James Machin
Rex Burrows
Stephen Cashmore
Roger Luckhurst
Sarah LeFanu
Victoria Day
Charles Wilkinson
Cover by Sam Dawson
James Machin
Rex Burrows
Stephen Cashmore
Roger Luckhurst
Sarah LeFanu
Victoria Day
Charles Wilkinson
Cover by Sam Dawson
Clive Ward is one of the veteran contributors to Ghosts & Scholars who can always be relied upon to produce fiction in the M.R. Jamesian tradition. His stories usually offer slow-burn hauntings rather than gut-punch visceral horror - though he does sometimes deliver that punch very effectively. There is often that 'slight haze of distance' MRJ valued. This new collection from Sarob displays all Ward's virtues in four novellas (or 'Quarters'), longer tales in which there is sufficient elbow room to let the uncanny bubble slowly to the surface.
The first story, 'Promenade Walk', concerns a Norfolk seaside town which has seen better days. The narrator recalls a series of visits, each one punctuated by revelations about a notorious local family. Many of the ingredients will be familiar to fans of ghost stories. There's a Punch & Judy show, a tumbledown Martello Tower, and a lighthouse where a lone keeper went insane. At times, I could almost smell the tang of sea air. A dark family history is revealed as the narrator revisits the same run-down souvenir shop, oddly fascinated by its shabby mysteries.
The final volume of Collected Speculative Works from Swan River Press covers the period 1858 to 1864. It was in the opening stages of the American Civil War that O'Brien joined that small but august company of authors who died in war or revolution. Some had already demonstrated their potential, others had yet reach it in full. O'Brien falls into the latter category, judging by the stories gathered here.
As always, the book begins with a masterly essay by John. P. Irish. 'Premonitions of Death' makes clear that O'Brien was strongly committed to the Northern cause early on, unlike many in his Bohemian circle. Combined with this, he was pugnacious and a bit of a scrapper. So it's not surprising that, not long after enlisting, he was shot in a skirmish with a rebel patrol and died of his wounds.
What are the tell tale signs of AI writing?
There are definitely some fingerprints that AI tends to leave behind—especially when it's not trying to hide. Here are a few of the most common tells researchers and editors have spotted:
Overuse of formal or Latinate vocabulary: Words like “utilize,” “commence,” or “ameliorate” pop up more often than they would in natural human writing, especially when simpler words would do.
Repetitive phrasing or tautologies: AI sometimes says the same thing twice in slightly different ways—e.g., “Let’s come together to unite” or “a true fact.”
Paragraphs that start with discourse markers: Words like “However,” “Moreover,” or “Overall,” followed by a comma, are a common AI tic.
Frequent use of the Oxford comma: That’s the comma before “and” in a list—AI tends to use it consistently.
Numbered lists with colons: AI loves structure, and it often defaults to tidy, formulaic formats.
Bland or journalistic tone: The writing can feel polished but emotionally flat—like it’s trying to sound neutral or encyclopedic.
Overuse of em dashes: AI often leans on these to create rhythm or insert asides—sometimes excessively.
Lack of deep analysis or personal insight: Even when the content is informative, it may lack the nuance, contradiction, or vulnerability that marks human thought.
That said, these signs aren’t foolproof. A skilled human can mimic AI, and a well-tuned AI can mimic a human. But when you start seeing several of these traits together, it’s a strong clue.
Would you like to test a passage and see if it raises any red flags? Or maybe explore how to blend your own voice with AI tools without losing that human spark?
I received a review copy of this book. This is the second volume of three in the impressive Swan River Press collection of O'Brien's speculative works. It covers the years 1855-58 and shows the flowering of the Irish-American author's talent. As with the first volume (see review above) the book begins with a masterly essay by John P. Irish. In 'Bohemian Horrors', Irish gives an overview of the fashionable literary world of mid-19th century New York. O'Brien threw himself into the Bohemian lifestyle, which of course retained its glamour well into the 20th century.
The first story in the volume is aptly entitled 'The Bohemian' and is an interesting twist on a familiar theme - the treasure hunt. The narrator, impoverished and obsessed with wealth, encounters the eponymous character, a louche Englishman called Brann, who promises him riches via startling and questionable methods. Brann is a powerful mesmerist, while the narrator's fiancée has clairvoyant powers. Brann proposes putting her in a trance and ordering her to locate a pirate horde on a small island. This works, but the vast wealth the narrator acquires proves worthless. It's a moral tale, presumably influenced by Poe's 'The Gold Bug', but with a very different tone. Brann makes an interesting anti-hero. All in all, an assured piece of work.
Very different in tone and showing the influence of Poe is 'The Comet and I'. This takes a jokey approach to one of the very frequent comet scares, in which it was assumed by many that a cosmic fireball was going to incinerate the earth - or something along those lines. O'Brien's approach is to offer various suggestions to the comet as which particular areas of New York deserve to be devastated. A nice bit of dark humour and a hint of the way the author would exploit the Victorian fascination with science in future stories.
'The Hasheesh Eater' is even darker and foreshadows a similar theme in O'Brien's most famous story. It's the tale of an American who becomes addicted to the drug in Iraq and then manages to kick the habit. However, in a twist that genuinely left me gobsmacked, he is urged by his future father-in-law to try the drug again as part of an experiment. This story is one of several that showcase O'Brien's skill as a weaver of visionary images - a writer of reveries.
I watched this Italian mystery on Prime and got a bit confused from about the tenth minute in. It was recommended by an algorithm when I asked for genre movies from the continent. So it came along with a bunch of Euro-cinema devoted to horror, sci-fi, the paranormal etc. And yet at first it seems to be nothing of the sort. Here's the synopsis from IMDb.
A man is found dead in an office. Sonya, a charming 55-year-old woman, has abandoned her family for a love affair with a younger man. The two stories end up intertwining but nothing is as it seems.
This is the first volume of three, collecting for the first time all of the horror and supernatural works of the Irish-American author whose life was tragically cut short by the Civil War. I was fortunate to receive review copies, which was a very pleasant surprise. The books are things of beauty. The enchanting cover art is by Brian Coldrick.
Of the stories, the title tale still manages to entertain. It also reminds us of how often Arabic myth and legend featured in early Gothic literature. The story tells of a Muslim merchant in old Muscovy and the strange vision he has of Eblis. The Islamic version of Satan presides over his court of demons not in hell within the earth, but at the North Pole. O'Brien's imaginative power is evident here. His descriptions of the polar waste with its pinnacles of ice shining with unholy radiance is first-rate.
The latest edition of Nightmare Abbey is as
strong as its predecessors, which is heartening. Editor Tom English continues
to attract first-rate talent. Many of the writers in this, the eighth issue,
will be familiar to ST readers. But before I pick out a few highlights of the
fiction, let me mention how solid and entertaining the non-fiction is. There’s
an excellent overview of that classic The Black Cat by John Llewellyn Probert,
an interview with Ghostwatch and Gothic writer Stephen Volk, and John V.
Navroth continues his aborbing history of US horror comics.
‘A Legend of the Ile de St Anselm’ by Steve
Duffy is, as we’ve come to expect, a slow-burn tale of weirdness that lingers
in the mind. The setting is a frequently fog-bound isle off the French coast,
reached by a tidal causeway. A retired psychiatrist is approached by a man with
an unusual problem, and the doctor agrees to take the case. The story this
special patient tells is one of strange dreams and stranger realities. It’s an
atmospheric tale with a good twist.
Steve Rasnic Tem’s ‘I Forget What I Was
Going to Say’ is oddly similar in theme thought very different in approach and
style. The first-person narrator tells of a strange and disturbing phenomenon
that is fogging the minds of millions. But is the menace real at all or a product
of ‘mass hysteria’? I often feel the world is going wrong is some hard to
define but awful way, and this story suggests that Tem feels the same way.
‘The Ancient Groves’ by John Llewellyn
Probert is altogether more traditional in its account of a man and his dog who
go for a walk in the woods. I was surprised by the turns the tale took and
quickly found myself rooting for the dog (and his owner). Quite traditional in
approach, this one reminded me of Blackwood and Benson, authors who grasped the
potential for horror in the seemingly passive and picturesque English
countryside.
In ‘Localism’ Helen Grant conjures up one
of the most enduring legends of Scotland – that of strange, aquatic beings who
are notoriously tetchy if humans encroach upon their realms. This is also the
story of a surfing resort with a huge artificial lagoon and wave machine. Some
things do not mix. It’s a detailed and – at the end – bloody tale. All good
messy fun.
I expected to be impressed by Sean Hogan’s ‘After
and Before’, given his sterling record on two excellent films – The Devil’s
Business and the Bordelands. I was not disappointed. Hogan evokes a grotty
holiday village on England’s coast and a couple taking a break from the mundane
pressures of a rickety economy. Instead, they find a different kind of escape –
or is it captivity? An excellent tale, full of atmosphere and nicely understated.
If you haven’t already discovered Nightmare
Abbey, you should give it a try. It’s probably not trying to be the Weird Tales
of our time, but it’s coming pretty close in my estimation. I suspect we will
see even greater things emerge, quite possibly blinking and wriggling in the unaccustomed
light of day, in future issues.
Christopher Harman's work has been appearing in ST for quite a while. This new collection of nine stories contains three that I had the pleasure of getting first dibs on. Those tales - 'Cold Air from the East', 'The Abbey Hoard', and 'Black Water' - are all excellent, I need hardly add. Rereading them confirms how well Harman builds his tales. He is, to coin a phrase, an architectural writer, creating a strange edifice that we can explore and inhabit for a while. And yet he is also a writer of the great outdoors with a very British love of the countryside, the coast, the long hike in the rain.
Cover by Paul Lowe for 'Wet Jenny' |
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.
‘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.
New stories by: James Machin Rex Burrows Stephen Cashmore Roger Luckhurst Sarah LeFanu Victoria Day Charles Wilkinson Cover by Sam Dawson