Paul Finch's Blog, page 19

Another year, another bunch of evil killers

Well … there’s all sorts to talk about as we close out 2014, which has been yet another year I won’t forget easily. But I’m aware that it’s almost Christmas and you’ll have lots of other more important things to do than sit here dreaming alongside me, so I’ll try and make this quick.

First of all, check out the image on the left – that’s the final cover for HUNTED , which is my next novel in the DS Heckenburg series. After Heck’s forced isolation in the wilds of a wintry Lake District during DEAD MAN WALKING , fans may be relieved to know that in this next book he’s back on the Serial Crimes Unit beat, looking into another series of weird deaths, now in the less rugged but somehow no less dangerous environs of genteel Surrey.  HUNTED  is published on May 7 next year, but is available for pre-order now if you’re dead keen.
Here is the official blurb from the back of the book …
Across the south of England, a series of bizarre but fatal accidents are taking place. So when a local businessman survives a near-drowning but is found burnt alive in his car just weeks later, DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg is brought in to investigate.
Soon it appears that other recent deaths might be linked: two thieves that were bitten to death by poisonous spiders, and a driver impaled through the chest with scaffolding.
Accidents do happen but as the body count rises it’s clear that something far more sinister is at play here, and it may have Heck in its sights next …
On the subject of Heck and new covers, here is the next cover in the German series, published by PIPER as  SPURENSAMMLER . These are really marvellous editions – my German is unfortunately poor, but I know a damn nice book when I get one in my hand. And how about that title? Sounds awesome, doesn’t it? This of course is Heck 3, as many people are now referring to it. Over here it was published as THE KILLING CLUB , but I’m reliably informed by my German pals that this German title translates as CLUE HUNTER. Interesting stuff. Works well for me.

Still on the subject of new covers, we now have the next in the series of WHOLE STORY AUDIOBOOKS spoken-word adaptations taken from my collection of 2013, DON’T READ ALONE . This is GRENDEL’S LAIR , which is possibly the darkest story in the book, and is likely to be the one that will appeal most to Heck fans, as it’s a cop story with a very grim and murderous subtext. As usual, it is read by Jonathan Keeble, who’s done an amazing job so far with the previous tales from the book – THE OLD NORTH ROAD and THE POPPET . Follow the link to find a brief snippet, as read by Mr. Keeble. Below is the short official blurb:

Gordon Grimwood, a suspected murderer, leads a bunch of cops into a network of derelict air-raid shelters to find a missing child – where a hideous evil awaits them!
And now for something not entirely disconnected to this.

Earlier in December I was interviewed by the MASS MOVEMENT website ("bringing madness to the masses since 1998"), on the subject of the inspiration behind my career choices and ultimately my writing. Given that it focusses largely on pop type interests – books, graphic novels, movies, music, TV and so on, I use the opportunity to chat about my lifelong interest in hard rock, and how that’s helped me focus on the material I’ve since brought to the written page. If so inclined, follow the link to read the full article.  
2014 has also been a damn good year for the TERROR TALES series – the regionally-themed horror anthologies that I’ve been editing for GRAY FRIAR PRESS . This year, the authorsJohn Llewellyn Probert, Priya Sharma, Alison Littlewood and Rosalie Parkerjoin a growing list of distinguished wordsmiths whose tales – from TERROR TALES OF WALES (in the first two cases) and TERROR TALES OF YORKSHIRE (in the latter two) have been selected for reprint in BEST BRITISH HORROR (pictured above), edited by the indefatigable Johnny Mains, with maybe more to come from other annual Year’s Best anthologies. 
Prior to this, Year’s Best reprints have also been awarded to Simon Bestwick for his contribution to TERROR TALES OF THE LAKE DISTRICT , Simon Kurt Unsworth for his story in TERROR TALES OF THE COTSWOLDS , Mark Valentine for his story in TERROR TALES OF EAST ANGLIA , Anna Taborska, Nina Allan, Marie O’Regan and Mark Morris for their stories in TERROR TALES OF LONDON , and Stephen Volk for his story in TERROR TALES OF THE SEASIDE . 
Yep, that’s correct, given the two honours heaped upon us this year, every volume of the TERROR TALES series has so far seen material chosen for republication under the banner of Year’s Best.
That makes me a very satisfied man indeed. On which subject, I hope 2014 has been great to all you guys. Now, all the best for a merry Christmas and a very happy New Year. 

Dark promise of 'A Christmas Yet To Come'

Well, the calendar has rolled around again - and that most wonderful time of the year is imminent. Of course, it isn't wonderful for everyone. Christmas is also seen as the occasion on which we should stand back and take stock of our lives, looking at our personal past, particularly our failures - which won't always be pretty, and then gazing ahead to the future to see if there is any way we can get it right the next time - which won't always be possible, or desirable (depending on who we are).  It's those 'hopes and fears of all the years', as the great carol says. 
     Supernatural fiction has often aided in this. Excellent festive horror stories have been written over the centuries, always seeking to be instructive as well as entertaining - and yet often in the most imaginatively chilling and ghoulish ways. 
     Though I've assessed it a number of times, not least in this blog, I've never fully understand this apparent need we have to be scared out of our wits at Christmas time. But I've never objected to it either. In fact, every year now I try to do my own small bit. I've long been a lover of the festive ghost story, and have tried my hand at it many, many times. It's a become something of an annual event - at least for me - posting one of them on this blog every year around this time. So if you'll excuse me, here we go again.      
     This time around, it's a story of mine, A CHRISTMAS YET TO COME, which first saw light of day on a spoken-word anthology called HAUNTED HOUSES way back in 1996, when it was read, rather superbly, by Ross Kemp. It's been reprinted several times in anthologies since then. I'm sure some of you will have read it before - so sorry about that, but with luck there will be plenty more to whom it's pretty new. So there we are. If you've got a few spare minutes, please feel free to indulge yourself in this ... 


A CHRISTMAS YET TO COME
It all began on a balmy August evening, when Mike joined two police constables in breaking into his father’s little terraced house.      The neighbours hadn’t heard the old man for some while, apparently. Did Mike know if he was alright?  He wasn’t sure, he reflected, as they jemmied the front door and finally broke it down – the musty smell that spread out over them was sickening. Mike led them in, wading through a ton of bills and free newspapers. The house was curtained and standing in darkness. With the ongoing heatwave it was also stifling, which made the stink even worse.     It also made the Christmas decorations rather incongruous. Dried-up sticks of holly hung over the kitchen door. In the lounge, the small spruce fir in the bucket by the fire had shed its needles in a crisp, brown carpet, though plastic baubles and tinfoil stars still hung from its skeletal branches, attached by grubby lumps of Blue-tack. The sparse collection of greetings cards had largely fallen from the mantelpiece, but those left were furred with dust.     However, the old man looked pretty much the way he had last Christmas: seated in his armchair facing the now ash-filled hearth, clad in cardigan, trousers and slippers. A little browner perhaps, a little more shrivelled, one shrunken claw resting on the telephone beside him. Of course, when Mike and the constables went in, disturbing the air currents, he changed pretty quickly – sort of caved in on himself in a great plume of dust.     Mike still had time to formally identify him first. Not that the police were too impressed. He could tell that from the hard, wooden expressions on their faces as they went through the motions of reporting the incident. Well – so what? It was not as if they’d cared or even known about the old git while he was alive. They certainly wouldn’t have known what a grumpy old pest he could be.     Still, if they were going to take this attitude, Mike thought it best not to mention the fact that he’d probably been the last person to speak to his father. Last Christmas Eve in fact, around tea-time. It had only been a quick chat; a courtesy phone call. He’d wanted to tell the old man not to bother catching the bus up to their place that year as he and Chrissie had decided to go to the Bahamas for the season. They’d be there until well into the New Year. Ta-ra!     Well? Weren’t they allowed a holiday now and then? Who were the cops to deny them that? He supposed he ought to have checked on the old fella a bit sooner than this, but well – his father had always been the one to call first. Why break the habit of a lifetime?     A few hours later, as they took the remains out in a black bag, a scowling police sergeant told Mike something about there having to be an inquest and maybe a postmortem, though it was unlikely there’d be much to go on. Unless they found clear evidence of foul play. Course, there wasn’t much chance of that. There were ways of murdering people without even going near them, weren’t there!     Mike nodded dumbly but wasn’t actually listening. He’d just noticed a sole package standing under the desiccated frame of the Christmas tree. Surely someone hadn’t sent the old geezer a present? When the police had finally left him to lock up, he examined it. It was a present alright – but not to his father. In fact it was from the old man to Mike. The scribbled tag wished him happy Christmas. Mike snorted. It had been – the first in a while. He turned the gift over in his hands. It was squarish and wrapped in faded blue paper with mugshots of Rudolph all over it – now all stiff and crackly of course. Probably in that state when he bought it, Mike thought. Stingy old bastard! He’d open it afterwards.      He stopped once in the doorway and looked back. It seemed morbid to leave the place like this – a crumbling grotto to a Christmas long past, now curtained off, boarded up and mouldering slowly away in the sweltering August heat. But there’d probably have to be some legal proceedings or other before he could clean the junk out and sell the place. No rush, he supposed.     He drove home that evening via the scenic route on the town’s outskirts, passing endless parched hayfields. The sun was low on the horizon but still giving off an intense warmth, and he sweated copiously. It had been like this since June, and the entire district was living under a hosepipe ban with the threat of further cuts impending. Mike was a summer bird, and he loved it.     However, as he drove down the curving road onto the suburban estate where he and his wife lived in their neat little semi, he passed a bizarre figure. At first he didn’t give it a second glance; then he suddenly jammed his brakes on and looked back. The road and pavement behind were now empty. It seemed ludicrous, but he could have sworn that he’d just driven past someone dressed as Father Christmas. He’d only seen them from behind, but had clearly noticed a figure in a scarlet hood and cloak, trimmed with white fur, shuffling along under the weight of a bulging sack.     Mike tried to laugh at the absurdity of it, but the laugh dried in his throat. He reversed a little. The quiet suburban road was still bare of life. So where had the figure gone to?  Not far behind him, a narrow shady footpath cut away from the main drag and led across the estate. Mike continued to reverse until he was on level with it, but the passage bent quickly away so he was unable to look down its full length. In any case, it branched several times. In fact, it came out at one point on the cul-de-sac where his own house was.      Actually, that was its first port of call.     Mike got his foot down hard.      He reached his front drive in record time, and saw Chrissie waiting by the door with a look of concern on her face. His heart was banging as he leaped from the car; but then it transpired that she was worried about what the police had said, not some out-of-season Santa wandering about. Later, when he tentatively mentioned it to her, she said she hadn’t seen anyone like that.       By the time he got to bed, he’d decided he’d imagined it. But a couple of hours later, he awoke again, his teeth chattering. He sat up sharply, hugging himself. Thanks to the heatwave, they’d been in the habit of sleeping on top of the coverlet, with the windows wide open. Clearly, the weather had now changed. Another chill breeze surged in and Mike, clad only in shorts, swore loudly. It was literally freezing.     He thought about Chrissie, lying naked beside him, and couldn’t believe that she hadn’t woken up too. Briefly, he was too confused to do anything. He realised that he was goose-pimpled all over; his fingers and toes were aching. This was ludicrous –it was like the dead of winter. He scrambled to his feet, and gasped at how cold the carpet was. He blundered over it to the windows. Another icy draft cut across him like a sword. God, it was almost unbearable – it must have been subzero!      He made it to the first window, hopping from one foot to the other, and reached for the bar to dislodge it, when he saw that the glass panes were thick with frost. He stared at them in disbelief, and reached out with his fingers to touch. It was real – real frost, hard and slippery and numbingly cold. Mike stood there, stupefied, his breath smoking. That was when he noticed that snowflakes were blowing into his face.     Half an hour later Chrissie came round, hardly able to breathe. For some reason all the windows had been closed. “God almighty,” she groaned, rising wearily to her feet and stumbling over to them. “It’s like a steam-bath in here.”     The windows swung open again but offered no real relief. Birds were twittering in the eaves, insects droning, a tropical sun rising on the horizon. When she got back to bed she found Mike still asleep – but shivering. He was beaded with sweat from head to foot, and when Chrissie touched his forehead, he moaned deliriously.
*
As severe a case of flu as the doctor had ever seen was the curt diagnosis later that day. Not as unusual in summer as people might think, but still rare. The best thing for it was several days of complete rest, preferably in bed. Under normal circumstances, the GP would have advised warm clothing and lots of hot drinks, but in this weather there was probably no need, though he did caution Mike about walking around the house wet – after a shower for example.     The patient listened glumly from his pillow. The doctor needn’t worry, he thought. He had no intention of walking around the house at all. He felt absolutely awful. Not least because he could still vividly recall the snowbound conditions he’d awakened to find his bedroom in, and was totally at a loss to explain it.     Inevitably though, as the days passed, the memory faded and he was soon able to write it off as a fevered nightmare. In any case, he had more pressing things to worry about. The police sergeant who’d attended his father’s house came round to see him, to ask some hard questions about why Mike and his wife hadn’t been in touch with the old man sooner. Mike found it an uncomfortable experience, but knew he was in no real danger. After all, he’d committed no crime. His father had been old but in reasonably good health – it was not as if he’d been abandoned without care. And if, as the Coroner had now decided, he had died last Christmas Eve –probably from heart-failure – there was nothing Mike could have done to help him anyway. All he was really guilty of was failing to discover a dead body.     The policeman left grumpily, and Mike went back to bed, still feeling weak. Chrissie wouldn’t be back from work until five – not that this was anything to look forward to. She found it trying having an invalid in the house, and did nothing to hide it.      That was when he heard the sleigh bells.     He sat up from the pillow and looked slowly round at the window. It was open, and beyond it he saw the azure sky of late summer, the rich green leaves on the trees opposite. He heard children playing – still on holiday from school; the sound of someone mowing their lawn. He smelled chopped grass and barbecue coals being stoked up for another glorious evening.      Yet sleigh-bells were approaching gaily, along with crisp, clip-clopping hooves.     They came to a halt right under his bedroom window. Mike felt his hair prickling, but was unable to move to look. The children were still playing, the lawnmower still revving over the turf. At any second he expected a hearty knock at the door. But the next thing he heard was a foot on the stair. Then another. Stealthy, padding footfalls – as though someone was coming up uncertainly, or painfully. A silvery bell tingled. Mike imagined that shabby, stumbling Father Christmas – holding out a little Yuletide bell, ringing it before him to bring in custom, just like one of those old men paid to stand outside department stores in December.  The footsteps were now on the landing, the tingling bell right outside Mike’s bedroom door. It was not closed properly and someone slowly pushed it open ...     Then Mrs. Barnard from next door walked in.      When she saw that he was awake she looked relieved. She hadn’t wanted to disturb him, she said. But she felt she had to return the house-keys Chrissie had given her while they’d been away on holiday last July. She held them up in a bunch, and they tingled together – just like bells.     Mike swore hysterically at her for nearly a full minute before she turned and fled in rivers of tears. When Chrissie returned from work that evening, she was ambushed by the distraught woman before she could even get into the house, and finally came upstairs in a vexed mood. Mike was still lying in bed, and his wife gave him a good four minutes of her time before she even began to get changed.      It was no use him taking things out on her and the neighbours! Just because he wasn’t feeling so good! They had cause to get annoyed with him if they felt like it!      But by the time she’d finished, Mike was no longer listening. He was too busy staring out through the bedroom door at the scattered white globules on the landing carpet. They steadily dissipated as he watched them. It was the sort of thing you saw in deepest winter, when somebody had come in with snowy boots on.
*
Things didn’t improve for Mike, even with time. He never seemed to recover fully from the flu, feeling always tired and on the verge of a headache. It didn’t do much for his social life, or his love life, and Chrissie had never been one to forego those two pleasures.     He finally went back to work in mid-September, not feeling remotely fit enough, but glad at least that the searing temperatures of summer had now levelled off. As he walked unsteadily back to his desk, people clapped him in –apparently Chrissie, embarrassed that he’d only had flu, had put the story out that it was pneumonia – and the MD’s PA (who was also his wife) came heftily forward and presented him with a card. Signed by the whole office, she said, with her usual disingenuous smile.

     Mike nodded and looked down at it. At first he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, then everything swam into focus: a Victorian coach tracking through a snowy forest towards a church with windows smeared gold by firelight; cherubs in the top corners, singing from carol-sheets; evergreens, pine-cones ...    “You damn bitch!” he shouted. “Are you trying to be funny!”     The gathered crowd fell into stunned silence. Mike looked back at the card – it showed a summery meadow with rabbits and kittens and a big ‘Welcome Back’ slogan.     He was given three more weeks of sick leave. Even at the end of that he felt ropy, but knew that he had to go in sooner or later. Chrissie was now past commenting, and had taken to going out and socialising with her friends again. Mike wondered if she’d kept such late hours with him, but he was not particularly bothered.     His second return to work was less auspicious than the first, most of his colleagues preferring to mumble their greetings and the MD’s wife simply sniffing and ignoring him. The MD himself was colder than he had been in previous times. The first thing he said to Mike that morning was that he’d been planning some changes on the office floor. However, he didn’t specify what they were, which, as Mike was Systems Manager, seemed ominous.      As a situation, it was clearly not going to last. Another couple of weeks went by –things going fairly smoothly on the operational front – but then, around mid-morning one day, Mike was buzzed up to see his boss. The MD was an imposing, heavy-set man who had the ability to fill rooms from wall to wall and floor to ceiling when he wanted to. In this particular instance, he was seated stiffly behind his desk, his face like thunder. He wanted to know what all these late arrivals were due to. Getting in at ten every single day, with no explanation ever offered, was hardly acceptable. He respected Mike’s work, but couldn’t ignore something like this indefinitely.     Mike apologised profusely but said that he kept on getting stuck in the snow. He’d been shovelling for what seemed like an hour that morning alone. He was surprised nobody else had been affected. The MD gazed at him blankly for a moment or two, then swivelled round in his chair to look at the mellow autumn day outside the window. The leaves were just starting to turn yellow.    Yet, later on, as Mike cleared his desk, he glanced down at his hands. As he’d known they would be, they were still blue with the cold and covered in chilblains.     That night Chrissie caused a scene, and for the first time he slapped her. It was a good, hard, well-deserved slap too, he thought. It could have been that she’d called him a “raving loony who’d finally, totally gone”, but more likely it was the long silk stocking he’d found crumpled up beside the bed. Why was she still trying to make out that it was Christmas, he’d screamed! Getting stockings out to hang them up as soon as he wasn’t looking! It had never occurred to him that she’d simply dropped it from the laundry basket. Likewise, it had never occurred to him how odd it was that she’d suddenly taken to wearing such exotic lingerie. She never had before.     It was the next day when she told him she was leaving. She couldn’t help it, but sheneeded a life as well and she’d now found somebody whose company was more rewarding. She was sorry, but they couldn’t go on like this. She hoped he’d forgive her and find someone else when he got better. Mike watched her indifferently, not even following her to the door. He only ran outside when he heard the vehicle that was carrying her away –it had sleigh bells, and it clopped on the tarmac like reindeer hooves. When he got to the drive though, only an old Ford Escort was swinging around the corner. Even then, just for one minute, he could have sworn the driver was stooped over and wearing a red hood.     After a moment, starting to feel the cold, he went back inside. That cold was to become an increasing problem over the next few weeks. Mike burned fuel vigorously, both gas and electricity, doing his damnedest to keep warm. Then they cut his supplies off. With no wage coming in and therefore no direct debits going out, he hadn’t paid his bills. The next day he went down to the bank and building society but found that Chrissie had beaten him to it and drained both their joint-accounts.     And of course, now it was really getting cold. He wasn’t sure exactly what the date was, but rain was falling in freezing torrents and the heatwave was a distant memory. It went dark earlier and the trees across the road were soon wet, black skeletons. Chill drafts penetrated the building everywhere. He thought about moving the electric fire and starting to burn wood and old clothes in the grate, but realised that this would leave the chimney open and that was not an option.     The solution was to wrap up warm and stay in bed, and continue to eat his way through what food supplies were still in the house, though most of these were now stale and dry. He grew progressively weaker and found himself flopping around in clothes that were suddenly too baggy. At least he hadn’t been having any more hallucinations, though he was now besieged on all sides by what seemed to be real Christmas regalia; it glittered in neighbours’ front rooms or the back windows of taxi-cabs. Even the weather turned seasonal, the fog and drizzle giving way to frost and flurries of snow.     To make things worse, the day came when the cupboards were finally empty. Mike scavenged around the house for a while, chewing on apple pips or the hard crumbs of biscuits, but he knew he couldn’t survive that way. It was now blizzarding snow outside and seemed to be getting dark already even though he’d only just got up, but he had to go out and get food somehow. Under the stair he still had an old battery-operated transistor radio, which he thought might tell him how long the severe weather was expected to last.      It didn’t, but it did, through a fanfare of trumpets and bells, reveal that it was Christmas Eve.      After that, the battery died.      Mike was sitting alone in his armchair, the wind howling in the rafters, darkness gathering steadily around him. Hunger was gnawing his insides out. Then, across the room, he noticed a remarkable thing. Sitting on a shelf in an open cupboard was the present his father had wrapped for him almost exactly a year before. Mike had never got round to opening it.     He took it from the shelf, sat down again and tore off the wrapping. Inside, there was a small cardboard box, and inside that a gaudy Christmas toy, typically for his father, cheap and meaningless. It was one of those old-fashioned ‘snowstorms’ – a water-filled crystal sphere, with figures inside and white flakes that swam around when you shook it. This particular one was gloomier than most. In it, a figure in a threadbare coat and scarf stood alone outside a dilapidated house, the snow swirling around him.     In the last seconds before daylight faded altogether, Mike picked up the tag which his father had scrawled on.      ‘Happy Christmas, Mike. Love, Dad,’ was its simple message. Underneath it there was a postscript. ‘PS,’ it read. ‘See you tonight.’



The above image comes to us courtesy of Chrissie Demant, who first produced it to illustrate this same story in the VAULT OF EVIL Advent Calendar for 2013. The pic of the nasty Christmas tree at the top was in the act of being garnished by the Crypt-Keeper in HBO's Tales From The Crypt when I purloined it. If you've enjoyed this seasonal chiller, you might also be interested in IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER, a collection of five more of my scary festive tales.

Take a peek inside DEAD MAN WALKING

The pre-publication reviews for DEAD MAN WALKING have been pretty good so far, I’m happy to report, but the real business starts on Thursday this week, November 20, when the book is officially published. That’s when I suppose I should be getting nervous. It’s always an exciting time, but you’re on edge too – the general public thus far seem happy with my DS Heckenburg novels, so it’s fingers crossed that they’ll continue to be.For anyone who hasn’t read any of the Heck books yet, and maybe needs a little encouragement,  DEAD MAN WALKING  wouldn’t be too bad a place to start. The Heck novels concern the investigations of a young but obsessive detective attached to an elite Scotland Yard unit dedicated to catching repeat killers, but though the books run as a series they exist in isolation from each other too. In other words, you won’t need to have read the first three to enjoy this one, which is the fourth. Anyway, in case you still need some convincing, here, somewhat exclusively, is a chapter lifted freely from  DEAD MAN WALKING , and reprinted for your personal delectation (the action takes place in the isolated Lake District village of Cragwood Keld, shortly after local police officers, Heck included, have aired a suspicion that a brutal killer may be on the loose):   
CHAPTER  11 Rather to Hazel’s surprise, the pub drew custom that evening. She’d intended to keep the front door locked, but had told all the locals she’d still be open for business – they needed only to knock. The first knock came shortly after six; Burt and Mandy Fillingham. This was perhaps expected. Fillingham, as a gossip merchant, would hear a lot less sitting behind locked doors at home than he would in The Witch’s Kettle. Half an hour later, Ted Haveloc showed up. In this case, it was more of a surprise. For a grizzled sixty-two-year-old, Haveloc was the most robust occupant of the Keld, a long-term outdoorsman with the gnarled hands and cracked black fingernails to prove it. But he lived alone of course, so perhaps even he felt more vulnerable than usual on a night like this. The O’Grady sisters, Dulcie and Sally, lived together, socialised together, did almost everything together, and yet they turned up a short time later too, having made the short trip across the green at a scurry and knocking frantically and continually on the pub’s heavy oaken door until Lucy opened it. Half an hour after that, Bella McCarthy and her husband did exactly the same thing. In their ones and twos, the customers settled around the fire, drank alcohol and conversed in quiet, subdued tones.‘Strength in numbers, I suppose,’ Lucy said, as she and her aunt stood behind the bar.‘Yep,’ Hazel replied. ‘Do me a favour, Luce. Go upstairs, check all the windows are locked … yeah?’Lucy nodded and trotted away. Hazel glanced at her watch. It was just after six-thirty.‘Is there anything to eat, Hazel?’ Ted Haveloc called across the taproom. ‘I haven’t had a meal all day, and I’m famished.’‘Erm, yeah … sure,’ she said, unable to think of any reason why the normal menu wouldn’t be operating. They had plenty of food in the larder, and neither she nor Lucy would have much else to do for the rest of the evening. ‘Give us a minute, okay?’She breezed through into the kitchen, turned the ovens on and, as an afterthought, opened the top panel in the window over the sink. It was a relatively small kitchen and would quickly get hot and stuffy when they started cooking.Then Hazel heard the ululation – the distant, eerie ululation.Astonished, she turned to the window.Several seconds passed as she wondered if she’d imagined it. Because it had sounded like no human cry she’d ever heard, and yet some disconcerting inner sense told her that was exactly what it was.Beyond the window lay the yard where her maroon Renault Laguna was parked, and various crates and barrels awaited collection by the drayman. Even with the gates barred, as they were now, someone could get in there easily enough – the walls were only seven feet high. But briefly, that didn’t matter.Hazel knew what she’d heard.She opened the back door and stood on the step, listening. The air was bitter, the fog thick, grimy and fluffy as cotton wool. Was it possible there was some kind of error here? Had someone been fiddling around with the jukebox in the taproom? But now she heard the cry again – this time prolonged for several seconds longer than before. Weird, ululating, so filled with angst and torment that it barely sounded human. Abruptly, it snapped off.Hazel stood rooted to the spot, deep shivers passing down her spine.When she finally went back inside, she ensured to lock the door behind her. Almost certainly the rare atmospheric conditions were partly responsible for her hearing that sound. She had no doubt it had travelled a long distance. The normal acoustics in the Cradle would also have assisted. Whenever the drag-hunt was around, she’d hear the yipping of the hounds and the drone of the hunting horn when the pack was way up at the north end of the valley.Two words formed in her mind – for about the twentieth time that day.Annie Beckwith.Hazel seriously doubted that even on a night like this, noises at Fellstead Grange would be audible in Cragwood Keld. But that poor old dear was such a long way from help should she need it, and of course she had no idea she was in danger. Lucy reappeared in the kitchen doorway, so abruptly that Hazel jumped.‘Ted Haveloc’s still asking if there’s any food on tonight?’‘Erm, yeah, yeah … sure. Give them the menus. Listen, Lucy …?’Lucy glanced back in.‘You’ll have to cook it yourself. That okay?’Lucky looked briefly puzzled, but then shrugged. ‘No problem.’While Lucy went back out into the taproom, Hazel crossed the kitchen and retrieved one of the police contact cards. The first number she tried was Heck’s mobile. Predictably, there was no response. Following that, she tried Mary-Ellen. That gained no reply either. She went out into the bar and tried the police station from the landline, but it was the same outcome.‘Anyone up at Cragwood Keld police office, Ted?’ she asked Ted Haveloc. As he lived closest to the police station, he was the most likely to know.‘The lights were on when I came out, Hazel, but I didn’t see anyone moving around,’ he replied. ‘The Land Rover’s not there, nor Sergeant Heckenburg’s Citroen. At a guess, the place is still locked up and they’re out and about.’‘Thanks.’ Cumbria prided itself on the sense of community preserved in its small, close-knit towns and villages. Hazel supposed this had developed naturally in an environment where all occupants were lumped together. Encircled by bleak moors, fathomless forests, and high, wind-riven mountains, there was a sense of embattlement, and of course they had terrible winters here – the worst rain, the worst snow, and now it seemed, the worst fog. Lake District residents needed to get on well together and look out for each other, just to endure. As such, Hazel wondered when it was that she’d last seen Annie. A couple of years ago, easily. The old dear had reluctantly come down to the pub to celebrate Ted Haveloc’s sixtieth, and even then she’d been all skin and bone, wearing ragged clothes. Ted, who knew Annie better than anyone because he occasionally went up to help with chores on her run-down farm, might have seen her more recently, but not, as far as Hazel was aware, in the last few months. The water company truck went up there reasonably regularly too, to empty the septic tank, but would its crew have any interaction with the old girl? Would they even know she was there while they were working?None of this was good enough, Hazel decided. Mark had said they’d get up there at some point, but he hadn’t held out much hope it would be anytime soon, and it probably wouldn’t be because he and Mary-Ellen would have a lot to do. But in the meantime someone had to look out for that nice old lady. Hazel slipped out around the bar to the foot of the stairs. Nobody noticed; they were all too busy giving Lucy their food orders. Upstairs in the flat, she put on her walking boots and her fleece-lined jacket. She decided that she’d try to persuade Annie to come back down here, offer to put her up for a few nights free of charge. If nothing else, the old lady could have a hot bath, get a proper night’s sleep, and sit out the crisis in relative safety. Failing that – because Hazel knew Annie, and she could be stubborn as an ox – she’d take her some supplies up; some eggs, milk, bread, some packets of tea and dried soup, some chocolate and biscuits. She didn’t know what Annie lived on half the time. She’d once kept cows and pigs. She’d even had a pony for her trap, though said trap was now most likely decaying in some forgotten outbuilding. Ultimately, Annie had become too infirm to tend her stock, though she’d often tell anyone who’d listen that they were her only real friends. Apparently, she still grew her own fruit and vegetables, but in all honesty how easy could it be to eke out your existence like that, especially when you were an OAP? Feeling guilty at not having done this before, Hazel quickly went back downstairs and straight into the kitchen before anyone could query her. She got everything together, placed it in a wicker basket and covered it with a fresh tablecloth. She also grabbed herself an electric torch.Then she had another thought.Perhaps it was a bit silly – maybe an overreaction, maybe a massiveoverreaction, but Mark had seemed genuinely concerned earlier on. She knew a little bit about his background. He’d been in a few scrapes, to say the least. Surely it would take a lot to discomfort him as much as he’d looked discomforted today? In which case, assuming this menace wasn’t imaginary, she left the basket on one of the kitchen work-tops and trotted back upstairs. As she did, she felt a different kind of guilt – about breaking her word. Before he’d set off on his travels, Mark had strongly advised her to stay in the pub and provide a safe haven for the occupants of Cragwood Keld. Definitely not to go to the far end of the Cradle and up the Track to Annie’s farm. But Mark had only been here two and a half months. He was a good man, but a child of the urban sprawl. He likely had no idea how much they all cared for each other in these rural outlands. Hazel made a mental commitment to teach him that – if he opted to stay with her and give it a go. And she wasn’t ignoring his concerns either. That was why she was now back up here in the flat, why she was rummaging through the closet among her ex’s old sports gear and fishing tackle. The item she was looking for was right at the back, in a zipped canvas case. She lifted it out. It was old now, not quite an antique, but it had belonged to her father and to her grandfather before him. Slowly and cautiously, she drew the zipper down and extricated the object inside. It was a double-barrel Purdey shotgun, a twelve-gauge. With its walnut stock, open scroll coin engravings on its sidelock, and blued carbon steel barrels, it was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, and had been her father’s pride and joy when he’d used to go duck hunting. Even now it was in excellent working condition. Over the years, she’d disassembled and reassembled it several times, oiling it regularly. Both Mark and Mary-Ellen knew she had it in her possession, but while the two cops didn’t exactly approve, they weren’t about to turn her in. Mark would probably do his nut if he knew she kept it in an old cupboard in her lounge, but the truth was she didn’t really have anywhere else. The one big problem of course, was the absence of ammunition. There was a cartridge box in the closet, on a high shelf. Mark had told her she was supposed to keep the ammunition away from the firearm – but as the box only contained two cartridges it hardly seemed worth the trouble. There’d only been two as long as Hazel could remember. She broke the breech open just to check, then snapped it closed again, slid it back into its case, and shoved the cartridge box into her fleece pocket.Before descending the stairs, Hazel took off her fleece and draped it over her shoulder, to conceal the weapon. No one in the taproom noticed, but in the kitchen Lucy was now hard at work. She’d already spotted the basket of supplies, and when she saw the shotgun as well her eyebrows arched dramatically.‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Hazel said. ‘But I’m going up to Fellstead Grange.’‘Annie Beckwith’s place? Why?’Hazel didn’t mention the cry she’d heard earlier. She was starting to think that had been nothing significant; an animal or some rare bird. There were plenty to choose from in the heart of the National Park. But the others wouldn’t rationalise it that way. They’d try to stop her going.‘I don’t like the idea of her being alone up there.’‘Heck said it wasn’t a good idea,’ Lucy argued. It’s easy for him to say that,’ Hazel replied. ‘He doesn’t know Annie. To him, she’s just a name.’‘He knows what he’s talking about. Anyway, M-E said she’d go and look.’‘Will Mary-Ellen take Annie some spare food? Will she suggest she come down here and stay for a few nights in the pub?’Lucy had no answer for that. ‘It’s not a problem,’ Hazel added. ‘I’m driving to the Ho, and walking up the Track to Annie’s farm. I’ll be forty minutes, tops. And if anyone tries to mess with me …’ she hefted the shotgun, ‘I’ve got this.’Lucy looked more than a little sceptical. ‘Have you ever fired that thing?’‘You point it and pull the trigger. How hard can it be?’ ‘In this fog you won’t know who it is until they’re right on top of you.’‘No one’s going to be on top of me,’ Hazel said with an airy confidence she didn’t feel. She pulled a bob-cap on, zipped her fleece and took her gear to the back door. ‘Close the gate after I’ve gone, and make sure you put the bolt on. Then lock the back door and look after our customers. They’re your responsibility while I’m gone. Like I say, I’ll be forty minutes, max.’Lucy gave her further arguments, but knew from experience that when her Aunt Hazel’s mind was made up, there was no changing it. Hazel had a disarmingly gentle manner, but for several years she’d survived comfortably in an isolated environment which in winter was as challenging as they came. Many was the time Lucy had seen her carrying piles of firewood through the snow, chipping ice from frozen water pipes, fixing broken roof-tiles and gutters, tasks which didn’t remotely faze her. For all her soft exterior, Hazel was gutsy and independent, and she cared about her neighbours; that latter aspect of her character, in particular, was non-negotiable. So in the end Lucy did as she was asked, closing the back gate straight away after Hazel had reversed out through it in her Laguna, and ramming the bolt home; then going back indoors to cook everyone their tea. Slowly and cautiously, Hazel’s heavy car rumbled its way around the exterior of the pub, joining Truscott Drive, the single lane that ran upward across the green and through the centre of the village. Very little was visible, even with full headlights, the beams draining ineffectively into impenetrable murk. In some ways it was encouraging, she thought, as she finally reached the top of the Drive and swung left onto Cragwood Road. Because whoever she couldn’t see out there, they presumably couldn’t see her either. Though merely thinking in those terms – that there might be someone out there – was surprisingly unnerving.‘There’s no one here,’ she assured herself as she coasted north through sheets of opaque mist. Whatever had happened to those girls, it had been way up in the fells. Anyway, the police had already admitted they didn’t know for sure what the incident involved. It could have been an accident. Hazel had told Lucy she’d be there and back in around forty minutes, but in fact so slow was her progress that it took her over twenty to drive the three miles to Cragwood Ho. She pulled up in the car park at the foot of the Cradle Track, and turned off her engine. She was uncertain how she felt about seeing the police Land Rover sitting there. On one hand, it might mean Mary-Ellen had now gone up the Track herself to check on old Annie, which would be great news. But it could also be that she was still on the other side of the tarn, having not yet returned in the police launch, in which case Hazel was still here alone. She checked her phone. It was just past seven-twenty; evening was now turning into night. Even so, she sat behind her steering wheel for several minutes longer, listening. The silence was absolute, the vapour shifting past her windows in solid palls. Briefly, she could sense the towering, rock-strewn slopes as they rose inexorably to her left and right, eventually reaching the heights of Pavey Ark and Blea Rigg, though all Hazel could see in the glow of her headlights was the dry-stone wall in front of her. When she switched the lights off, even that vanished.Several more seconds passed, while she worked up the courage to climb out. She hadn’t expected to be frightened, but suddenly all that stuff about the fog hiding her as effectively as it might hide someone else seemed like over-optimistic nonsense. Feeling as if she was crossing some kind of Rubicon, Hazel reached into the back seat, slid the shotgun from its case and inserted the two cartridges. Snapping the weapon closed again, she climbed from the car, circled around, took the basket of supplies out from the other side, and shut the door.The thud of the central locking system echoed in the dimness. She loitered by the vehicle as she listened to it. A few seconds later, she tried both Mark and Mary-Ellen on their mobile phones once more, but again there was no contact. She glanced down across the car park to the other houses. They were only fifty or so yards away, but the blanketing mist concealed all lights. Now that she thought about it, Hazel wondered if she ought to be concerned about the others who lived at this isolated end of the valley as well. Okay, they’d already been given a heads-up by the police, though that was no guarantee Bessie Longhorn would be safe. Hazel made a decision to call at Bessie’s cottage on the way back, and check she was okay. Maybe take her down to the pub for couple of days as well. She might even, if she felt particularly charitable, offer the same option to Bill Ramsdale, though she expected she’d get short shrift on that – which would probably be a good thing. Bessie and Annie would be hard work enough – but wasn’t that what communities were all about?Hazel switched her torch on and ventured along the wall to the point where the gate and the stile were located. On the other side, the Track snaked uphill into the gloom. It was composed mainly of broken slate, which had deluged from the slopes above, and slithered and cracked underfoot when anyone stepped on it. It closely followed the edge of a barren, rock-filled ravine, and though at this lower level it was broad enough for a narrow-gauge vehicle to pass along it, Hazel didn’t personally know anyone who’d be crazy enough to try that in this weather. She slid through the stile and started upward, only now realising how challenging a hike this would be. Fifteen minutes minimum, she reckoned, while all the while the gradient increasing. It wasn’t a straight track, either. It bent and looped. The ravine, which, though it was cloaked from view, lay close on her left and grew progressively deeper, its sides ever more sheer, as she ascended, while the miasma turned steadily thicker. She’d often assumed that, as fog was heavy, the higher up into it you climbed, the thinner it would become. Earlier that day, she’d tried to imagine what this fog would look like from the point of view of a chopper lofting high above the Pikes: bare rocky islands slowly emerging from an oozing grey ocean. Here and there on her right, clutches of young pine grew amid the jagged piles of slate. She occasionally glimpsed them through the torch-lit vapour, but there was nothing cute or Christmassy about them. Many were fantastically warped and twisted by the wind and cold. Equally unnerving, and for some reason Hazel could never fathom, climbers and fell-walkers traversing this route in the past had chosen particularly hefty shards of slate, some of them three or four feet in length, and had then used smaller pieces to prop them upright on both sides of the path – usually every hundred yards or so. What they were supposed to be – distance-markers, or even some variety of crude outdoor art – she never knew, but the illusion they created was of gravestones. Or, if one of the largest ones – some were maybe as tall as five or six feet – suddenly loomed from the fog, of malformed figures standing close by.She ignored them as she trudged on, the crunching impacts of her boots resounding loudly. By now she was breathing hard, her knees and ankles aching as she leaned forward with each step, occasionally slipping or skidding. A couple of times she thought she heard movement – a scrape or rattle of pebbles. She would always stop on these occasions, only to be greeted by unearthly stillness. Each time it was entirely possible she’d heard an echo, though it set her nerves on edge. She filched her phone from her fleece pocket to see how long she’d been here, and was dismayed to find it was only a couple of minutes.Sweat chilling on her body, Hazel dragged herself up the Track, which grew ever more uneven and rugged. Only after what seemed much longer than fifteen minutes, closer to half an hour maybe, did it at last level out again, and diverged into two distinct routes. The left-hand route continued ahead, still rising slowly into the Pikes, but from this point only as the narrowest of footpaths. The right-hand route remained broad enough for vehicle passage, just about, and led beneath the darkly woven branches of several firs, before crossing a low bridge into the rocky corrie where Fellstead Grange was located. In good weather, this was a stunningly beautiful spot. Fellstead Corrie was a natural amphitheatre in the hillside, its gentle slopes thick with bracken, gorse and springy heather, and ascending on all sides to high, ice-carved ridges. The farmhouse itself stood close to a bubbling pool at the foot of a cataract, which poured from the dizzying heights of High White Stones like a helter-skelter. At its rear there was a network of allotments, greenhouses (mostly dingy with mould and filled with brambles), decrepit barns and sheds which all belonged to Annie, and swathes of overgrown pasture for which there were now no animals to graze upon. The building, which was early eighteenth-century in origin, was large and sprawling, comprising various wings and gables, and built from solid Lakeland stone with a roof of Westmorland slate. Spruced up, it would be magnificent, and in a location like this it would make a superb country house or holiday inn. But in its current state of semi-dereliction, it was an eyesore. Both the walls and roof were crabbed with lichen, the rotted iron gutters stuffed with mosses and bird’s nests. But of course, none of this dilapidation was visible at present.  With the basket over her left wrist and the shotgun cradled under her right arm, Hazel felt her way across the rickety bridge. Fellstead Beck gurgled past underneath, having circled around the farm from the waterfall plunge-pool. A few dozen yards to her right somewhere, it dropped down a narrow gully into the lower valley, eventually at some point – Hazel wasn’t sure exactly where – flowing into the tarn.On the other side of the bridge, beyond a pair of moss-clad gateposts, she entered the farmyard proper, her feet clipping on aged paving stones as she approached the darkened structure just vaguely visible in the fog. When she halted again, the only sound was the distant rushing of water. Meanwhile, not a single light shone from the eerie edifice. In the icy murk, it resembled an abandoned Viking long-hall; the remnant of some Nordic nightmare rather than a family home. Disconcertingly, the darkness beyond its windows seemed even darker than the darkness outside. Annie Beckwith had no electricity, no gas … but surely she would keep a fire in her living room? Didn’t she even have candles?Hazel checked her phone again. It was now after seven-forty. Too early even for Annie Beckwith to go to bed. She approached the front door. If the old lady was sleeping, Hazel didn’t like the idea of disturbing her. But she’d not come all this way to turn back without at least trying to make contact. She knocked several times on the warped, scabby wood. There was no thunderous echo inside; the door was too thick and heavy. Likewise, there was no reply.Hazel tried again – the same. She fumbled for the handle, a corroded iron ring, which, when she twisted it, turned easily. There was a clunk as the latch was disengaged on the other side, and the door creaked open an inch. To open it the rest of the way, she had to put her shoulder against it, grating it inward over the stone floor.This was also a tad discomforting. It wasn’t common practise for folk in this part of the world to keep their doors permanently locked, but surely a lone OAP like Annie would do so at night, especially living all the way out here? ‘Hello!’ Hazel called into the blackness.Again, there was no response.She sidled through, unbidden, and was hit with an eye-watering stench, the combined aromas of grime, mildew and decay.Hazel shone her torch around the room, which was so cluttered with broken and dingy furniture that it was more like a lock-up crammed with rubbish than an actual living space. Dust furred everything, so that colours – the fabrics in the upholstery and lampshades and the many drapes and curtains – were indiscernible, each item a uniform grey-brown. And yet, evidence of the fine old farmhouse this had once been was still there. The fireplace was a broad stone hearth, elaborately carved around its edges with vines and animals, though currently filled with cinders, burnt fragments of feathers and what looked like chicken bones. The mantel above was a huge affair, again constructed from Lakeland stone and heavily corniced, and yet dangling with tendrils of wax from the multiple melted candles on top of it. A mirror was placed above the mantel, so old and tarnished that only cloudy vagueness was reflected there. Ancient sepia photographs hung in cracked, lopsided frames, the faces they depicted lost beneath films of dirt. These added to the house’s melancholy air, but also created the eerie sensation that eyes were upon her. Hazel turned sharply a couple of times, imagining there was someone hidden in a corner whom she hadn’t previously noticed, perhaps peering out through one of those veils of dust-web, eyes bloodshot, yellow peg teeth fixed in a limpid, deranged grin.‘For God’s sake, woman, what’s the matter with you?’ she said to herself in a tight voice. Her and her bloody imagination. ‘Annie?’ she called out. ‘Annie, it’s Hazel Carter! You know, from The Witch’s Kettle!’There was no answer, but her voice echoed in various parts of the house. Immediately on her left, an arched doorway led into a passage that Hazel thought connected with the kitchen and dining room, but the blackness down there was so thick it was almost tangible. She ignored it, moving into the centre of the lounge, only to freeze at a skittering, rustling sound. She turned, just as a whip-like tail vanished beneath the web-shrouded hulk of an age-old Welsh dresser. Hazel had to fight down a pang of revulsion. The place was clearly unfit for human habitation as it was, but if it was crawling with rats as well …A furry, grey body scuttled along the mantle, casting a huge, amorphous shadow as she followed it with her torch. Stubs of candles went flying to the floor, their ceramic holders shattering. The rat leapt after them and moved in a blur of speed down the passage towards the kitchen.There was no question, Hazel decided – they had to get the social services onto this. Annie would hate them for it, but what choice did they have?But this was assuming Annie was still alive. At least there was no sign of forced entry, or that there’d been any kind of struggle in here. Not, if Hazel was totally honest, that it would be easy to tell.Hazel glanced at the brown-stained ceiling, realising with a sense of deep oppression that she had yet to check the upstairs. So unwilling that it was difficult to set her legs in motion, she advanced across the room to a square entry in the facing wall which led to other rooms, as well as the foot of the main stair. She approached it and gazed up. Even without fog, the darkness at the top was impermeable. It seemed to absorb the glow of her torch rather than retreat from it. Hazel hesitated before placing the basket of food on a side-table and, with shotgun levelled in one hand and torch extended in the other, slowly ascended. The hair was stiff on her scalp. It was actually a terrible thing she was doing here; she’d entered someone’s home uninvited, and was now processing from one area to the next with a loaded firearm. But she couldn’t leave. She’d called out and no one had responded, and with the house unlocked, implying someone was at home, she knew there was some kind of problem here. The temptation to call again was strong, but now some basic instinct advised her that stealth was a better option. Hazel reached the top of the staircase. The landing was all cobwebs, bare floorboards and plaster walls, the plaster so damp and dirty that it was falling away in chunks, revealing bone-like lathes underneath. Various doorways opened off it. The doorway to the room that Hazel thought Annie might use as a bedroom was at the end of a short passage on the left. When she directed her torch in that direction, the door was partly open, more blackness lurking on the other side. Someone could easily be waiting in there, watching her, and she wouldn’t see them from here.Despite this, Hazel trod slowly forward, only halting when she was right in front of it. Even close up, the room was hidden from view. There was insufficient space between the door and its jamb for her torch to illuminate anything beyond. But now there was something else too – a faint but rather fetid smell, like open drains. Hazel knew she was going to have to say something. It wasn’t the done thing to barge unannounced into someone’s private room, especially with a gun, not even if you were concerned for their wellbeing. Steeling herself in the face of an urge to hurry back downstairs and leave the building, she spoke loudly and clearly. ‘Annie? Are you alright in there? It’s Hazel Carter … you know, from The Witch’s Kettle down in Cragwood Keld.’Again there was a response, but the silence was beyond creepy. It was intense, weird; a listening silence. Despite every molecule in her body telling her to flee this odious place, Hazel propelled herself forward, pushing against the door, and as it swung open, entered with torch in one hand and shotgun balanced over the top of it. What she saw in there had her blinking with shock.And then screeching with horror …
*
If you want to read any more, I guess you know what you’ve got to do.  DEAD MAN WALKING  will be available at all the usual outlets from first thing Thursday morning.
On the subject of the new novel, I recently wrote a piece for  BLINKBOX  (the Tesco retail site, which focusses on movies and books), describing some my own experiences as a police officer and assessing how many of them have made it into my fiction, and it’s now appeared  HERE .
BLINKBOX are currently running a competition on their  TWITTER  page, with the prize a one-off proof copy of the book, in which HarperCollins will have added an extra page, allowing the winner to dedicate it to a person of his/her choice.

A very nice idea, I think - a different kind of Christmas prezzie maybe? Anyway, you've got to be in it to win it, so if you fancy having a go, the competition is still running - it only expires at 5pm on Monday November 24. But as I say, you'll need to do it via the BLINKBOX TWITTER page. Best of luck if you have a go.

Tis nearly the season to be jolly well scared

I’m happy to report that my Christmas e-collection, IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER is now available to purchase. All one needs to do is follow the link.

I put this lot together especially for release this Christmas. It contains five festive terror tales, and to whet your whistles, so to speak - assuming you enjoy the occasional seasonal chiller - here is a sample from each one:
Arrayed along its sill there was snowman jazz band, each figure about a foot tall, all with the usual carrot noses and brass button eyes, but also wearing boaters and striped blazers; one carried a banjo, the other a saxophone, while the third was seated behind a drum kit. It was true, Tookey reflected. Anyone who could afford all this could afford to miss out on a few presents. "Tookey, move your arse, yeah!" Spazzer said. Tookey made to go over and join him, but glanced first at the snowman jazz band, all of whose heads were turned towards him. He felt certain they hadn’t been that way a minute ago.… from The Christmas Toys


Arthur had to slam the brakes on, sending the car into a ten-metre skid (thank God they'd only been crawling). When they stopped, he stared blankly at the road ahead. It appeared to fork. Faintly visible through the swirls of snowflakes, two minor tracks led off in opposite directions. There was no signpost on view.  
Puzzled, he dug into the glove compartment to check the map. But unfortunately it was now too dark inside the car to read the wretched thing. When he put the interior light on, it affected little more than a dull glow, and his eyes weren't up to the rigors of scanning a crumpled, coffee-stained page on which the roads were squiggles and the names of the few settlements in this region printed so small that they'd be difficult to pick out with a magnifying glass. Arthur glanced through the window again. Whiteout conditions persisted, and night was now falling properly.... from The Faerie


It was only a little better on the next floor, where dim bulbs revealed another long passage, large patches of naked brick exposed where the plaster had rotted away. He regarded its numerous doorways helplessly; some were closed, some open. None gave any clue as to whether he’d find a bed inside them, though clearly there was someone else up here – because a whistling 'smack', the sound of a short, sharp impact, sounded from somewhere close by. Several more such impacts sounded at regular intervals, and Capstick almost blundered over the edge of another staircase, even narrower, darker and steeper than the first – the ‘back staircase’ he supposed – before he finally traced their source to the door at the landing’s farthest, dimmest end. When he pushed this one open, frigid streetlight filtering through a tall window revealed what looked like a long-disused schoolroom …… from Midnight Service


Much of the varnish was now dirty and yellowed, but through it the deeply-troubled visage of Hugh Holker was still visible; an elderly man with sagging jowls, a heavily furrowed brow and thick grey tufts for sideburns. Phil had been in to look at the picture several times already, and still found it compelling. The artist had depicted Holker leaning forward on his fist, in a posture of dignified contemplation, but had etched despair and even fear into the final composition. The old industrialist’s eyes bore a stark quality, as if some ghastly apparition had just materialised before him. In the background meanwhile there were indistinct mist-forms, swirls and eddies of smoke or fog, which might have had more to do with the picture’s age than the artist’s intent, but which were ominously obscure all the same.… from The Mummers


... of all the Father Christmases Ruth had ever seen – and some of them had been pretty odious (bored pensioners in cheap department store grottoes, drunks in fancy dress fighting in town centres) – there was something especially sinister about this one: in particular his face, or rather his lack of face. The dense red beard was attached to a papier-mâché mask. Whoever had made it, had tried their best to fulfill the Christmas fantasy: the fat, apple-red cheeks; the large, bent nose; the bushy eyebrows; the broad, grinning mouth. But putting all these together, there was something about it that wasn’t quite right. Possibly the eyes. These were holes through which the person beneath could look, but to Ruth they were empty sockets, menacing slits with only darkness behind them.… from The Killing Ground
As long as I’ve been writing scary stories, I’ve put pen to paper around autumn time, as the Christmas spirit began slowly to grow on me, to create what I hoped would be festive spook fare. I now have many such tales in my locker, most of which have already been published in one shape or another, though several others still sit on the drawing board in an as yet undeveloped state – so I’m hopeful there will be more to follow.
This is an old custom, of course, possibly made most famous by MR James (pictured above) during his famous Christmas Eve readings at King’s College, though it predates that considerably. Even in the pre-Christian era, the midwinter festival was traditionally the time for ceremonial gatherings and instructive stories, people grouping nervously around blazing fires as the ice and darkness swallowed the world they knew – not just for safety and company, but for spiritual strength, seeking to commune with their gods and spirits, and interact with deceased ancestors who might bring advice or warnings from beyond.
Many modern horror writers have willingly tapped into the magic and mystery of the Christmas season. I mean, anyone who fancies having a go at this, me included, is in excellent company to say the very least.

Some of my favourite horrific and supernatural tales have been set at this splendid time of year. Robert Bloch’s THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Stephen Gallagher’s TO DANCE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON, Lanyon Jones’s A DICKENSIAN CHRISTMAS, Anton Chekov’s THE CROOKED MIRROR and Ramsey Campbell’s two unforgettable excursions into yuletide horror, THE CHIMNEY and THE DECORATIONS, are among the very best, while Charles Dickens’s THE SIGNAL-MAN and Sheridan Le Fanu’s SCHALKEN THE PAINTER, while not specifically set at Christmas, are traditionally dusted off each December thanks firstly to the former being first published in the Christmas edition of ALL THE YEAR ROUND in 1866, but mainly to the marvelous BBC television adaptations of these tales as 'Ghost Stories for Christmas' way back in 1976 and 1979 respectively (I purloined the tortured face higher up on the left from the latter).

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On a slightly different note, this week I was the happy recipient of DEAD MAN WALKING , the fourth novel in my DS Heckenbug series. These are my own author copies, I have to say … the title still only gets published in its complete form on November 20.

(By the way, pictured just below here, is the cover image of DIE JAGD , which is the German version of a short story of mine, THE CHASE , first published as an ebook by Harper last year).
It’s early days yet of course, but thus far  DEAD MAN WALKING has largely acquired five-star reviews on GOODREADS (sorry – just thought I’d drop that in). But just to prove that the work never stops at this end, the next novel in the Heck series, HUNTED (due to be published on May 7th next year), left my keyboard last Friday afternoon, having been written and proofed. It now commences the trek around the HarperCollins copyediting desks. What can I say except that I await its return with baited breath.

The blizzard pic used much further up is by Tony-DarkGrave.

Ahh, the Lake District - so lovely, so lethal!

Writers are often asked where they get their inspiration from. It's a time-honoured question which crops up again and again. And yet there is never an easy answer. In my own case, there are lots of different sources: other works of literature, movies, plays, historical events, myths, people I know, incidents that befell them, incidents that have befallen me.
But also … places. We all have our own special place, I think. Somewhere we can kick back and relax, but by the same token where the creative juices really flow (every writer I know will tell you that he/she is never really off duty), where the influence of the environment is hugely beneficial to your thought processes.
In my case, if you haven’t already guessed – it’s the Lake District in northwest England.

This is not just the place where my wife, Cathy was born, or the venue for countless happy family holidays going back to my earliest years, it’s also one of the most beautiful landscapes on Earth and one of England’s wildest. In addition it is riddled with folklore and legend (hence this very famous old book on the right, by Gerald Findler).
All my tick-boxes can be found in the Lake District.
So perhaps it was only a matter of time before Mark Heckenburg found his way there. For anyone who doesn’t know, DS Heckenburg, or Heck, is my current police hero, and the star character in four novels: STALKERS , SACRIFICE , THE KILLING CLUB and due out next month, DEAD MAN WALKING (the imaginative press package for which is pictured at the top of this column). 

And it’s the latter of these that concerns us today, because though it starts out in Devon, on Dartmoor – another idyllic National Park here in England –  DEAD MAN WALKING  very quickly transports us north to the Lake District, 885 square miles of mountains, lakes, windswept moors and fathomless forests.
While the Lakes can literally be a paradise on Earth in summer, in the deep autumn, particularly a late-November thick with frost and murky with mist, the endless woods and fells can suddenly feel lonely, desolate, cold; even life-threatening. 


And let’s make no bones about it; lives will be under threat in this book, because Heck, now marooned in the Lake District after the tumultuous events at the end of THE KILLING CLUB , finds himself isolated by these conditions and at the same time grappling with a series of ghastly murders, which may be the work of a truly monstrous killer long thought dead …
But enough of that, the purpose of this blogpost is not to snitch spoilers about the new book. It’s to introduce some of the real life locations I use in it, even though in the actual text they are transported to other corners of the Lake District and are given fictional names.

Above, you see one of my favourite places on the entire planet, the Lodore Falls, which pour down from the dizzy heights of the Shepherd’s Crag into Derwentwater, and in full flood, as shown here, are one of the most spectacular sights in the north of England.
Think you could take a boat down there?
Would you fancy trying it if your life depended on it?
In  DEAD MAN WALKING  we have the Cragwood Race. If you ever need to picture what it looks like, or where the idea came from, look no further than the image overhead.
Witch Cradle Tarn doesn’t exist in real life, even though in  DEAD MAN WALKING  it is high in the Langdale Pikes: a small, secluded lake popular with walkers and climbers but quiet for much of the year. It is very deep and very dark, and hemmed on its east side by the rugged scree-cluttered skirts of Fiend’s Fell and a few sparse fringes of pinewood. Check out Buttermere here, the original model for this fictional place, a famously pristine and yet eerily still and mysterious body of water.

The shot below is one which sadly I can’t claim as my own. I’ve no idea who took this atmospheric pic. I found it floating around on the internet. If the original photographer would like to get in touch, I’ll happily credit him/her, or if he/she is so inclined, will take it down. I think it depicts one of the quarry paths above the colossal Honister Pass. 

But whatever it is, here is the origin of the ominous Cradle Track, which hopefully will loom large and menacing in your mind before you’re halfway through  DEAD MAN WALKING .
… for some reason Hazel could never fathom, climbers and fell-walkers traversing this route in the past had chosen particularly hefty shards of slate, some of them three or four feet in length, and had then used smaller pieces to prop them upright on both sides of the path – usually every hundred yards or so. What they were supposed to be – distance-markers, or even some variety of crude outdoor art – she never knew, but the illusion they created was of gravestones. Or, if one of the largest ones, some were maybe as tall as five or six feet, suddenly loomed from the fog, of malformed figures standing close by.
On the subject of the Honister Pass, I did shoot this next one, which portrays the road leading down from the top of the pass to Gatesgarth. It’s not the kind of road you’d like to drive hell for leather along, particularly if you were chasing someone, but that never usually stops Heck. Here’s a tip, if you read the book think of this one when you think of Cragwood Road.
That said, the new book isn’t all high melodrama; we aren’t constantly concerned here with soaring rocks and tumbling whitewater. Cragwood Vale, otherwise known as ‘the Cradle’, is like so many locations in the Lake District: danger may lurk in its vicinity but it’s never less than stunningly picturesque. In real life, the Lake District valley I based it on was this one, Borrowdale, a place of dreams.
Of course, a holiday is only ever as good as your billet. The preferred option for my family has often been the LODORE HOTEL (pictured left). I first stayed here as a child in 1967, and we’ve been going back ever since. No, I’m not going to tell you The Lodore appears in  DEAD MAN WALKING ; Cragwood Vale isn’t quite so grand (though it has a belting pub in The Witch’s Kettle, and I'm sure that boat club looks familiar), but this hotel has influenced me in other writerly ways.
It was here in the early 1970s, where I spent one particular family holiday that has become a landmark in my life. You see that comfortable lounge on the right? Well, it was once the Lodore shop.
I know … astonishing, isn’t it? That’s the kind of quirky thing country hotels did back in those days; they offered quality stuff for sale on their own premises. This particular shop sold Lakeland crafts (obviously), but also books. And not just map-books or guides to the fells. It sold anthologies, and wait for this because it gets even better … it sold horror anthologies.
I know what you’re thinking. Was this place real, or a glimpse of Heaven?

Anyway, it was in this very shop where I bought my first Pan Horror (vols 8-16, if my faded memory serves). But not only that, it sold all 10 volumes of the original TALES OF TERROR series, as edited by the late great R. Chetwynd-Hayes for Mary Danby at Fontana.
Again, memory fades a little, but I think the four I was able to afford at the time were Welsh Tales of Wales, Scottish Tales of Terror, Irish Tales of Terror and Cornish Tales of Terror. With their distinctive artwork, their high quality and yet unbelievably scary stories penned by such master and mistresses of dark fiction as Arthur Machen, Sean O’Casey, Dorothy K. Haynes and Daphne du Maurier, and their insistence on interspersing these fictional tales with snippets of real, genuinely spooky folklore – all with an aggressively local flavour, these books made an indelible impression on me.
There and then, long before I knew I wanted to be an author, I knew I had to do something like this. Evening after evening rolled past during that best holiday ever, and while the older members of my extensive family all got uproariously drunk in the hotel’s excellent restaurant, and then the bar and lounge, I was quite content to sit by the fireplace in that little nook next to the shop, and read my Tales Of Terror, absolutely convinced (though uncertain why) that at some point in the future I was going to revisit this theme, but not confine it to 10 titles, in fact to do as many as possible, covering the whole of the British Isles and maybe beyond.
Thanks to GRAY FRIAR PRESS , I’ve now edited seven volumes in my own TERROR TALES series, but it’s surely no surprise that the very first, published in 2011, was TERROR TALES OF THE LAKE DISTRICT .

Waiting for another Deep, Dark December

Here's something that may be of interest to fans of festive ghost and horror stories. IN A DEEP, DARK DECEMBER will be my Christmas e-offering later this year. This is just an early heads-up because though the book is finished, it isn't available even for pre-order at this stage. It's a collection of five festive chillers, all reprints though most will be new to many readers, all with a strong flavour of Christmas (but not too much good cheer, I hasten to add). We're aiming to have this one available for download via Amazon hopefully from mid-November onwards, but keep checking this space, where I'll post regular progress reports. The awesome cover is by the ever reliable NEIL WILLIAMS . For those interested, the stories contained therein comprise the following:
The Christmas Toys:  Two Christmas Eve burglars discover the dark side of the festive spirit …
Midnight Service:  A marooned Christmas traveller seeks refuge in the town’s old workhouse …
The Mummers:  A seasonal revenge plot doesn’t take account of a mysterious Yuletide troupe …
The Faerie:  Fleeing his tyrannical wife, a nervous man gets lost in a fearsome December blizzard …
The Killing Ground:  Man and wife PIs take a Christmas break to protect a movie star and his family from the cannibal fiend believed to haunt their new country estate …
On the subject of short, scary stories, I can happily announce that the latest paperback in our TERROR TALES  range, TERROR TALES OF YORKSHIRE is now available for order. You can have it for £8.99 either from AMAZON or from GRAY FRIAR PRESS themselves.

For those new to this series, chilling and inexplicable real-life incidents are interspersed with original works of terrifying Yorkshire fiction from such horror luminaries as Mark Morris, Stephen Laws, Alison Littlewood, Simon Clark and Mark Chadbourn.
And as a little extra treat in the midst of another drab, grey October, here is a quick appetiser for the next book in the Terror Tales series, TERROR TALES OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, which will be out next spring. Again, keep checking in.
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Now for something slightly different. My next Heck novel, DEAD MAN WALKING , is due for publication next month, and there is quite a bit of chat online about it. Therefore, this might be an appropriate time to resurrect another guest-blog I wrote at the time of the last Heck novel's publication - which was THE KILLING CLUB , last May. 
The piece below originally appeared on the blog, CRIME THRILLER GIRL , and was penned in response to questions about the influences in my career to date and my favourite other authors, novels etc. Hope you find it an interesting read: 
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It would be very easy, I suppose, to respond to the question which books have you read that were most influential on your career, and, given that my own most successful novels are intense murder investigations, simply reel off all the great thriller writers. 
It would of course be untrue to say that I haven’t been influenced by other thriller novelists. Stuart MacBride, Mark Billingham, Peter James, Kathy Reichs and Katia Liefare all staggeringly high in my estimation. But I don’t just read within my own genre, and I think it would be an interesting exercise to perhaps consider those other types of books that have blown me away, set me on my current career path, whatever you want to call it.
It’s no secret that, before I began writing my DS Heckenburg thrillers, I dabbled widely in the fields of horror and fantasy. And this wasn’t just during my formative years as a writer, my kindergarten if you like; I wrote lots of this kind of stuff, and still do. I also read in this field enormously. But it’s fascinating now, on reflection, how much these apparently unrelated interests have influenced my DS Heckenburg novels.
For example, THE WOLFEN by Whitley Strieber (pub. 1978) presents us with two tired New York detectives, a man and a woman, investigating the murder and apparent cannibalisation of hobos in the city’s underbelly, and soon reaching the conclusion the perpetrators are not humans, but a highly intelligent werewolf pack.
Now, I suppose there are obvious links here with ‘Heck’: a gang of vicious and relentless killers, a lovelorn boy and girl cop team, and so on. But I think it’s the seamy side of the average detective’s working day that most caught my eye about this striking novel. Strieberreally takes us to the backside of New York, the subways and ghettos and derelict lots, and peoples them with hookers, winos and druggies. My own experience as a real life cop taught me these are the places you need to go if you want to catch some bad guys, but here we go way beyond the everyday grim, delving into the world of the true urban gothic: it’s a nightmare landscape, beautifully and poetically described, and yet at the same time filled with such palpable menace that even hardboiled detectives are unnerved.
I make a point of never taking my own crime thrillers into such realms of overt fantasy, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t try to invoke similar feelings of dread and weirdness in the dark heart of the city.
Another relevant horror novel is surely LEGIONby William Peter Blatty (pub. 1983). This is a totally different kind of police story. Again, it follows a time-served detective investigating a series of sadistic murders, though in this case he’s dealing with Satanic ritual. It’s a much subtler tale, ripe with a sense of ancient mystery and slow-burning evil (and that would be realevil, of the distinctly inhuman variety). Yet for all this, the point where LEGION really kicks in is the deep assessment the hero, Lt. Kinderman, constantly makes of himself, examining his own beliefs or unbeliefs, puzzling as to why he exposes himself to this depravity time and again, bleeding inside for the victims. Not exactly Heck, who’s never been much of a philosopher, but the longer you work as a homicide cop, the more you’re going to confront yourself with these issues. There is some really deep character work here by Blatty, which you can’t help but admire.

Moving from horror into science fiction and fantasy, there are two other titles I’d like to mention. 
The first of these contains the most obvious link to those matters I’ve mentioned previously. It is Philip K. Dick’s sci-fi masterwork, DO ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC SHEEP (pub. 1968). Most folk will know this as the movie, BLADE RUNNER, but though there are some similarities, the book goes way beyond the limited scope of a Hollywood adaptation. In Rick Deckard, another dogged man-hunter and, thanks to his wife’s depression, a sad loner, working his way through a world gone mad and yet adding to it with his own role, which conflicts him deeply, there is genuine pathos. The movie, of course, had a strong noirish feel – it was almost Chandleresque – which is not prevalent in the book, but the strong central character is still a great blueprint for the fictional lone-wolf detective. For me, heroes always need to be vulnerable: stricken by self-doubt, and with enemies on all sides, some of whom they thought were friends. I’ve never had much time for men of steel, undefeatable icons of hunky machismo, like Superman or Batman. If I took anything from DO ANDROIDS DREAM … it had to be that deep introspection, that guilt, that conscience. It makes our heroes so much more interesting. 
On that same subject, the fantasy novel I’d like to nominate is GRENDEL by John Gardner (pub. 1971). I guess we’re all familiar with the tale of Beowulf, the Viking warrior, and his defence of the hall of Heorot against the ravages of the faceless devil, Grendel, who for no reason other than twisted pleasure, came nightly to slaughter the innocent.
As I say, I’m not big on superhero stories. I loved BEOWULF as a kid – it was probably the first spooky tale my late father told me – but as I grew up, I found the monster more interesting. I mean, let’s not kid ourselves, Grendel is the prototype serial killer. So in many ways, GRENDEL the novel takes us to the other end of the crime thriller spectrum, Gardner depicting his antihero first as an abused and lonely child, later showing him suffer rejection by those he sought to befriend, and finally having him retaliate with homicidal fury, which at last introduces him to a lifestyle of his liking – if he can’t have everyone’s love, he’ll have their terror. There isn’t as much Norse myth woven into this novel as you might expect. Instead Gardner gives us philosophy, social commentary and, a decade before the FBI commenced offender profiling, the psychology of the reviled. Talk about streets ahead of the game. Of course, we all know what happens at the end of BEOWULF, and it’s the same in GRENDEL, so don’t expect any surprises – apart from the dark joy this narrative will elicit as it works its way through the tormented mind and hideous satisfactions of a creature driven solely to hate.
It’s a strange thing that we think we know ourselves so well, our thoughts, interests and aspirations. And yet clearly there are many subliminal strata to our thinking. Even as I wrote this blog, it became more apparent to me how relevant to my current writing so many of these themes explored by earlier authors actually are. I won’t go over them again, because I think they speak for themselves – they certainly will, I hope, if you get the chance to read any of my DS Heckenburg thrillers, STALKERS , SACRIFICE or, most recently, THE KILLING CLUB . On which note, I suspect it’s a good time to end this monologue. Whichever way you go, please enjoy your reading and writing. There are no finer pleasures.

How to create terror, tension and suspense

Here's an item I wrote for my blog tour last spring, in anticipation of THE KILLING CLUB's imminent publication. I can't quite remember now which site it appeared on, but for this article I was specifically asked to offer tips to writers looking to create tension, terror, suspense, etc. A few months have gone since then, but hopefully this advice, such as it is, will still be of some use (plus DEAD MAN WALKING is due to hit the shelves next month, so with luck this will be a timely retread). If anyone hasn't already read this piece, it might be of interest:
One of the things my thriller writing has won most praise for is its creation of terror and suspense. If true, this obviously works in my favour: I’m a career writer, thrillers are my forte, and thrillers wouldn’t be thrillers if they weren’t able to keep their audiences on the edges of their seats.But how do you go about doing this? How do you make your readers too frightened to turn the page but at the same time desperate to know what happens next?Well … I can only respond by outlining my own experience and process. The reality is that, as with any mood a writer is seeking to evoke – be it romance, mystery, comedy – you need to work on it thoughtfully, and construct it with attention to detail. Sometimes of course you get lucky and stumble on scenarios that are tense and frightening simply because they are. But most of the time it doesn’t work like that. You’ve got to remember that your readers aren’t privy to your innermost fears and doubts, so a lot of the time situations you happen to find discomforting won’t have the same effect on them; it’s basically about leaving nothing to chance - the masters of the form never do.Stephen King’s chilling short story, The Ledge, tells the tale of an ordinary man who falls foul of the mob and is forced to walk around the exterior of a skyscraper penthouse along a seven-inch shelf. It’s a nightmare scenario by any standards, but King works it for everything he can, page after page, ensuring we are with this guy each foot of the way, experiencing his every near-slip, his every stab of pain as pigeons peck at his ankles.For the sheer stress it puts the reader through, this is one of the great pieces of thriller fiction. It is literally exhausting to read it. But what are the ingredients of successful scenes like this? Well, there are four essential boxes I always feel I need to tick.
Character.Threat.Situation.Atmosphere.
In terms of character, it’s never going to work if the readers don’t like your protagonist. By that, I don’t mean you have to like them, as in make them someone you’d enjoy going on a dinner date with. You can be repelled by them; they can be thoroughly objectionable. But they’ve got to be real, someone whose personality and motivations are clear and accessible, otherwise it won’t be possible for the reader to invest emotionally in their fate. Now, if the characters concerned are central figures in your book or script, this is probably going to happen anyway because you’ll have had plenty time to develop them. However, many characters in thriller and horror writing are short-lived. These are the victims, the guys in red shirts who always go down to the planet surface in the Star Trek landing party so they can serve the purpose of being killed while Kirk and Spock get away. Those faceless he-men in red shirts worked fine back in those days because it was all so new. Trust me, it wouldn’t be so effective now – audiences are more sophisticated.If your character is to be short-lived, a victim just waiting to get the chop, you’ve still got to give him or her a back-story. I don’t mean you should overload it chapter on chapter, but take a little time to give us a glimpse of their humanity. They may have a spouse waiting for them, they may have kids at home, they may be struggling at work, or to find work – above all, they have feelings, they can be hurt. All this makes them much easier to sympathise with and root for.

And they don’t have to be overtly vulnerable. A confused OAP or a lost child will always win your readers’ vote; it’s easy to fear for them. But look at John Boorman’s movie, Deliverance, in which the heroes were four red-blooded guys on an outdoors adventure, and yet we got to know them so well that we empathised with them hugely as they fought desperately for survival.(And this is another thing. Don’t be frightened to strip your characters down to their raw emotions. Think of the impact the opening scene in Jaws had, when the poor lass, whilst under attack by the shark, screamed hoarsely for God to help her. It’s a tragic and frightening scene even today, the sight of this modern, free-spirited girl plunged into this nightmare of nightmares from which she instinctively knows there’ll be no escape – don’t be afraid to upset your readers; that’s what they’ve bought your book for).
With regard to threat, this will be the keystone of your thriller anyway. I’m not here to tell you how to create a great villain; that’s an art-form in itself. And you certainly won’t need me to advise you about scenarios of indescribable horror; they are around us all day, on news bulletins. I will say this – whether your threat be a person, an animal, a supernatural entity, or an everyday predicament – you can’t make it too terrible.Remember how this works. You’re asking your readers to follow these characters they now know and love, as they walk unwittingly into peril. 

The readers, of course, will have an idea what’s going to happen because you’ve prepared the ground for them, but shout and scream though they may, the characters can’t hear them. And yet this intense experience is only going to occur if the menace is real and tangible. So for example, in Susan Hill’s The Woman In Black (the British TV version of which is pictured right), if Arthur Kipps was being forced to spend time alone at Eel Marsh House and there was lots of mist around and he felt very isolated – sure, it would be spooky. But how much more spooky is it when the audience know in advance that this house is the abode of a hateful spirit that will seek to destroy him?Yet, while I say don’t be shy about making your threat monstrous, that doesn’t mean you can’t be subtle as well. In fact, subtlety can raise the stakes dramatically – and this lesson goes back to the earliest days of thriller writing. In the poem Beowulf, which dates to the 6th century, the monster Grendel is never physically described; it is simply an unstoppable something that comes out of the darkness, and on one occasion leaves 30 butchered victims. That you don’t know what it looks like – in other words you can’t mentally quantify the nature of the menace, despite the carnage it leaves behind – is all the more terrifying. And there are myriad examples of this in modern times, from the classic opening 30 minutes of the sci-fi horror Them! in 1954, when we’ve no idea what murdered the family in the camper fan and left the little girl deranged, to the modern serial killer thriller, Se7en(1995) when the detectives battle haplessly with a faceless madman who is always streets ahead of them. Conversely, in Thomas Harris’s Hannibal novels, we know full well what Hannibal Lector looks like and who he is, but his urbane charm is utterly disorienting – this smiling villain is surely too nice to be capable of such horrors, yet we know from the outset that he isn’t. With a simple look across the dinner table, this guy can freeze the blood.To sum up, your menace doesn’t have to come in shouting and roaring – you don’t even have to see it – but it has to be immense. Believe me, your readership can take as much as you can give them, and will thank you all the more for it.
The next tick-box is situation. That may sound as if it speaks for itself. But the important element here is believability. To a certain extent, this may already by driven by one of our previous criteria: character. If the readers empathise with your characters you can get away with almost anything. Dr Who is a great example. The Doctor visits the most outlandish locations and faces scenarios which, even in sci-fi terms, verge on the completely ridiculous, yet the audience has bought so much into his character that even the most unlikely threats seem plausible. That said, an audience’s familiarity with an environment will never hurt. One of our great crime novels, Jack’s Return Home, by Ted Lewis, is set in Scunthorpe of all places, a working class town with which many British readers were easily able to identify, but in which the gangster-infested pool halls and massage parlours suddenly seemed a public nuisance rather than a common backdrop to urban life. When Mike Hodges adapted it as Get Carter! in 1971, he shifted it to the even more grimly picturesque city of Newcastle, and how effective was that? The land of tower blocks and dark Satanic mills – previously in British cinema the home of kitchen-sink dramas – was suddenly tailor-made for the crime thriller medium. However, it’s equally important that your characters are in these environments for convincing reasons. In Jack’s Return Home, Jack Carter is an underworld figure from the get-go, heading north to investigate the death of his brother, which brings him into direct conflict with the local firms. No British crime reader was going to query that.

In another British crime novel of that era, The Siege of Trencher’s Farm (later adapted by Sam Peckinpah as Straw Dogs, left), an intellectual couple in an isolated house on the scenic Cornish moors fall foul of a local mob when they seek to protect a sex-offender – that is a disturbingly realistic scenario, which is even more likely to happen in real life now than it was then. 

Not to labour this point, but I’m going to break one of my own rules now, and tell you something I think you shouldn’t do rather than something you should. Modern thriller narratives are traditionally filled with moments of idiocy by the characters, a device often used to move the plot along. For example, there’s a killer out there, so what do the characters do? – they split up. Or how about they hear strange and terrifying noises – and go and investigate. As I mentioned earlier, modern audiences are a bit too sophisticated for that, and if a situation is too unbelievable or contrived, it will result in sniggers rather than screams.So, by all means, put them in scary predicaments, but authenticity is, and always will be, the key to making your readers feel the danger themselves.
Lastly, but possibly most important of all, is atmosphere. And in some ways this is the hardest to pin down, because we tend to have preconceived notions about it. For example, a haunted house is only going to be scary if it has gargoyles on its eaves and cobwebs in its windows. A high crime district is only going to be believable if it has gang tags on its wall and syringes in the gutters. Okay, all that kind of window-dressing may be important, but I don’t think it’s essential. Let me give you two different examples. A pleasant coastal resort and the open road. Couldn’t be less threatening, right? Wrong.In Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man (1973), Summer Isle is a beautiful Scottish island with a picture postcard village around its harbour. But that doesn’t prevent you suspecting something awful is going to happen as various odd aspects of the place slowly emerge to invoke a sense of evil. 

In Richard Matheson’s breath-taking short story, Duel (as filmed by Stephen Spielberg, left), the setting is a sun-drenched motorway. Normal enough, except that this one is eerily empty – apart from our tired travelling salesman and the dirty old truck that unrelentingly teases and tortures him, in which scenario the sheer monotony of the long, deserted blacktop, the mere appearance of which saps hope and energy, becomes as much a foe as the maniac in the rear.So it’s not so much the locations, as how they look, feel, and pluck at the nerves of your embattled characters.A project relying on suspense will only benefit from an atmosphere that makes its protagonists feel vulnerable and oppresses the readers. In purely technical terms, there are lots of ways you can achieve this: geographically (a tiny army base at the North Pole; a beleaguered police station in the riot zone); meteorologically (snow, ice, fog); even architecturally (an urban ghetto full of faceless buildings and derelict subways, where the unseen attack could come from any direction). However you do it, the key is creating a sense of isolation, strangeness and menace, in which your characters feel small and insecure.
So, at the end of the day … is that it? Is that how do you evoke tension, fear, suspense?Sadly, no. These can only be basic guidelines. To write effective suspense, you’ve still got to tauten your narrative and bring pace to your prose. This is equally important to any of the above, if not more so. One quick way to achieve this is to read your finished scenes onto tape, and play them back. If they sound laborious and slow, that’s probably because they are – in which case don’t be frightened to wield the hatchet, slicing out every bit of text that doesn’t serve the purpose of creating tension. Save your lovely descriptions and your characters’ thought processes for parts of the book that don’t rely on nerve-shredding terror, because the last thing you want to do at that stage is slow it all down.
Just a few thoughts here. Not by any means the whole story, but one or two ideas which, on the whole, seem to work for me, and which others, with luck, will find useful and interesting.
Happy writing.

Witchcraft, woodland devils and a big loss

Quite a few bits and bobs to chat about this week.
I’m very happy to report that THE POPPET , a short story of mine, first published in 2012, has now been given the audio treatment by WHOLE STORY AUDIOBOOKS , as read by Jonathan Keeble, and can be purchased from Amazon, either as a freestanding CD (running time approx. one hour), or by download.
Anyway, here’s the official blurb from the back of it:

The story of the Cumbrian witches in the small village of Bleaberry Beck, is told in hushed tones and with a quiet reverence that speaks of superstition and fear. Richard Henderson, Medieval Studies student at Oxford University, couldn't be less intrigued. Picking up a 'poppet' from the village shop, he happily sets off home with this birthday present for his little sister. But the faceless wooden doll holds the secret to a chilling curse.
And here, for your delectation, is a quick snippet from the story itself:
Not a single doll in that shop-window – and I scanned it from top to bottom – had a face. And I don’t just mean that a face hadn’t been carved; I mean that it hadn’t even been drawn. Where their faces ought to be there were blank patches of shiny, varnished wood. Perhaps if I’d passed something like this in a city shop-window – maybe one or two such objects among a variety of other, friendlier-looking toys – it wouldn’t have struck me as strange. But on this occasion, because it was the whole story, I’d been quite taken aback – at least on first seeing it. But as I say, I’d had other things on my mind since then.“Maybe I won’t bother,” I said. “To be frank, they look a bit weird, these things.”“They’re supposed to be weird,” he replied.“What do you mean?”“Surely you’ve heard of ‘Poppets’ before?”“Funnily enough, I don’t buy dolls very often.”Purlock didn’t laugh, just pursed his lips. I got the feeling he’d been about to tell me something a little out of the ordinary, but suddenly lacked the heart for it. “That’s all it is really. A doll shop.”Doll shop or not, there was something unsettling about those flat, emotionless visages regarding me through the mullioned glass. “How can something that doesn’t have a face make you feel like it’s watching you?” I wondered.“It’s part of the superstition,” he said. “There’s a witchcraft angle, if you’re interested.”
WHOLE STORY are now perusing my back-catalogue of short stories and novellas, so hopefully other titles will follow in this range. This blog is most definitely the place to tune in if you want more info on that. I’ll upload it as and when.
In other news this week, I’ve recently been interviewed by Robert McNeil of THE GOTHIC IMAGINATION , which is part of the Stirling University website. It was a lengthy, wide-ranging chat, covering lots of subjects, from my film work to my HECK novels to my TERROR TALES anthology series. Those interested, please feel free to pop along and have a read.
On the subject of movies, I was excited to see that WAR WOLF , the historical horror movie I’ve written for AMBER ENTERTAINMENT , has now been moved onto their pre-production schedule. We’re still at the finance-raising stage as we speak, but the signs are all good, and some exceptional people are now involved. Check out the link for further info – WAR WOLF is the fifth title down on the slate – but for what it’s worth, it is set during the Hundred Years War, and concerns a band of semi-lawless English knights who arouse the ire of an unspeakable foe in the wild forested regions of central southern France.

I’ve also been a bit more active on the short story front of late. As you’re probably sick of hearing me say, I love writing short fiction, but there isn’t much time for it at present. However, that doesn’t mean there’s no time, and thankfully I’ve managed to crank out a couple of short stories recently.
KRAMPUS is a Christmas-themed horror story, which has appeared in issue #10 of the Kindle genre magazine, K ZINE. No spoilers on that one, but if you buy you won't be disappointed. There is some exceptional speculative fiction in there.
The second bit of short story news concerns my new Sherlock Holmes novella, THE MONSTER OF HELL-GATE, which will be included in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ABROAD , due to be published by Robinson next year (just be warned - the cover art posted here may not be the finished version, or even the same one that ends up being used). I must admit I had great fun with that one. Grisly murder mysteries on the wild, sun-bleached fringes of the Empire. What more could you ask for?
*
And now, sadly, I must depress the mood at little by reporting the death of that very fine author, Graham Joyce, who though he was only 59, passed away earlier this month after battling a long illness.
Graham, pictured right, was a personal friend of mine and something of a mentor. The very first time I attended a British Fantasy Society event in 1996, Graham was the first big name author to actually speak to me, and even though we’d only just met, he continued to chat with me throughout that weekend on the friendliest and most informal terms, a relationship we enjoyed ever after. Graham was an exquisite wordsmith, who though described as a fantasy author, always defied easy classification. He certainly wrote fantasy, but his gently philosophical work delved through the realms of mystery, science-fiction, magical realism and so forth, and was always instructive as well as hugely entertaining.
Together with Joel Lane, another Midlands-based author (and another good friend of mine), who we lost last year, Graham elevated genre fiction into the literary zone. He also produced a massive body of work, which if any of you haven’t yet discovered, you’d be well advised to go and look for. In fact, two masterly pieces of work, very illustrative of the talents that produced them, and perfect memorials in both cases, are Graham’s 25 YEARS IN THE WORD MINES , and Joel’s WHERE FURNACES BURN . If you don’t know the writing of Joel Lane and Graham Joyce, I urge you to seek these titles out as a start-point.
Both Joel and Graham will be massively missed, but at least, their talents live on in their amazing work, and that has to be something. 

A stranger stalks the night with evil intent

Here, for your delectation, is an exclusive first peek at the cover for the next Heck novel, DEAD MAN WALKING, which is published on November 20 this year.
In a nutshell, after the tumultuous events of the previous novel, THE KILLING CLUB , Detective Sergeant Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg is living in a kind of self-imposed exile in the quiet Lake District village of Cragwood Keld. He’s still a cop, he still investigates crime, now in the company of spirited sidekick PC Mary-Ellen O’Rourke. But life moves at a slower pace up here. Heck spends more time rounding up stray sheep than he does feeling the collars of violent criminals.
And then something terrible happens. One misty autumn night, two female hikers go missing on the nearby fells.
Not only that, they go missing in frightening and peculiar circumstances … circumstances that remind Heck discomfortingly of a serial murder case from many years ago, when a nameless, faceless phantom known as ‘the Stranger’ preyed on courting couples late at night, leaving a trail of 13 brutalised corpses.
But the Stranger is dead. Heck is sure about this. He even contacts Detective Superintendent Gemma Piper down at the Serial Crimes Unit at Scotland Yard, and she confirms it. The Stranger died over 10 years ago. Someone else must be responsible for this mysterious double-crime.  
Heck can’t help wondering, though ...
After all, they never actually found the Stranger’s body.
Suddenly Cragwood Keld and other high Lakeland villages feel very isolated and remote. And right on cue, the thickest, coldest fog in living memory descends on the Cumbrian mountains and valleys, bringing life to a standstill. DSU Piper, sufficiently concerned by Heck’s report that she makes the trip north, is one of the last people to arrive in the region before everything grinds to an abrupt halt.
And still this case won’t break. And increasingly, despite all logic to the contrary, Heck becomes convinced that the Stranger is back.
*
Okay, that’s the nitty-gritty of it. Here, for your further delectation, is an excerpt from the novel:

With such fears in the forefront of his mind, it was probably not the ideal time for him to spot the writing on the far wall of the boathouse interior. This only happened slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the deep gloom, but once the piece of crude graffiti had swum properly into view, he jumped to his feet.      Now that he was fully out of the water, it was bitterly cold. Ice felt as if it was forming inside his clothes, but fleetingly Heck was too distracted to notice that. He limped around the interior to the far pier, so he could examine it up close.
REMEMBER ME?
     There was no question about who’d written it or what it meant, though had Heck not been so cold already it would still have been numbing to see it in front of his face like this. In the dimness he was colour-blind, so though he didn’t immediately realise the sentence had been inscribed in blood, the idea struck him hard when he dabbed at it with a fingertip, and felt it both slimy and congealed …

Hopefully that will whet a few whistles. In case it didn’t, and completely gratuitously, let’s finish off now with the actual blurb from the back of the book:

Beware the stranger in the night…
Consigned to a remote valley in the Lake District, DS Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg is getting used to a quieter life – a far cry from the bloodbath of his former division, the Serial Crimes Unit. But wherever Heck goes, trouble is never far behind.
Unknown to Heck, ‘the Stranger’ has returned. Last seen on Dartmoor ten years earlier, this prolific serial killer has found a new home. As a dense, frozen mist descends on the Lakes, the Stranger returns to his old ways, starting with two young women lost high on the hills. Only one girl is ever found – barely alive – but able to confirm Heck’s worst fears.
As the Stranger lays siege to the remote community, Heck helplessly watches as the killer plays his cruel game, letting off his trademark call before viciously picking off his victims.
And with no way to get word out of the valley, Heck has no choice but to play ball…
Lock your doors and bar your windows. This is a thrilling, spine-chilling, nail-shredding book that will leave you scared to turn the lights out. Because when the mist descends, you never know who’s watching you …

Yorkshire blood and Green Men - all here!

I'm very pleased to announce the imminent arrival of the next volume in our TERROR TALES anthology series. This, as you can see from the image, is TERROR TALES OF YORKSHIRE. Okay, those among you with Lancastrian origins, like me, won't need reminding about that nightmarish land on t'uther side 'ut Pennines, but mysteriously not everyone will share that view, so I have now taken the responsibility on myself to show the rest of the country in no uncertain terms what we in the real God's country already know.

And what a joy it's been, as always ... working with some amazing writers, with the amazing artist, NEIL WILLIAMS , and the amazing publisher/author GARY FRY at GRAY FRIAR PRESS .

TERROR TALES OF YORKSHIRE (which can't be pre-ordered just yet, hence there's no link - but watch this space constantly), is the seventh in the TERROR TALES series to date. I find that incredible given we only started this ball rolling in 2011, and it's being brought out, as you'll probably realise, to coincide with this year's FANTASYCON , which is being held in York on September 5,6 and 7.

Anyway, enough of my gibberish for the moment. The front-cover image is above, while the full wrap is posted a few paragraphs down. So from here on, why don't I let the actual blurb do the talking:

Yorkshire – a rolling landscape of verdant dales and quaint country towns. But where industrial fires left hideous scars, forlorn ruins echo the shrieks of forgotten wars, and depraved killers evoke nightmare tales of ogres, trolls and wild moorland boggarts...
 The stalking devil of BoroughbridgeThe murder machine at HalifaxThe hooded horror of PontefractThe bloody meadow at TowtonThe black tunnel of RenfieldThe evil trickster of SpaldingtonThe shadow forms at Silverwood  And many more chilling tales by Alison Littlewood, Mark Morris, Stephen Laws, Simon Clark, Mark Chadbourn, and other award-winning masters and mistresses of the macabre.
If that doesn't whet your appetites sufficiently, hopefully the following Table of Contents will (as usual, the smaller non-fictional items are interspersed between the actual stories):

In October We Buried The Monsters by Simon Avery; The Decapitation Device; The Coat Off His Back by Keris McDonald; Haunting Memories of the Past; They Walk As Men by Mark Morris; The Yorkshire Witches; On Ilkley Moor by Alison Littlewood; The Black Monk of Pontefract; The Crawl by Stephen Laws; The Woman in the Rain; Ragged by Gary McMahon; The Hobman; A True Yorkshireman by Christopher Harman; The Town Where Darkness Was Born; All Things Considered, I’d Rather Be In Hell by Mark Chadbourn; A Feast For Crows; The Demon of Flowers by Chico Kidd; City of the Dead; The Summer of Bradbury by Stephen Bacon; Radiant Beings; Random Flight by Rosalie Parker; Death in the Harrying; The Rhubarb Festival by Simon Clark; The Alien; The Crack by Gary Fry; The Boggart of Bunting Nook; A Story From When We Had Nothing by Jason Gould.

As mentioned at the beginning of this piece, you can't yet order TERROR TALES OF YORKSHIRE (all retail outlets, online and otherwise, will be posted everywhere, as soon as you can). It's still in production as we speak, but we're very hopeful that it will be available at the Fantasy Convention in York, probably from the PENDRAGON PRESS table in the book room, along with other titles, such as our last one in the series TERROR TALES OF WALES .

On the subject of Yorkshire, and York in particular, I was recently very impressed to hear the superbly rendered audio version of my International Horror Guild Award-winning short story of 2007, THE OLD NORTH ROAD , as read by Jonathan Keeble of The Archers fame, published by WHOLE STORY AUDIO .

This story, first published in Alone on the Darkside in 2006 (for which, as I said earlier, it won the International Horror Guild Award for Best Medium Length Story in 2007), and republished in One Monster Is Not Enough in 2010, is hopefully the first of quite a few of mine to get the glossy WHOLE STORY AUDIO treatment, but it's very timely, as York - or more specifically, York Minster - is the location that originally inspired it.

THE OLD NORTH ROAD , which is about 10,000 words long and comes to roughly an hour's listening time, is a horror story describing a quest to find the origins of the mystical Green Man. Prior to my first visit to York Minster, the Green Man was no more to me than a background character I'd grown up with but had never really noticed: a figure on pub signs, or a clown at country fairs. What I certainly hadn't realised was just how much he figures in the architecture of our old and venerable religious buildings, York Minster being a classic example. And that's a curious thing given so many of us assume the Green Man to be a pagan icon - a fertility symbol or the representation of an ancient, long forgotten god.

But the fact is, he isn't ... at least, not according to the researches I made following my last trip to York. The real origins of the Green Man, are far stranger, and lie in ...

Well, perhaps that would be telling. Maybe it's better if you guys download the audio version, or buy the CD, and find out for yourself. (Sorry to be so mercenary ... but I've got to make a living, you know).



Of course, you don't have to go to all that trouble if you happen to be paying a visit to  FANTASYCON in York in September. If so, just pop across to the Minster and check it all out for yourself. I'll be doing that for sure. It's now ten years since I was last there, and the mysteries of the Green Man, among many others, are calling ever louder.