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Titus Crow #4-6
Brian Lumley's Mythos Omnibus, Vol 2
From the creator of Necroscope - three landmark novels of the Cthulhu THE SAGA OF TITUS CROW! SPAWN OD THE In which a party of gifted human psychics seeks Ithaqua, Lord of the Winds, in the frozen north - only to find themselves abducted to Borea, an alien ice-world where the Wind-Walker is the undisputed Lord and Master! IN THE MOONS OF Hank Silberhutte, Henri-Laurent de Marigny and friends join battle with cavern-dwelling Ice-Priests, last members of an evil sect from the dawn of time. Sworn to serve the Wind-Walker, his alien minions will do anything to appease their dark master - to the point of sacrificing his own daughter to the Thing that Walks on the Wind!
688 pages, Paperback
First published June 30, 1997
About the author
Brian Lumley
453 books1,382 followersBrian Lumley was born near Newcastle. In 22 years as a Military Policeman he served in many of the Cold War hotspots, including Berlin, as well as Cyprus in partition days. He reached the rank of Sergeant-Major before retiring to Devon to write full-time, and his work was first published in 1970. The vampire series, 'Necroscope', has been translated into ten languages and sold over a million copies worldwide.
He was awarded the World Fantasy Life Achievement Award in 2010.
He was awarded the World Fantasy Life Achievement Award in 2010.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
September 11, 2015
Fantastic concluding trilogy. I'd really recommend it to fans of the Cthulhu mythos. The fact that Titus Crow doesn't show up much in any of the 3 books is kind of annoying though.
May 28, 2026
The Burrowers Beneath (1974) Book 1: ★★★★★
The Transition of Titus Crow (1975) Book 2: ★★★★★
The Clock of Dreams (1978) Book 3: ★★★★
Spawn of the Winds (1978) Book 4: ★★★★
In the Moons of Borea (1979) Book 5: ★★★★★
Elysia (1989) Book 6: ★★★★★
Brian Lumley’s Titus Crow books feel discovered in the dark rather than sold beneath fluorescent light. They belong to that increasingly endangered breed of fiction that still carries the scent of pursuit. Not merely “found,” but hunted down. Dug out of library corners, secondhand bins, old internet recommendation chains where one obsessive points another obsessive toward a hidden chamber in horror literature and quietly says: here, this one understands velocity.
For many readers of horror, there is an inevitable pilgrimage through Stephen King. For me after Carrie and perhaps Misery - he was not enough. Before even Barker, it was Lumley; his instincts for character undeniable, his fingerprints fused permanently into modern horror fiction. But eventually, for some readers, the path branches. The cathedral becomes too familiar. Too visible. Too institutionalized. Too endlessly reproduced. The shelves swell with publication after publication until the magic risks becoming infrastructure. King turns into weather. Permanent and unavoidable.
And then someone hands you Brian Lumley. Not polished Brian Lumley. Not prestige Brian Lumley. Brian Lumley with screaming paperback covers, impossible titles, subterranean gods, dimensional war machines, occult scholars, and prose that barrels forward like a locomotive wrapped in thunderclouds. Suddenly horror is not whispering at the edge of the room anymore. Horror has kicked the door off its hinges and armed itself. That was the revelation of Titus Crow. Not because Lumley replaced Lovecraft, but because he refused to kneel before him.
The Titus Crow series stands as one of the most fascinating reinterpretations of the Cthulhu Mythos ever written precisely because it rejects the central emotional paralysis that defines so much Lovecraftian fiction. In Lovecraft, knowledge corrodes. Discovery annihilates. The cosmos is indifferent, and humanity is a trembling accident beneath impossible stars. Lumley inherits all the machinery of that universe, the Great Old Ones, ancient forbidden knowledge, transdimensional horror, buried civilizations, dream-realms, cosmic entities vast beyond comprehension, and then asks a dangerous question: What if someone fought back? That shift changes everything.
Titus Crow himself begins almost like an occult Sherlock Holmes. A scholar-investigator. A man peering into forbidden architecture with enough intelligence to understand what he is seeing and enough audacity to continue anyway. Beside him stands Henri-Laurent de Marigny, initially occupying something close to the Watson role before evolving into one of the true emotional anchors of the entire saga. Their partnership gives the series a pulse often absent in colder cosmic horror. Lumley understands camaraderie. He understands continuity. He understands legacy. And most importantly, he understands escalation.
The Burrowers Beneath introduces not merely another Mythos threat but one of Lumley’s most enduring contributions to Lovecraftian fiction: the Chthonians. Massive subterranean entities, wormlike intelligences tied to earthquakes and ancient cosmic predation, they are genuinely memorable additions to the Mythos landscape because they feel mythic immediately. There is something primal about them. Ancient hunger beneath the earth itself. Yet what elevates the novel beyond imitation is not the monsters alone. It is the energy. Lumley writes as though still astonished by his own excitement. Every revelation matters. Every tunnel deepens. Every confrontation widens the aperture of the universe. The prose is dramatic, sometimes extravagantly so. Purple in the best old-school pulp tradition. Readers expecting restrained literary minimalism may recoil. But restraint is not the point here. Lumley is not composing chamber music. He is conducting storms. And from there the series mutates.
The Transition of Titus Crow is exactly what its title promises. Not simply narrative continuation but transformation. Crow himself evolves beyond ordinary humanity after catastrophic events, and Lumley begins pushing the series far beyond straightforward horror into a fusion of science fiction, cosmic fantasy, metaphysical adventure, and Mythos warfare. The Clock of Dreams becomes central here, inherited conceptually from Lovecraftian dream-travel traditions but transformed into a vehicle for dimensional exploration and narrative expansion. Through it, Lumley tears open the walls of the setting. This is where many readers either fully surrender to the series or abandon it. Because Lumley refuses containment.
He does not preserve the Mythos in amber. He detonates it outward. Alien dimensions emerge. Impossible technologies surface. Vast cosmic landscapes unfold one after another. The stories stop behaving like haunted manuscripts and begin operating like interdimensional war epics. Some readers resent this deeply because it disrupts the sacred stillness associated with Lovecraftian horror. Yet others, myself included, find that rebellion exhilarating. Lumley transforms fear into confrontation without reducing the scale of the unknown. The abyss remains enormous. Humanity simply refuses silence before it.
The Clock of Dreams continues this widening trajectory and reveals perhaps Lumley’s greatest strength as a writer: imaginative abundance. There are authors who build worlds carefully, brick by brick, and there are authors who seem to open floodgates directly into their subconscious. Lumley belongs to the second category. Reading these books often feels less like progressing through plotted architecture and more like surviving a torrent of invention. Dream-realms, bizarre civilizations, occult mechanisms, ancient entities, dimensional pathways, psychic warfare, all of it arrives in relentless succession. Yet there is sincerity holding the chaos together. Lumley believes in wonder. Even amid horror.
That sincerity matters enormously. Modern fiction often protects itself with irony. Lumley rarely does. The Titus Crow books charge forward with absolute commitment to their own scale and weirdness. They are unembarrassed by adventure. Unembarrassed by heroism. Unembarrassed by cosmic spectacle. That quality gives the novels an almost vanished flavor now. They feel written before cynicism became mandatory seasoning in genre fiction.
Spawn of the Winds sharpens the mythic dimension of the series even further. Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker, looms heavily over the narrative, and Lumley increasingly embraces the August Derleth interpretation of the Mythos as a battleground between opposing cosmic forces. Purists often criticize this because it introduces clearer moral structure into a universe Lovecraft designed around indifference rather than dualism. But Lumley’s instincts are fundamentally different from Lovecraft’s. He is drawn toward resistance, toward endurance, toward the possibility that courage retains meaning even against impossible odds.
And honestly, that emotional distinction is why these books remain beloved by so many readers who discovered them young. There is a point in many horror readers’ lives where endless nihilism begins losing voltage. Cosmic indifference becomes expected rather than devastating. One can only read so many stories where humanity collapses helplessly beneath incomprehensible truths before the rhythm becomes familiar. Lumley interrupts that rhythm. He allows defiance into the room. Not easy victory. Not triumph without cost. But defiance. That matters.
In the Moons of Borea expands the scope still further until the series begins resembling planetary romance filtered through Lovecraftian nightmare logic. Entire alien realms open themselves to exploration. Strange civilizations rise into focus. The emphasis shifts increasingly toward awe and discovery rather than claustrophobic terror. Some readers simply cannot follow Lumley into this territory because the books no longer behave according to traditional horror expectations. Yet that transformation is precisely what makes the series remarkable. Rather than endlessly recycling haunted tomes and doomed scholars, Lumley evolves his Mythos fiction into something stranger: cosmic adventure literature driven by horror cosmology.
The sense of growth across the six novels becomes one of their greatest achievements. These books build on each other. They do not reset. They accumulate. Characters evolve through experience. Relationships deepen. Concepts introduced earlier mutate into larger mythologies later. Crow himself becomes increasingly transhuman, eventually transformed into something beyond ordinary flesh in order to continue combating forces beyond human scale. In lesser hands this could become absurd. In Lumley’s hands it feels strangely inevitable. The series consistently argues that survival against cosmic entities requires transformation. Adaptation. Expansion. Humanity cannot remain static and hope to endure the Mythos unchanged.
And then comes Elysia, arriving after a significant publication gap yet still functioning as culmination rather than afterthought. By this point the series has traveled astonishing distance from its origins beneath the earth with the Chthonians. The mythology has widened into something almost operatic. Crow’s journey feels less like that of a detective and more like the ascension arc of a mythic wanderer moving beyond ordinary human limitations entirely.
Yet despite all the dimensional warfare and cosmic architecture, the emotional core remains intact because Lumley never abandons the sense of continuity between the books. That is one of the hidden pleasures of the series. Reading Titus Crow feels cumulative in a deeply satisfying way. The novels gain retroactive power from each other. Earlier adventures become richer because later books continue building upon them rather than merely repeating formulas. And they move. God, they move. These are books with propulsion. The phrase “they fly by” undersells the experience. Lumley writes with such aggressive narrative momentum that entire concepts modern fantasy authors might stretch across trilogies are hurled through in chapters. Some critics interpret this as lack of refinement. I increasingly see it as commitment to rhythm. Lumley understood pulp pacing at a cellular level. He knew how to keep pages turning through escalating revelation and constant forward movement. Reading Titus Crow feels like being pulled through a dimensional riptide lined with ancient gods and burning machinery.
Not every reader will survive the current. Readers devoted strictly to psychological horror may find the emotional register too externalized. Readers seeking elegant literary subtlety may struggle with the unabashed melodrama and density of exposition. Readers attached to Lovecraft’s cosmic pessimism may reject Lumley’s heroic orientation outright. The books are loud. Excessive. Earnest. Sometimes gloriously overwrought. But for readers attuned to pulp imagination, occult adventure, sword-and-sorcery momentum, cosmic fantasy, and the ecstatic possibilities of weird fiction unconcerned with respectability, Titus Crow becomes unforgettable.
Because beneath all the dimensional travel and Great Old One warfare lies something surprisingly rare: joy. Not happiness. Not comfort. Joy in imagination itself. Joy in escalation. Joy in taking the Mythos somewhere dangerous and exuberant instead of embalming it in reverence. Brian Lumley loved this material visibly, almost explosively. You can feel it in the books. Feel his fascination with ancient horrors, dreamlands, impossible sciences, hidden races, occult inheritances, psychic battles, and monstrous gods buried beneath reality. That enthusiasm saturates every page. Even when the prose strains, even when the plotting spirals wildly outward, the conviction remains absolute.
And perhaps that is why discovering Lumley young feels so important to certain readers. Because he arrives before literary cynicism fully calcifies. He reminds readers that genre fiction can still be gigantic, reckless, emotional, excessive, and sincere all at once. That horror need not only stare downward into despair. That cosmic darkness can coexist with courage. That adventure and terror are not enemies but blood relatives.
The Transition of Titus Crow (1975) Book 2: ★★★★★
The Clock of Dreams (1978) Book 3: ★★★★
Spawn of the Winds (1978) Book 4: ★★★★
In the Moons of Borea (1979) Book 5: ★★★★★
Elysia (1989) Book 6: ★★★★★
Brian Lumley’s Titus Crow books feel discovered in the dark rather than sold beneath fluorescent light. They belong to that increasingly endangered breed of fiction that still carries the scent of pursuit. Not merely “found,” but hunted down. Dug out of library corners, secondhand bins, old internet recommendation chains where one obsessive points another obsessive toward a hidden chamber in horror literature and quietly says: here, this one understands velocity.
For many readers of horror, there is an inevitable pilgrimage through Stephen King. For me after Carrie and perhaps Misery - he was not enough. Before even Barker, it was Lumley; his instincts for character undeniable, his fingerprints fused permanently into modern horror fiction. But eventually, for some readers, the path branches. The cathedral becomes too familiar. Too visible. Too institutionalized. Too endlessly reproduced. The shelves swell with publication after publication until the magic risks becoming infrastructure. King turns into weather. Permanent and unavoidable.
And then someone hands you Brian Lumley. Not polished Brian Lumley. Not prestige Brian Lumley. Brian Lumley with screaming paperback covers, impossible titles, subterranean gods, dimensional war machines, occult scholars, and prose that barrels forward like a locomotive wrapped in thunderclouds. Suddenly horror is not whispering at the edge of the room anymore. Horror has kicked the door off its hinges and armed itself. That was the revelation of Titus Crow. Not because Lumley replaced Lovecraft, but because he refused to kneel before him.
The Titus Crow series stands as one of the most fascinating reinterpretations of the Cthulhu Mythos ever written precisely because it rejects the central emotional paralysis that defines so much Lovecraftian fiction. In Lovecraft, knowledge corrodes. Discovery annihilates. The cosmos is indifferent, and humanity is a trembling accident beneath impossible stars. Lumley inherits all the machinery of that universe, the Great Old Ones, ancient forbidden knowledge, transdimensional horror, buried civilizations, dream-realms, cosmic entities vast beyond comprehension, and then asks a dangerous question: What if someone fought back? That shift changes everything.
Titus Crow himself begins almost like an occult Sherlock Holmes. A scholar-investigator. A man peering into forbidden architecture with enough intelligence to understand what he is seeing and enough audacity to continue anyway. Beside him stands Henri-Laurent de Marigny, initially occupying something close to the Watson role before evolving into one of the true emotional anchors of the entire saga. Their partnership gives the series a pulse often absent in colder cosmic horror. Lumley understands camaraderie. He understands continuity. He understands legacy. And most importantly, he understands escalation.
The Burrowers Beneath introduces not merely another Mythos threat but one of Lumley’s most enduring contributions to Lovecraftian fiction: the Chthonians. Massive subterranean entities, wormlike intelligences tied to earthquakes and ancient cosmic predation, they are genuinely memorable additions to the Mythos landscape because they feel mythic immediately. There is something primal about them. Ancient hunger beneath the earth itself. Yet what elevates the novel beyond imitation is not the monsters alone. It is the energy. Lumley writes as though still astonished by his own excitement. Every revelation matters. Every tunnel deepens. Every confrontation widens the aperture of the universe. The prose is dramatic, sometimes extravagantly so. Purple in the best old-school pulp tradition. Readers expecting restrained literary minimalism may recoil. But restraint is not the point here. Lumley is not composing chamber music. He is conducting storms. And from there the series mutates.
The Transition of Titus Crow is exactly what its title promises. Not simply narrative continuation but transformation. Crow himself evolves beyond ordinary humanity after catastrophic events, and Lumley begins pushing the series far beyond straightforward horror into a fusion of science fiction, cosmic fantasy, metaphysical adventure, and Mythos warfare. The Clock of Dreams becomes central here, inherited conceptually from Lovecraftian dream-travel traditions but transformed into a vehicle for dimensional exploration and narrative expansion. Through it, Lumley tears open the walls of the setting. This is where many readers either fully surrender to the series or abandon it. Because Lumley refuses containment.
He does not preserve the Mythos in amber. He detonates it outward. Alien dimensions emerge. Impossible technologies surface. Vast cosmic landscapes unfold one after another. The stories stop behaving like haunted manuscripts and begin operating like interdimensional war epics. Some readers resent this deeply because it disrupts the sacred stillness associated with Lovecraftian horror. Yet others, myself included, find that rebellion exhilarating. Lumley transforms fear into confrontation without reducing the scale of the unknown. The abyss remains enormous. Humanity simply refuses silence before it.
The Clock of Dreams continues this widening trajectory and reveals perhaps Lumley’s greatest strength as a writer: imaginative abundance. There are authors who build worlds carefully, brick by brick, and there are authors who seem to open floodgates directly into their subconscious. Lumley belongs to the second category. Reading these books often feels less like progressing through plotted architecture and more like surviving a torrent of invention. Dream-realms, bizarre civilizations, occult mechanisms, ancient entities, dimensional pathways, psychic warfare, all of it arrives in relentless succession. Yet there is sincerity holding the chaos together. Lumley believes in wonder. Even amid horror.
That sincerity matters enormously. Modern fiction often protects itself with irony. Lumley rarely does. The Titus Crow books charge forward with absolute commitment to their own scale and weirdness. They are unembarrassed by adventure. Unembarrassed by heroism. Unembarrassed by cosmic spectacle. That quality gives the novels an almost vanished flavor now. They feel written before cynicism became mandatory seasoning in genre fiction.
Spawn of the Winds sharpens the mythic dimension of the series even further. Ithaqua, the Wind-Walker, looms heavily over the narrative, and Lumley increasingly embraces the August Derleth interpretation of the Mythos as a battleground between opposing cosmic forces. Purists often criticize this because it introduces clearer moral structure into a universe Lovecraft designed around indifference rather than dualism. But Lumley’s instincts are fundamentally different from Lovecraft’s. He is drawn toward resistance, toward endurance, toward the possibility that courage retains meaning even against impossible odds.
And honestly, that emotional distinction is why these books remain beloved by so many readers who discovered them young. There is a point in many horror readers’ lives where endless nihilism begins losing voltage. Cosmic indifference becomes expected rather than devastating. One can only read so many stories where humanity collapses helplessly beneath incomprehensible truths before the rhythm becomes familiar. Lumley interrupts that rhythm. He allows defiance into the room. Not easy victory. Not triumph without cost. But defiance. That matters.
In the Moons of Borea expands the scope still further until the series begins resembling planetary romance filtered through Lovecraftian nightmare logic. Entire alien realms open themselves to exploration. Strange civilizations rise into focus. The emphasis shifts increasingly toward awe and discovery rather than claustrophobic terror. Some readers simply cannot follow Lumley into this territory because the books no longer behave according to traditional horror expectations. Yet that transformation is precisely what makes the series remarkable. Rather than endlessly recycling haunted tomes and doomed scholars, Lumley evolves his Mythos fiction into something stranger: cosmic adventure literature driven by horror cosmology.
The sense of growth across the six novels becomes one of their greatest achievements. These books build on each other. They do not reset. They accumulate. Characters evolve through experience. Relationships deepen. Concepts introduced earlier mutate into larger mythologies later. Crow himself becomes increasingly transhuman, eventually transformed into something beyond ordinary flesh in order to continue combating forces beyond human scale. In lesser hands this could become absurd. In Lumley’s hands it feels strangely inevitable. The series consistently argues that survival against cosmic entities requires transformation. Adaptation. Expansion. Humanity cannot remain static and hope to endure the Mythos unchanged.
And then comes Elysia, arriving after a significant publication gap yet still functioning as culmination rather than afterthought. By this point the series has traveled astonishing distance from its origins beneath the earth with the Chthonians. The mythology has widened into something almost operatic. Crow’s journey feels less like that of a detective and more like the ascension arc of a mythic wanderer moving beyond ordinary human limitations entirely.
Yet despite all the dimensional warfare and cosmic architecture, the emotional core remains intact because Lumley never abandons the sense of continuity between the books. That is one of the hidden pleasures of the series. Reading Titus Crow feels cumulative in a deeply satisfying way. The novels gain retroactive power from each other. Earlier adventures become richer because later books continue building upon them rather than merely repeating formulas. And they move. God, they move. These are books with propulsion. The phrase “they fly by” undersells the experience. Lumley writes with such aggressive narrative momentum that entire concepts modern fantasy authors might stretch across trilogies are hurled through in chapters. Some critics interpret this as lack of refinement. I increasingly see it as commitment to rhythm. Lumley understood pulp pacing at a cellular level. He knew how to keep pages turning through escalating revelation and constant forward movement. Reading Titus Crow feels like being pulled through a dimensional riptide lined with ancient gods and burning machinery.
Not every reader will survive the current. Readers devoted strictly to psychological horror may find the emotional register too externalized. Readers seeking elegant literary subtlety may struggle with the unabashed melodrama and density of exposition. Readers attached to Lovecraft’s cosmic pessimism may reject Lumley’s heroic orientation outright. The books are loud. Excessive. Earnest. Sometimes gloriously overwrought. But for readers attuned to pulp imagination, occult adventure, sword-and-sorcery momentum, cosmic fantasy, and the ecstatic possibilities of weird fiction unconcerned with respectability, Titus Crow becomes unforgettable.
Because beneath all the dimensional travel and Great Old One warfare lies something surprisingly rare: joy. Not happiness. Not comfort. Joy in imagination itself. Joy in escalation. Joy in taking the Mythos somewhere dangerous and exuberant instead of embalming it in reverence. Brian Lumley loved this material visibly, almost explosively. You can feel it in the books. Feel his fascination with ancient horrors, dreamlands, impossible sciences, hidden races, occult inheritances, psychic battles, and monstrous gods buried beneath reality. That enthusiasm saturates every page. Even when the prose strains, even when the plotting spirals wildly outward, the conviction remains absolute.
And perhaps that is why discovering Lumley young feels so important to certain readers. Because he arrives before literary cynicism fully calcifies. He reminds readers that genre fiction can still be gigantic, reckless, emotional, excessive, and sincere all at once. That horror need not only stare downward into despair. That cosmic darkness can coexist with courage. That adventure and terror are not enemies but blood relatives.
October 28, 2021
If you liked Lumley's short stories based on the Cthulhu mythos, don't get the Mythos Omnibus novels. They are NOTHING like the short stories, and instead replace horror with adventure and deeds of derring-do. Gone is the horror, the suspense, the mystery, the nail-biting atmosphere of doom. What you get instead is Cthulhu creatures disposed of with nuclear weapons, magical spears, and flying grandfather clocks with laser cannons. Even when things get dire there is no feeling of despair... the characters just gird their loins and pull through by the power of plot armour.
The overall style of narration is similar to what you'll find in Lumley's "Dreamlands" books, with constant repetition in descriptions, flat characters, and wooden dialogues. I was looking forward to finally learning more of Titus Crow because the short stories painted him as such an interesting character with cool background, but I was very quickly disappointed. Crow's 'white wizard' roots and abilities are never explored except for a few protective spells in "The Burrowers Beneath". After that Crow becomes a traveller in time and space, much like H.G. Wells's protagonist in "The Time Machine" and gets relegated to becoming a background character to give space to Henri-Laurent de Marigny and Hank Silberhutte, who are both boring, zero-personality dummies who get the girl just because they were destined to, just like Titus Crow does, and the said girls are all beautiful, drop dead gorgeous, perfect representatives of femalekind. Except they are all boring in their perfection: Tiania is a girl-goddess, daughter of the benevolent Elder Gods, Armandra is the human daughter of a malevolent Great Old One, and Moreen is a Disney princess - she can speak to animals and make flowers grow by smiling (I'm exaggerating, but you get the point). And with the small exception of Armandra they bring absolutely nothing to the story.
I have no idea how someone with such great command of different styles of writing can produce such lazy, uninspired, and derivative drivel. I had to force myself to actually finish reading it all.
The overall style of narration is similar to what you'll find in Lumley's "Dreamlands" books, with constant repetition in descriptions, flat characters, and wooden dialogues. I was looking forward to finally learning more of Titus Crow because the short stories painted him as such an interesting character with cool background, but I was very quickly disappointed. Crow's 'white wizard' roots and abilities are never explored except for a few protective spells in "The Burrowers Beneath". After that Crow becomes a traveller in time and space, much like H.G. Wells's protagonist in "The Time Machine" and gets relegated to becoming a background character to give space to Henri-Laurent de Marigny and Hank Silberhutte, who are both boring, zero-personality dummies who get the girl just because they were destined to, just like Titus Crow does, and the said girls are all beautiful, drop dead gorgeous, perfect representatives of femalekind. Except they are all boring in their perfection: Tiania is a girl-goddess, daughter of the benevolent Elder Gods, Armandra is the human daughter of a malevolent Great Old One, and Moreen is a Disney princess - she can speak to animals and make flowers grow by smiling (I'm exaggerating, but you get the point). And with the small exception of Armandra they bring absolutely nothing to the story.
I have no idea how someone with such great command of different styles of writing can produce such lazy, uninspired, and derivative drivel. I had to force myself to actually finish reading it all.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
August 25, 2022
Aside from The Burrowers Beneath, which makes at least a token effort at cosmic horror, Brian Lumley's Titus Crow novels read like clumsy fan fiction, committing a range of errors more capable fanfic authors would balk at (over-perfect main character shows up in fiction setting, solves all the problems and kicks ass and gets a hot girlfriend, author doesn't respect the style or atmosphere or themes of the setting, etc.). These omnibus editions are the most cost-effective way of reading them, I suppose, but why would you ever subject yourself to that? https://fakegeekboy.wordpress.com/201...
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