvable. If I could dry them. Good footwear was rare these days. I reached down, rolled him over with a grunt.

The stench of blood and guts made me reel back. There was no front to him. His face, his chest, his belly – all had been hollowed out to the point where I could clearly see the back of his skull, his spine. I swallowed back a gag.

Somewhere in the darkness, towards where the pins would live, something splashed.

A rattling wheeze pierced the quiet and I froze.

The boots suddenly didn’t seem worth the risk.

I tucked the flashlight against my chest, stifling its light.

The wheeze came again. More smashing as something moved in the darkness. Something that had probably eaten this poor sap.

I slid my feet backwards, trying to be as silent as possible.

Something clattered, pins maybe, bones.

I bumped into something, reached back, fumbled at the edge. A table.

A maddening chitter punctured the quiet.

Anything could be in here with me.

Since the Days of Drowning, things had become strange in the world. Streets had become knee deep rivers, homes were sour stagnant ponds, and humans became the prey.

I edged around the table, backing further away from the sound.

The floor shook as something very heavy crashed through the water. I froze again, closing my eyes against the darkness. Another wheeze. Then heavy snaps as though of bear traps activating.

I heard the crunching of bones, the slick sound of rending flesh, then the sound of something feasting on the body of the man I’d found on the lane.

The air was rank with the smell of brackish water, salty fishiness, and rot. I shivered in the gloom. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, faint light filtering in from the rain shrouded sun outside. Something massive, disc-like hunched over the body. A body pocked with hundreds of blind, weeping eyes, milky white and hopefully blind. Six segmented legs, two claws, as big as I was, tore the body to pieces and shoved those pieces into a chittering, dripping maw.

I waited.

Outside the acid rain burned holes into anything soft, inside the horror before me consumed the man.

My feet grew numb in the cold water, my body shivered uncontrollably, my teeth chattered so hard that I was afraid the thing would hear so I jammed my tongue between them and risk biting through it than to become dessert.

The body reduced to crimson crumbs, the thing turned, lumbered deeper into the bowling alley, disappearing into the shadows. Its wheezing, gasping breathes hinted at rotting, failing lungs. Water splashed, its shell knocked against something loudly, then it went still, quiet.

I waited longer, hoping to hear it move further away.

The stale water in the bowling alley sloshed with fading ripples.

My legs itched, the skin prickling all over.

The cold seeping deep inside. I held fast. The rain still thundered outside, death to any soft skin who would attempt travel without shelter.

The prickling rose to my hips, my belly. I couldn’t help but gasp at the pain. I reached down with my free hand to run some sensation into my skin and instead found the prickly shells of crawling horrors on my body.

I screamed, stumbling back. Dropping my flashlight, I swatted at the things crawling up my body. The light sunk into the water but still revealed the thousands of horrid young that skittered towards me. Their thousands of eyes were milky but malevolent, their claws tore through my clothes, dug into my skin.

I screamed again.

The floor shook as the young’s mother thundered towards me.

The sour spawn overwhelmed me, swarming my face. Their tiny claws tore open my lips, plucked out my teeth and tongue. They punctured my eyes, pierced my ears.

I fell to the water and prayed the mother would find me soon and end all of it, all the pain.

x PLM

Spooky Challenge 2024 — Day 4

Day four of my challenge and I’m writing late again! Halloween is coming up and I still have no idea what I want to do to celebrate. If you have any ideas, let me know!

Other news, if you missed it, my collection – What Remains When The Stars Burn Out – has been nominated for a Wonderland Award so I’ll be going to Bizarrocon in Oregon to see how the ceremony goes! If you’re attending, come say hi!

Sisters of the Crimson Vine has a Spanish edition, thanks to Dilatando Mentes Press!

Now onwards to the newest story! Today’s prompt:

“One day, Justina’s period starts exactly when it’s supposed to, but blood isn’t the only things she’s menstruating out of her body…” – L Walter

Warning: there are heavy themes of child/partner abuse.

Violence Begets Violence

Justina’s stepfather pulled her roughly into the bathroom, his fingertips leaving dents in her upper arm. He threw her against the bathroom counter, she knew the impact would leave a bruise as pain buzzed through her hip bone.

“You’re a disgusting cow!” he snarled, pointing at the trash bin beside the toilet.

She held her breath, tried to feel nothing at all so the tears wouldn’t come. He grabbed her arm again when she didn’t move fast enough, pulling her beside him, pointing again.

On top of the pile of tissues, q-tips, and empty toothpaste tube, was a pad peeking out from a half unfurled length of toilet paper.

Justina’s stomach dropped.

Her pad. The one she’d tried to carefully wrap in toilet paper just an hour ago.

Its crimson smear stood out brightly in the trash.

“Fucking disgusting,” her stepfather snapped. “You want your stepbrother to see this fucking filth? Pig.”

He struck her across the face and she fell back against the counter. He stomped out of the bathroom, leaving whiskey fumes in his wake. Only when she had shut the door did Justina let the tears flow. Her left cheek hummed with throbbing heat. One she was well familiar with now.

Her mother had married him nine months ago and, ever since they’d returned from the honeymoon, Justina’s life had been a living hell. Her left thigh still hurt from the cigarette burn he’d given her to let her know her shorts had been too short five days ago.

She knelt on the tile, reached into the garbage. I must not have wrapped it tight enough. Her hands shook. I should have hidden it deeper in the garbage.

Something moved. She pulled her hands away with a gasp. Her first thought was a mouse. The house was old, drafty, prone to infestation.

Justina waited. Her heart pounded painfully. She couldn’t leave the pad there. He would hurt her harder or… do something worse. Something she felt he’d been waiting to do for a while, working up the courage for, since she’d caught him in her room holding a pair of underwear he’d taken from her laundry basket.

A mouse was nothing compared to him.

She reached in, pulling the pad out, opened it slowly.

Resting on a large clot was a small translucent slug.

Or, at least, it resembled a slug. About an inch long, it was rather slug-like, slightly opaque like a crystal and the same colouration. Twin stalks bobbled at one end, just underneath were small waving appendages like feelers or a dozen tongues. At the other end was a wicked sharp crimson barb.

The creature paused, its stalks wavering in her direction. Entranced, she lowered a finger towards it.

Without fear, the thing slid up her fingertip to rest on her first knuckle. She couldn’t feel it, it matched her body temperature exactly.

Her mother called that dinner was ready. Her mother’s voice always quavered now, always on the verge of tears.

With her free hand, Justina rolled the pad tighter in toilet paper and shoved it deep within the garbage. She guided the tiny thing into her palm and covered it carefully so she wouldn’t crush it, then she went to dinner.

#

Justina found another before bed. This time, she checked her pad before throwing it away. There was another one, moving through the blood. She added it to the small glass on her bedside table with the first.

Sitting on the side of her bed, listening to her mother beg her stepfather to stop, Justina watched the new creature curl in on itself, seeming to harden just like the first had. It stilled, resembling nothing more than a small chip of quartz except for the tiny crimson talon in the middle.

Maybe it died.

Justina knew it wasn’t true. She wasn’t sure how she knew. When she reached in and pressed a fingertip against one, it still matched her body temperature. It still felt like a part of her.

#

On the third day of her period, Justina had collected a dozen new “gems”. She added each one to the glass beside her bed.

At night, they faintly glowed, like the old stars she’d put on her ceiling as a kid.

#

On the fourth night, she found her stepfather in her room. The tin box with the unicorn painted on top lay on the floor, coins scattered like trash. He held her savings in his hands. All $120 of it, saved carefully from babysitting jobs.

He looked at her, without even the decency to seemed ashamed. “I’m taking this.”

Her face burned. With fear, anxiety, but mostly anger.

Justina cried out, not even able to speak, tears burning, as she clawed at his hand, trying to take back what was hers.

“You bitch!” he yelled as she dug her nails into the back of his hand, drawing blood. “You crazy bitch!”

He grabbed the hair at the back of her head with his free hand, swung her away from him. She slammed against the wall, falling to her hands and knees. He kicked her in the ribs. Hard.

She puked up the toast she’d had for lunch, sinking into the carpet, wailing.

“You’re fucking crazy, just like your fucking mother!” Her stepfather stepped past her, knocking the side table over.

The glass shattered under his foot, the gems crunched.

#

All but three of the gems Justina had created – or had been created within her, if that meant anything different – were broken, dead. Cold to the touch.

The three left were no longer gems. They unfurled, their miniscule bodies swaying from side to side, small crimson stingers raised high.

She offered out her palm to them. Perhaps they would sting her and she would die a painful death for not protecting them. I deserve it. I should have hidden them away, kept them safe.

Instead they slid onto her skin and their stalks turned towards her bedroom door.

It was late, the house was quiet.

Justina took them into the hall and their stalks turned right, towards the door to where her mother and stepfather slept.

She opened the door. Streetlights cast stripes over their bodies through the blinds. Her stepfather lay closest to the door, taking most of the bed, spread like a greedy, fat starfish. Her mom was curled up at the edge, her arms wrapped over her head.

The creatures’ stalks pointed down to her stepfather. Justina knelt by the side of the bed, leveled her hand to its edge.

One of the three creatures slid forward, its tiny appendages probing the sheets, guiding its way up towards his head. It crawled up the side of his neck, over his earlobe, and into his ear. The two in her palm grew still.

Justina stood and backed out of the room, silently closing the door as she went.

#

The paramedics took him away in the morning. He was pale, so so pale, deflated looking. His eyes bulged from his head, his tongue poked between purple lips.

Heart attack, they said.

The fear and pain on his face said otherwise but Justina didn’t care to correct anyone.

In a new glass at the side of her bed were six more gems.

And three weeks later, she was giving one to her friend with the black eye, busted lip, and a boyfriend problem.  

x PLM