TALES NOCTURNAL by Tim Foley (PS Publishing 2025)

I received a paperback review copy of this debut collection because several of the stories first appeared in ST. And I'm proud of that fact. I seldom talk about why I accept or reject stories because in the end it's all personal taste, instinct, 'vibes'. With Tim Foley I knew there was something good here - I enjoyed his work and felt good about putting it in front of my (admittedly tiny) readership. Let us dive in...

The subtitle is A Collection of Stories of the Uncanny. Not horror, though horror is to be found here. Not ghost stories, though most of these tales qualify. The uncanny is the key ingredient, the mortar that binds together every story. Fans of old-school pulp fiction will enjoy this book, as will ghost story aficionados. More importantly, anyone who appreciates well-crafted short fiction will find plenty to savor and admire.

Foley's world is a realm of abandoned buildings, shabby apartments, ageing hotels, second-hand cars. Above all, it's a world of failed or failing relationships, uneasy solitudes, lost hopes, and faded dreams. The supernatural shades into the psychological in a familiar but still compelling fashion. Sometimes Foley's characters escape the worst that mystery and the night can offer. Sometimes they don't. 

Thus in 'Snowman, Frozen', a writer struggling to meet a deadline rents a rural cabin in winter, drinks too much, and becomes obsessed with who might be building snowmen in an nearby field. It's a simple tale, but would make a splendid segment of a portmanteau horror movie. The frozen wasteland is beautifully evoked, and the final showdown as the writer's mind gives way is excellent.

'Galen's Closet', by contrast, is about young people partying in the big city. But they, too, become fixated on a strange phenomenon. The eponymous closet is apparently haunted. At first, the members of a goth-adjacent band and their hangers-on have fund and hijinks. But  eventually risk-taking exacts a heavy toll.

The collection begins with an epigraph from E.F. Benson, and I think that author's term 'spook stories' fits quite a few tales here. Not exactly ghostly, but chilling and hard to dismiss. Thus 'The House Opposite' follows the familiar template of a troubled man becoming fixated on a maybe-haunted place. But the denouement is genuinely surprising, as something worse than any ghost is discovered.

One can see 'The Figure on the Sidewalk' as another instance of a familiar trope updated. A man tells another man a story about a mysterious maybe-stalker. There is no explanation, no overt threat, merely a presence that can neither be explored nor explained. A low-key study in paranoia and alienation? Perhaps. 

In another (admirably terse) story a young man hitching finds himself somehow entangled with an older guy he doesn't really want to know. The hitchhiker tale is another old warhorse, but 'A Hitch' offers a new twist. The situation becomes bizarre and disturbing as the stranger reveals some details about himself. They both get a lift, but where are they going? One suspects that it is nowhere fun. 

More lighthearted is 'The Ghost of Niles Canyon' - a tale of a phantom hitchhiker is told, and then the listener and teller take a drive. Of course, somebody hitches a ride. But all is not as it seems. 

Also automotive in theme is 'Flowers Along the Seawall', with its dedication to Amelia Edwards. I particularly liked this one as it does indeed capture that old-fashioned feel yet remain true to modern sensibilities. 

'Room 413, Silver Spruce Hotel' first appeared in ST under a slightly different title. Re-reading the story, I was impressed by the way the traditional signs of a haunting are evoked quietly, but not too quietly. Foley's protagonist - stuck in another snowy wilderness - reacts realistically. We learn about what Robert Westall called the 'metabolism' of the haunting, and the ending would have pleased Benson and the old guard. 

'Deer' is one of several stories that evoke the great outdoors, with a troubled couple setting out on vacation. When they hit a deer, things are already going badly. This one is told from two perspectives, husband and wife, and again blurs the line between the psychological and paranormal explanations. 

'The Sound of Children Playing' is a particular favourite of mine. This takes a deep dive into the USA's troubled history as a superpower, but from an unusual angle. A Vietnam vet, isolated and increasingly strange, spends his time at an old abandoned schoolhouse. I recall reading this for the first time and thinking, 'Yes, this is the genuine article'. 

And that can be said for all the stories here. There is a sincerity and humanity behind the weirdness that makes these stories doubly entertaining. I unreservedly recommend this collection. It's been a long time coming but it was worth the wait. 

Issue 58 - Story Openings

‘What’s Inside’ by Peter Kenny

Hoppy Monday!

Early to work for once, you stop to watch Happy Hoppy’s Summer Farm Experience getting ready for business. The annoying whack-a-mole machine is switched on, while the incongruous bucking bronco is stripped of its overnight canvas. You can just hear the excited squeaks of breakfasting guinea pigs in the animal petting zone. In the half-a-dozen local produce stands, the pale woman who sells cutesy wax candles, quince jam and lavender honey is staring into space.

 

‘Bright By Name’ by Katherine Haynes

“Fortescue has a second-rate mind.”

These words weren’t intended for my ears, but I couldn’t help hearing them as I tiptoed past the staff room. At my daughter’s school the Principal had laid down a ‘no high heels’ rule—presumably to preserve the shining parquet of the new building—and I had been guilty of breaking it before. There’s something shaming in being told off in front of a bunch of kids, especially when you’re one of the elder mothers and not a yummy mummy.

‘The Alleyway’ by Michael Chislett

The alleyway lay between the allotments and a steeply risen bank, above which high backs of houses shadowed the narrow, often muddy lane. The four hundred yards length of it ran from the street where Dacre dwelt to the nearest bus stop. The quickest way actually, although there was another stop, up the hill, but that way took considerably longer to walk and he was one who always favoured the most direct route to a destination.

 

‘In Another Country’ by Mark Nicholls

“Is it Mrs Blenkinsop again?” The Highways Manager knew that her question was superfluous. Of course it was Mrs Benkinsop. It was pretty much always Mrs Blenkinsop.

“Her third email this month.” Philip Smith the principal Cases Officer replied with feeling. “And it’s not as if we have nothing else to do with our time. She’s very insistent.”

 

‘The Far Side of the Lake’ by Cliff McNish

On the first morning of my Canadian holiday I woke up stuck in a crazy posture: arms and legs scrunched up tight above me, gripping the double-duvet as if trying to wring every last vestige of warmth from its fabric. I felt like Gregor uncurling in Metamorphosis. Christ, I was freezing!

Not that I should have been surprised. I’d been warned that in the Northwest Territories night-time temperatures could fall below zero even in late September. We weren’t that far from the Arctic circle, after all.

 

‘Villa Metrobian’ by Sam Dawson

The village is small, clinging to the sides of a ridge, bisected by a dusty, precipitous road little wider than a pannier-carrying donkey would or could negotiate. The sky is azure, the rock baked the same dusty tan as the barren-looking soil which, nevertheless, supports a score of olive trees, twisted and ancient. There is a tiny church, a cluster of houses, a decaying villa set some distance from them. In the Greek fashion all the buildings are whitewashed. In the sunlight that whiteness is unbearable to the eyes, and he has to squint just to be able to take it all in.