Joshua Reynolds's Blog, page 13

LATEST NEWS

Below you’ll find all the latest news in regards to Josh’s work, including interviews, appearances and new releases. Check back regularly for updates!

LATEST FREE STORY

This month’s free story has just been posted to the blog!

“The Black Pullet” is a tale of historical sword and sorcery, starring Alexandre Dumas. As always, it’s absolutely free to read, but if you enjoy it, please consider buying Josh a coffee. 

LATEST BOOK TOUR

Aconyte Books is launching its first book tour with The Book Network starting on the 17th of Jan over on Instagram and TikTok.⁠ The first in a line of monthly tours starts with CMON Games Zombicide Last Resort, by Josh Reynolds!

LATEST INTERVIEW

Josh sits down with Anjuli to talk about Zombicide: Last Resort!

LATEST NOVEL

Zombicide: Last Resort is Josh’s first foray into the apocalyptic world of ZOMBICIDE. Join Westlake, Ramirez and El Calavera Santo as they battle undead park rangers and worse in the Adirondacks.

The zombie apocalypse has driven humanity up into the Adirondacks. Enter Westlake, a hardened career criminal on the path of “the Villa”, a legendary mafia hideout where he can escape the devastation. When he’s ambushed by the undead, an old FBI “friend” and his squad of survivors rescue him… and then force him to reveal his secrets. Reluctantly, Westlake is saddled with an oddball team to navigate minefields, trip wires, and flesh-eating zombies at every turn to find their safe haven…

Find Out MoreAmazon USAmazon UK

LATEST SHORT STORY

“Bruno J. Lampini and the Sanguinary Assignation” is the fourth Bruno J. Lampini story to appear in print, and the wildest outing yet for the amoral acquisitionist of the eldritch!

Enter freely, and drink deeply of fifteen vampire tales told by a sanguinary collection of modern horror authors. Here you will find both traditional vampires, and those who stretch genre boundaries. Not all of these Nosferatu drink blood, but they all share an unholy thirst for human lives. So step into the shadows, and listen for the children of the night.

With Stories by:
Amanda DeWees
Donald F. Glut
John Linwood Grant
Leanna Renee Hieber
Paul McNamee
Chris McAuley
Lee Murray
Josh Reynolds
Cat Scully
Jeff Strand
Plus:
A new Sonja Blue story by Nancy A. Collins
A New Bubba the Monster Hunter story by John Hartness
A New Deacon Chalk story by James R. Tuck
A new Jonathan Crowley/Carter Decamp story by James A. Moore and Charles R. Rutledge
And introducing Renard Duvall in a story by Cliff Biggers

Amazon USAmazon UK

LATEST COLLECTION

Casefiles of the Royal Occultist: Hochmuller’s Hound is the second instalment of a series collecting all of Josh Reynolds’ Royal Occultist stories. This volume features two all-new, never before published stories revealing the first battles between St. Cyprian and the mad Dr. Ptolemy!

From the shattered cities of the western front to the high occult parties of London, a monstrously altered hound stalks.

Dedicated to giving the gods physical form, Dr. Ptolemy builds his own vessels for ancient beings and eldritch terrors.

Only the Royal Occultist can stand resolute against these implacable foes.

Charles St. Cyprian and his assistant, Ebe Gallowglass, defend the British Empire against sinister secret societies, eldritch occurrences, and foul creatures of myth and legend. If there are satyrs running amok in Somerset, or werewolves prowling Wolverhampton, the daring duo will be there to see them off.

Find Out MoreAmazon USAmazon UK

Skulls and Posts

Today’s brief entry from the commonplace book is one I wrote during a trip to the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, i.e. the best museum. I love that place. I could fill out an entire notebook with ideas culled from those exhibits. If you ever get the chance to pay it a visit, I highly recommend that you do.

Bear skull – painted with mythic scenes from Nepal; related to something called the Dance of the Bear. This one has a lot of potential. Witch’s post – from the Danby region, Yorkshire; carved with crosses and bars; if the owner placed it close to the entrance it would prevent witches from entering the dwelling.

Infernal World

It’s been an odd year. An odd, plague-infested dumpster fire of a year.

Determined to take it easy, I forced myself to take weekends and evenings off. I started a new exercise regimen which I’ve mostly kept up. I’ve spent more time with my wife and daughter, and less time staring blankly at a blinking cursor on a blank Word document.

Nonetheless, I managed to do way more work than I probably ought to have done. I wrote three novels, around a dozen short stories, most of two novellas, a dozen lore chapters for Smite and various blog posts et al. And a goodly number of unfinished projects, doodles, scribbles and scrapples of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. Some of those might become more substantial later, but only time will tell.

Work aside, I managed to resist the ever-present urge to change how I do everything on this site and in general. That should count for something. It’s a pernicious form of procrastination that I’ve yielded to all too often in the past. Let’s see if I can resist the urge for another year. On a related note, I made great strides in my quixotic quest to winnow my social media footprint to something manageable and sane, at least insofar as the current state of affairs allows. Eventually, I might even achieve my dream of becoming a modern-day hermit and retiring to a cave in the Peak District.

I also managed to kick my reading habits back into shape. I managed to read more books this year than I have in probably the last three combined, which is nice. Standouts include S.A. Chakraborty’s Daevabad Trilogy, P. Djeli Clark’s A Master of Djinn, and Ron Weighell’s posthumous novel, King Satyr. I found some new music to listen to, including Adia Victoria’s album, A Southern Gothic and Dessa’s newest, Ides.

On the downswing, I lost a good friend this year. I’ve borne witness to the difficulties of other friends and family, with no real ability to help. I send money and well-wishes, but none of it seems to help. The world is aflame, in more ways than one, and sometimes it feels like all I can do is tell stories by the light of the conflagration. All I can do is try and distract you from the encroaching flames.

Needless to say, I think about the meme below a lot.

Think of me as your ominously reassuring frog.

Anyway, here’s to the coming year and whatever fresh hell awaits us all. Hail horrors! Hail, infernal world!

Hail.

Christmas Eve 2021

It’s that time of year again. The Yuletide has never been a big favourite of mine – I’m a proud citizen of Halloween Town, you know – but there are aspects of it I like. The music, the general air of festivity, of anticipation…the food. I like seeing folks happy, I guess. Sue me.

Anyway, like Ella says, have yourself a Merry Christmas. I’ll see you on the other side.

Remember to watch out for the Yule Cat!

Blood on His Lips

Whisky and soda mix, not whisky and science.

– Dr. Frederick Buckell

Monster stories often revolve around addiction, denial and loss of control. The monster is at once victimizer and victim, gripped by uncontrollable desires that grow into a raging conflagration of violence even as they seek to deny what they have become. The monster desires, denies and destroys.

The 1958 independent science-fiction/horror film, The Hideous Sun Demon, is no different; a film in which addiction first leads to monstrousness, and then to death. Written, directed and produced by Robert Clarke, who also stars as the titular monster, the film was shot in only twelve weeks and quickly remanded to B-movie status. Critically panned, it has nonetheless achieved a cult status and perhaps for good reason – it is a pure distillation of the theme, shorn of all unnecessary gloss and utterly lacking in pretence.

Clarke’s troubled scientist, Gil McKenna, suffers from an addiction that results in his accidental exposure to radiation, and subsequent transformation into a savage reptilian creature. After discovering what has happened, McKenna immediately seeks to drown his sorrows at a bar, a decision which leads to the what is only the first of his scaly alter-ego’s many rampages. Throughout the film, McKenna’s alcoholism acts as a prelude to his transformation; his inability to control himself results in death and injury. He hurts his friends, his family – innocent bystanders.

Even so, one cannot help but feel some pity for the hapless McKenna, despite his flaws. He is a man at war with himself, struggling against internal treacheries for which he has no recourse. His fearsome other self is no less a victim, a beast trapped in a world it cannot understand, surrounded by hostile forces that seek to trap or kill it. Yet for all that they are victims of compulsions that they cannot control, McKenna and his alter-ego are no less dangerous to those around them.

As McKenna seeks to hide from the truth about himself and his affliction, he only makes things worse. His refusal to see what he has become leads to him becoming a killer. His fear of the consequences compounds his mistakes – more death is the result. McKenna is consumed by his addiction, buried beneath his mistakes. He desires, denies and destroys. He loses himself in the beast, becoming that which he fears.

And then, at last, he is destroyed by it.

Unsubtle, perhaps, but powerful for all that.

Brotherhood of Shadows

Strange shadows stretch and writhe in the light, as if possessed by malign intent. Eerie laughter echoes from all around, rising from everywhere and nowhere. In the swirling black, shapes emerge–to strike where they are least suspected.

The Black Brotherhood has come, and someone is going to die…

The beginnings of the group known as the Black Brotherhood are lost to history. Some say that they are the remnant of an ancient order of Atlantean sorcerer-priests. Others claim that they are the descendants of a breakaway sect of the Order of Santiago who vanished into the jungles of the New World and discovered a new faith. Whatever their origins, the Black Brotherhood are one of the most dangerous occult societies loose in the world.

With the ability to control and travel through shadows, the Black Brotherhood are exceedingly capable assassins and have been known to track their quarry across oceans, from Rio de Janeiro to London, and even further. However, their code of honour prevents them from catching their prey unawares. Instead, they will warn their target–haunting them for days or weeks with rippling shadows and eerie laughter, prior to striking. Some occultists have theorised that this might be the modern form of some ancient ritual, rather than a communal sense of fair play.

The Black Brotherhood are also known to be the guardians of a number of highly potent mystical artefacts, including one of the infamous Obsidian Mirrors of Tezcatlipoca. Of late, this stewardship has seen them thrust into conflict with the Order of the Cosmic Ram as well as Charles St. Cyprian, the Royal Occultist.

Elliott O’Donnell’s Strange Cults & Secret Societies of Modern London (1934) has a lot to answer for. I’ve used it as the basis for a number of Royal Occultist stories, including “The Black Brotherhood”.  Frankly, a secret society of shadow-walking assassins was too good not to employ, at least once.

The Brotherhood, like the Order of the Cosmic Ram, provide a bit of a respite from the usual monster of the week antagonists. They’re human, and have a code of conduct that St. Cyprian is keen to abide by, if only to keep the body count down. They can be bargained with, tricked or bought off, opening up avenues for a more diverse array of plot resolutions.

And while I don’t have any plans to revisit the Brotherhood, I like to keep my options open. They may well pop up again, at some point in the future.

Bascomb, Suliban and Tring

Today’s entry from the ol’ commonplace book is a bit of doggerel I found in some book of folklore or other. I know that Tring is a real place, but I’m not sure about Bascomb or Suliban. Maybe they were real at some point, or maybe it’s a Tlon and Uqbar sort of situation.

Anyway, onto the doggerel:

Bascomb was a city

When Suliban was a wood,

Tring was a little place

and never any good!

I have no idea why I wrote this nonsense down. Like so much of what winds up in my commonplace book, something about it must have struck me as interesting. Maybe it was the names or the rhythm – who knows? Anyway, if anyone reading this knows anything about Bascomb or Suliban, feel free to drop me a line in the comments.

The Monas Glyph

Today’s look into the secrets of the Royal Occultist focuses on one of the most potent artefacts in St. Cyprian’s possession – the eerie Monas Glyph.

It took something from him, to employ the Glyph. It was like a tuning fork for the psychical, and it made his soul shiver in him…

– The Whitechapel Demon (2013)

The Monas Glyph was supposedly created by Dr. John Dee in the rein of Elizabeth the First. The esoteric sigil is made of blackened silver, stiffened with copper wire, and is roughly the size of an athame or ritual dagger. It is shaped like a composite of various astrological and religious symbols, combining ankh, cruciform and crescent into a single shape.

The Glyph acts both as psychical conductor and amplifier, focusing and strengthening the latent psychic and/or spiritual abilities of the wielder for a brief period. As well as strengthening the gifts of its bearer, the Glyph contains its own innate power, and the merest sight of it is often enough to banish or drive back the most malign of spirits.

It is a potent artefact, but one that the various holders of the offices of Royal Occultist have rarely employed, save in the direst need due to the Glyph’s draining effect on its wielder. To use it for too long, or improperly could result in fatigue, madness or even death.

Nevertheless, Carnacki used it at least three times to exorcise monstrosities from the Outer Spheres, including during the Gogmagog Incident of 1914, and Dee was said to have employed it in putting paid to the last English dragon.

St. Cyprian himself has used the Glyph only a few times in his career, most notably during the events revolving around a 1920 confrontation with the monstrous doppelganger of one of London’s most notorious killers.

The Monas Glyph is one of a number of mystic artefacts that have appeared in the Royal Occultist stories and novels. It’s an homage to Doctor Occult’s Symbol of Seven, with a bit of Doctor Strange’s Eye of Agamotto thrown in. As the link above shows, the glyph itself has some historical basis – not as a magical weapon – but as an alchemical and philosophical symbol. I like to tie that sort of thing into these stories when I can, if only because I find it interesting.

Like most of the artefacts in these stories, it came about because I needed a solution to a particular problem – in this case, the daemonic Flea, from The Whitechapel Demon. Having solved that problem, it seemed a bit wasteful to never mention the Monas Glyph again. Hence its occasional reappearance.

But, appropriately for such a powerful item, it only comes into play in the most dire of circumstances, notably whenever monstrous entities such as Nephren-Ka or Helen Strix show up.

Sancho and the Silver Hand

I thought I’d show off a few entries from the ol’ commonplace book to begin the week. Just some seeds that might eventually become ideas in their own right. Or not.

Booksellers in Mongolia in the early Twentieth Century would often travel long distances, through dangerous terrain, to buy, sell and trade books. Besides environmental hazards, they often had to deal with bandits and rival booksellers (or bandits hired by rival booksellers) looking to purloin their wares. I cannot remember where I read this, but it does have the makings of a good story, I think. Especially if I could figure out a way to tie in the Great Game.

Sancho Martin – the so-called Green Knight of the Siege of Tyre, 1187. I don’t really know what to do with this. I just think it’s a cool little titbit from history that may, or may not, have happened – which, frankly, is my favourite sort. There’s probably a story in there somewhere, but I haven’t found it yet.

Lud’s Church – speaking of Green Knights, this is supposedly the location of the ‘Green Chapel’ from the climax of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, and may or may not be connected in some way to King Lud, though sources disagree on this point. For added fun, both of those may also be connected to Lludd of the Silver Hand. Going further, Lludd is a possible derivation of Nudd, which is derived from Nuada, as in Nuada of the Silver Hand, who was himself possibly related to Nodens, who gets mentioned in the occasional Lovecraftian pastiche as the hunter-god who opposes Nyarlathotep. Also, Ned Ludd, who might be connected to all of the above in some dim ‘the land remembers’ kind of way. So…yeah. Lots to work with there.

Mr. Chicken

This one is based on something I heard one time, as is often the way. I don’t know whether I came up with the little details, or whether they were part of what I heard, but either way I’m pretending I invented them.

Mr. Chicken walked up and down Tall Man Road for as long as anyone could remember. He was tall and thin and dark and always had a slightly startled look on his face, as if the world continually surprised him. And maybe it did.

He wore Bermuda shorts no matter the weather, with a patched-up suit-coat hanging off his skinny shoulders and a top-hat. On the top hat, which leaned whichever way the wind was blowing (or would be blowing sometimes) was a crown of chicken-bones, tied together with rough twine.

Mr. Chicken carried a thin cane pole over his shoulder (for tapping hogs, he said) and pulled a rusty red wagon behind him up and down the road. It was full of bottles (and the bottles were full of things) and it seemed to clatter miles ahead of him, letting folks know he was coming.

And when Mr. Chicken came up your drive, you would give him your bottles, cleaned and shining and later on, you would find them hanging from a tree someplace, clattering in the wind. Mr. Chicken said the bottles held haints, trapped them likes butterflies in bottles, and he scrawled the mark of Solly Man, whoever that was, on each and every one.

Mr. Chicken was the only man who’d passed the Rattle-Bone Wire and conversed regularly with those who lived on the other side. He’d been over the bridge to Tenebre too, though he never spoke of what he’d seen. He was seen checking the long red string that ran between Blackberry Woods and the railroad track and painting it with a dab of chicken blood.

Mr. Chicken had been from one end of the county to the other and had hunted low houses and the ghost hogs out at the Dead Houses through the woods. He’d danced with hares on full-moon nights and it was said he courted a dead woman buried out on Lethe, whose ghost did not walk but instead danced. No one knew where he stayed, Mr. Chicken. No one knew where he’d come from. But everyone was glad he walked the road regardless.

That was Mr. Chicken.

I knew him and have always been glad of it.