That’s not the focus of The Host, of course, but one can extrapolate that being a potential eventual outcome. It is suggested by the shot of the Flukeman hiding in the waste of a porta potty. It is threatened by the closing shot of ol’ Flukey lingering in the depths of the city sewage system. It is implied that those attacked sanitization workers are merely the first wave of victims — and that any one of us could eventually find ourselves the unwitting victim of the monstrous parasitic creature.

And honestly, what could be creepier than the thought that such disturbing horrors could befall any of us while taking care of one of our most basic everyday bodily functions? It’s a thought so off-putting you’ll be too scared even to shit yourself.

The Host takes this most unsettling of concerns and runs with it, creating one of The X-Files’ most iconic villains. The episode’s origins, however, demonstrate the show’s fantastic knack of taking something that exists in the real world, liberally twisting it, and taking it to the extreme to make the basis of a great horror story. Here, the inspiration was Carter’s disgusting experience with his pet dog getting worms. Multiplied to the power of X and of course you get a humanoid flukeworm villain.

As Scully points out, “Believe it or not, something like 40 million people are infected [with such parasitic worms] worldwide.” Yuck.

Indeed, much of the episode’s physiological grossness is based in real-world science. Flukeman’s bite mark on the initial sanitization worker is modeled on the wound inflicted by actual flatworms’ sucker-like mouths, only much, much larger. The fact that Flukeman transmits its larvae through bites, using its victims as hosts to incubate its young, only adds to the horror.

One would like to imagine that some of the other vivid imagery associated with the parasitosis is exaggerated for TV — such as the flukeworm bursting out of a body mid-autopsy or being coughed up by a host while taking a shower — but I’m not about to research it and verify that what the show portrays is legit. So, let’s just assume it’s exaggerated, shall we?

On that shower scene: apparently the producers had to push back hard to get Fox to agree to air the scene as it did. Described as one of the grossest moments of television ever broadcast at the time, it pushed the envelope for what was permissible in primetime.

Elsewhere the show adheres to strict standards and practices, yet still manages to convey a sense of bloody violence: when the Flukeman is chopped in half, you don’t see any blood or guts, yet the expression the creature makes and the noise it emits powerfully conveys the painful attack so sufficiently that you recoil, even though it is a monster getting its just deserts.

And what a nasty-looking cryptid the Flukeman is! When we get our first good glimpse of the monstrosity, trapped in a glass tube at the sewage works, he is all wrinkly prune skin, inhuman eyes, and a large tooth-filled maw — a disgusting mutant that is sure to leave a bad taste in your mouth that all the toothpaste and chewing gum in the world can’t get rid of.

The Host is dripping in a sense of stomach-churning nausea. It does take place in the world of industrial-scale human waste, after all. Credit is due in no small part to the cast for convincingly selling their repulsed reactions to the terrible smells they encounter — particularly in the scene where Mulder and the Sewage Foreman explore the water-logged tunnels at the episode’s climax. (It’s also noteworthy that, just one season prior, Mulder was vocally worried about getting a little bit of bile off his fingers without betraying his cool exterior, but here he’s suffering the indignity of polluted drainage dripping on his shoulders — and that’s before he takes a spill in the agua most foul.)

Regardless, the old industrial aesthetic of this setting, not to mention the sewers themselves, are perfect for the moody, shadowy locations The X-Files was known for.

So too, the Flukeman is a perfect X-Files baddie. He’s deadly, but he’s not human, so how exactly do you resolve this case upon his capture? He can’t be prosecuted. Is he disappeared into a laboratory and experimented on? Is he simply destroyed as if he were a rabid animal? The Host confronts this dilemma but never finds a solution.

As with any great episode of the show, much is left unresolved. The wrap up theorizes on the origins of the Flukeman — a mutation caused by radioactive sewage from Chernobyl, making him something of an incestuous offspring of Godzilla and Creature from the Black Lagoon — but Mulder is quick to point out that “they say three species disappear off the planet everyday… you wonder how many new ones are being created.”

Ultimately, life persists. And so does the Flukeman (or at least one of his potentially hundreds of offspring) who is alive and well in the episode’s final shot. Still out there. Still swimming. Still potentially poised to slither up your sewer pipe and attack you when you least expect it.

This essay is an extract from my book Spooky: The Horror of The X-Files now available to buy on Amazon and Kobo.

I sit in my tree and I wait. I know their festivities are imminent because I have been watching the houses of the town prepare. Ordinarily unremarkable buildings have adorned themselves with colorful lights and plastic cobwebs. Giant Hallows made of bone have been erected in their yards. Ethereal blobs of white inflate each dusk and waver, illuminated from within. Emptied out pumpkins carved with hollow eyes and crooked grins are set on doorsteps as a sign that freaks are welcome.

As the sun sets, the first of the Hallows appear on the street. These are the smallest of them, I have noticed. They are accompanied by larger Hallows, what I understand to be both their masters and protectors. I am giddy with anticipation, but I know I must wait until it is fully dark. These Hallows are dressed in bright colors and show their faces. I will wait for those with whom I can blend in more discreetly. Eventually, the lights along the rows of homes glow bright, the sun has set, and the street fills with all sorts of vile and creepy freaks. It is time for me to join them.

Forcing myself not to rush, I slink along the branches, between the sprays, being careful not to shake the leaves too much lest I draw attention to my hiding place. Then I slide and slither down the trunk and conceal myself in the shadows. Hesitating to make sure that no-one spied my descent. When I am confident it is safe to do so, I emerge from the shroud and move between the crowd of Hallows, losing myself in the hustle and bustle as though I was there all along. Tonight, I belong. Tonight, I am a Hallow too. And I shall eat of them.

I allow myself to be guided by the flow of bodies around me, submitting myself to their pace and direction. I have no preconceived intent or plan for the evening. I am content to allow events to manifest around me.

I move with a group of Hallows towards one of the houses decorated with pumpkins and bats and lights that move along the façade as if the opposite of shadows. The scent of the Hallows nearest to me fills up my nostrils; the prickly tang of blood and musky sweat remind me that Hallows are not so different from my own kind despite our many differences.

The door of the house opens and an elderly Hallow appears. I can tell she is old because the color has faded from her hair, lines crack her face, and her skin is wearing loose. The Hallows crushing about me thrust forward with excitement as she passes out tokens they call candy. They are eager to receive the tokens but careful to be well mannered. The old Hallow makes a point of taking a moment with each of them to tell them that she likes how they look.

I am shoved forward with the rest and then I am face to face with her. She coos in my face and tells me that she likes my mask. Her ancient breath is a strange mixture of ash and herbs. She hands me one of the candies. I take it and smile in thanks, mimicking my Hallow companions, my lips cracking slightly so that my fangs are exposed before I even realize. Thankfully, none of the Hallows notice and I am jostled away by the crowd once more, swept with them as they move to the next house where a group are sat around a giant bowl of fire. There is more space here, so Hallows flow around me to obtain their tokens. I let them go. There are other things of greater interest.

A small Hallow is standing all alone in the middle of what they call the road. Normally there are giant beasts of metal racing up and down the road. The Hallows ride inside them. But not tonight. On this evening, as it is every year, the Hallows transport themselves by foot so as to better display their freakish attire. This small Hallow is dressed in bright blue furs that would make poor camouflage in the wild, but here it seems no-one has noticed him. No-one but me.

I do not take my eyes off him as I glide forward through the rushing Hallows passing by. It is as though this was meant to be. The sound of my own breathing fills my ears. I am panting low and slow, my eager hunger obvious. My maw is moist. I lick my lips.

And then I am next to him.

The little Hallow looks up at me. His eyes are red and wet. Snot drips from his nose. His knuckles are white where they grip the handle for his bucket of tokens.

“I lost my Mommy,” he sniffs.

I snuffle him. Beneath the masking floral scent that covers his skin, I smell urine, salt, and candies. I turn away and inhale the night. Hallows push past. Ignoring us. I do not detect any that could be his keeper. This is easy prey, but I should not let my guard down.

Turning back to the young Hallow, I discover he is studying me. Looking closer and longer than any Hallow has ever looked at me before.

“I like your costume,” he tells me, his eyes no longer dripping wet. “What are you supposed to be?”

I make an odd noise that experience tells me amuses young Hallows like him. I shake my head and wave my appendages as I do so. He smiles a broad grin. Forgets what question he asked. These are such simple creatures.

“Can you help me find my Mom?”

I shake my head up and down, like I’ve seen the Hallows do to convey agreement. The young Hallow clutches on to me and lets me lead him through the tangle of legs as bigger ones dash and swarm all around us. I feel his fingers digging into my flesh, like little claws that are too weak and blunt to pierce the skin. His aroma is swimming in my snout, and I want so badly to devour him on the spot. But I know I must not. I must be patient.

I lead him away from the tree which I climbed down. It is vital to be discreet. When they find his body there should be no clue about what happened. Nothing that could suggest the existence of my kind. We have always remained hidden, and so it should ever be.

Instead, I lead him down the road to a field behind the row of houses. In the summer the grass in the field is short. Young Hallows such as he will often gather there and play games. One of them involves a disparate circle of bodies; they will take it in turn to hit a ball with a stick then run or try to catch it. In another game they knock a ball to each other with their feet, trying to get it between piles of clothing they have positioned on the ground. So many dusks I have watched them do these things.

Now the field is filled with uncut grass that has been allowed to grow long. The field is dark. The Hallow doesn’t realize that is where I am taking him until we get close. We are almost there when I feel him stop and despite my pulling he does not follow. I survey him and recognize fear in his eyes. He hesitates, then looks back in the direction we’ve come from. At the other Hallows still occupied with their festivities. His gaze returns to me. I see terror on his face. He releases his grip. But he does not back away fast enough.

Quick as a buraq, I lunge at him. Knock him to the ground. Grab him and drag him into the cover of the tall dark grass. He was on the cusp of screaming but his head hit the road and that silenced him. But I am cautious and I haul him deep into the field before I stop. His small frail body is splayed slack across the dirt. Limp and broken and still. There is a trail of scattered candy tokens betraying our path. All my ears prick up but I don’t detect any cause for worry. My heart is thumping and my lungs are billowing in my chest. They must cease so I can be sure that no-one is pursuing me.

No-one is.

I carefully raise my head above the grass and survey the road where all the Hallows are. None have noticed me, nor the young one calling out. Good. It is time. I can eat. My fangs shred the synthetic fur and arrive at the meat within. He is tender and delicious. His blood is nectar. I eat my fill and I am satisfied.

When I am done, I wipe some of his mess from my face but there is no need to worry about it as many Hallows have decorated themselves with similar designs. I pick up his bucket and claim it for my own. I emerge from the grass and my tail discreetly brushes away those candies that fell on the edge of the road, that left alone would doubtless lead the way to his corpse.

I amble through the crowd and head towards my perch. A towering Hallow sways past, looks directly at me, then says something that rings flattering and extends his fist. I tap it with one of my own appendages. He tosses a candy into my stolen bucket.

At the tree, I check that I am not being watched and when I am confident it is safe, I scurry up and take the young Hallow’s bucket with me. I will surely find some use for it.

I lounge in the branches, full and content, and watch as the Hallows below slowly return to their homes. All but a few. Metal beasts with pulsing lights appear. The Hallows within emerge and talk in anxious tones to others that were waiting for them. They are upset. They must be my victim’s guardians. The Hallows go from house to house but those within all shake their heads in turn.

They are still looking for him when the sun comes up, and I curl up in my nest to sleep. I notice them venturing into the field. I hear a scream.

Despite their differences, this “odd couple” dynamic results in a complementary team where Columbus brings the defensive strategy with his pedantic list of rules for safety and Tallahassee provides the offensive firepower.

The film’s opening demonstrates the validity of Columbus’ rules to live by —literally in order to avoid dying — through a series of amusing vignettes demonstrating the grisly consequences that befall those who don’t do cardio, or double tap, or wear a seatbelt.

Right out of the gate the film packs plenty of gore: a zombified Secret Service agent belching freshly-gorged blood directly on to the camera lens, a birthday party full of little girls dressed as princesses violently assaulting a minivan, and a three-legged race where the leading team of survivors are hotly pursued by also-three-legged teams of zombies — all before the opening credits finish conclude. (Side note: Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls is a killer soundtrack for this early montage of slow-mo deaths.)

These critical rules are called back throughout the rest of the film via on-screen graphics which somehow manage to provoke giggles all on their own.

Columbus is, of course, our protagonist. Despite being anxious and socially awkward, he is also intelligent and empathic — and the natural everyman counterpart to Tallahassee’s daredevil action lover. It doesn’t hurt either, that he’s played by Jesse Eisenberg with his trademark deadpan charm (an early highlight: “I’m in Garland, Texas. And it may look like zombies destroyed it, but that’s actually just Garland.”).

It is Columbus who experiences the traditional hero’s journey: forced to operate outside his comfort zone after teaming up with Tallahassee he experiences multi-dimensional growth and awareness and must ultimately break one of his own steadfast rules — and face one of his greatest fears — in order to save someone important to him.

Despite the scope and budget of the film, Zombieland has a minimal central cast. Other than our core duo there’s really only the con artist sisters, Wichita and Little Rock, who deceive our heroes into giving up their weapons and their vehicle… and then scam them all over again just a little way down the road.

No review of Zombieland is complete without mentioning its infamous celebrity cameo — so spoiler ahead if you haven’t seen it… The inclusion of Billy Fucking Murray as a version of himself that uses stage makeup to pass as a zombie so he can continue to play golf unbothered is a delight. He’s such a big name and presence that his rapid dispatch is both shocking and hilarious. (His post-credits appearance in Zombieland: Double Tap is also one of the best things about the 2019 sequel.)

Zombieland is a delightfully fun and funny film adored by horror fans. It reminds us that horror is entertaining, that people and relationships are ultimately what life is all about, and that even when the world is ending, it’s important to find time to enjoy the little things.

As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. You can support Horror Harwood by buying Zombieland on Amazon here. Thank you :)

Has this girl never seen a horror movie before?

Needless to say, her ill-advised excursion does not go well. In fact, the entire trip is a disaster. Much sooner than she anticipated, Mickey flees in the opposite direction (back home) with the malevolent haunt still in hot pursuit, which is hardly convenient for her nine-to-five obligations.

Poltergeist-like harassment quickly escalates into white knuckle terror, and it soon becomes all too clear that this spiteful spook has dastardly plans for Mickey — and is only too willing to murder Mickey’s friends and loved ones in order to get back at her.

The good news is that Mickey has an enviable support system that not only includes her fiancé Hector, but also his parents (Eliza and Yunior) and best friend (Cisco). The problem is that in supporting Mickey, they too put a target on their own backs.

As it turns out, the unrelenting entity is indeed a deceased figure from Mickey’s past; back in the day, she was an antisocial criminal who got into all sorts of trouble that she should by rights be in jail for. She might have avoided prison and turned her life around, but this phantom isn’t going to let her past misdeeds go unpunished. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold — and it’s even more delicious when it’s Doordashed from beyond the grave.

October Rust is a thrilling and fun ride that barely lets up, employing the trope of a vengeful phantom to ultimately tell a story about hope and new beginnings. When we first meet Mickey, she has more or less got her shit together; her villainous past is far behind her, and she’s striving and surviving in the working class purgatory that is suburban Baltimore — she even has a cat and her own apartment, so she’d be doing pretty damn well if it wasn’t for that pesky spirit.

Or spirits, rather. Because the ghost isn’t Mickey’s only albatross — she’s also fighting a losing battle against her long-term alcohol addiction, a situation which has only been exacerbated by the revenge-seeking revenant who refuses to relent.

Roughly a third of the way into his novel, Van Horn beautifully articulates the headspace of Mickey and her struggle as she wrestles with her booze fiend nature in a way that feels all too real and relatable. Like Incidents Around the House and It Follows, October Rust is a horror story firmly set in the mundanely ordinary world we all inhabit. The stakes confronting Mickey are not only insurmountable they should be impossible, meaning there’s very few viable avenues actually available. In which case, why not go on a solo sojourn to a cabin in the woods? What other options are there? For what it’s worth, Van Horn’s horror bona fides are clearly evident — and he namechecks enough genre faves and deep cuts to make Stephen King blush (Child’s Play, Night of the Demons, Shadow People, and Ghostquake all get a shoutout).

The world of this book feels deftly real, relatable, and lived in. This is in no small part thanks to the specificity of Mickey’s day-to-day existence which is breathed to life just as much by the details of her dead end customer service job at a snack company as it is by her familiarizing herself with the Catholic religion (she’s in the process of converting before marrying Hector) and Eliza’s experience with Santeria (a syncretic African Yoruba-Roman Catholic mysticism). Likewise, the characters are convincingly drawn, multi-dimensional, and entirely compelling.

There have been many stories about protagonists being haunted by their prior sins, but October Rust plays a remarkably fresh tune with familiar notes. Mickey may well have buried her dark past, but the dead refuse to let sleeping dogs lie. And as much as you’re rooting for Mickey to accomplish a happy ending, simply accompanying her on the journey is rewarding enough.

As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases. You can support Horror Harwood by buying October Rust on Amazon here. Thank you :)

Ice is John Carpenter’s The Thing on a TV budget. Or, perhaps more pedantically, it was inspired by the same source material as that movie (John W. Campbell’s novella, Who Goes There?). But as far as your average modern horror fan is concerned, Ice is a masterfully done ripoff of The Thing on a TV budget.

Yes, the similarities between the two are difficult to overlook: both are set at isolated scientific stations in the (Ant)Arctic, involve an undetectable infection, and deal with increasing paranoia and mistrust among those stranded together in close quarters as an alien organism covertly “possesses” individuals — making them a deadly threat to the other non-infected characters.

But whereas The Thing is a gory special-effects laden cinematic thriller, The X-Files’ version had the constraints of a 90’s TV budget and production schedule, which meant the central idea translated into much more of a psychological thriller than its action-movie counterpart.

The episode begins with a video transmission from the lone survivor of a crew based at a remote Alaskan research station who keeps repeating the same phrase over and over again: “We are not who we are… We are not who we are…” In retrospect, it was a heroic feat on his part — his remaining humanity momentarily triumphing over the murderous brain worm to send a warning to anyone who might otherwise venture to the base to figure out what went wrong. What a pity it wasn’t heeded!

Soon enough, Mulder and Scully are stranded at that very same base with three other scientists and a helicopter pilot. But no sooner than they arrive, so the pilot is bitten by a seemingly rabid dog left behind by the first (now dead) team. The dog was infected, its bite infected the pilot, and everyone’s favorite redhead quickly figures out that they’re dealing with a transmissible parasite that turns its host homicidal.

And so begins a highly taut pressure cooker of a situation with this small handful of characters stranded together in the last frontier, not at all sure whether they can trust each other. If any one of them are infected, then it could spell death for the others. This is The X-Files at its peak: Ice is a horror chamber piece that fully embraces the show’s 70s paranoia inspirations via its source material’s red scare subtext.

Despite the illogic, divisions amongst the group fracture along lines of familiarity. Mulder and Scully naturally have each other’s backs, as do Drs. Hodge and DaSilva. But there’s no tangible reason for any of them to divide and team up in such a way — because there’s literally no way for any of them to know who amongst their number is actually uninfected or not. It’s a complete guessing game; even that person you believe you can ordinarily trust more than anyone else in the world might not be who they appear to be.

And let’s not lose sight of what’s ultimately at risk here: it’s not just that the infected unhindered will kill everyone else. To be infected by the parasite is to lose your very self. First your mind, but ultimately your life. When the pilot, Bear, realizes that he is infected, he desperately wants to flee the ice station and get back to civilization. Part of that is surely the parasite’s ambition to spread its contagion to as large a populace as possible, but it’s also significantly driven by Bear’s very real and very human fear for his own mortality.

Ice is also a great example of how The X-Files uses science to both legitimatize and propagate fear. In determining the stakes of the situation they’ve blundered into, Scully and the other scientists examine the parasitic organism to learn about the grave threat that it poses. They hypothesize, they learn new information, and their understanding evolves.

Science also poses a probable cure: the parasites are hermaphroditic; they don’t need another to reproduce. Rather, they are antagonistic to each other — and would kill each other rather than have to share a host. Experimenting on the dog they know for sure is infected, they discover that introducing a parasite into an already-infected organism cures it. Bingo, the dog is back to normal.

The problem is that the majority believe (but don’t know for certain) that Mulder is infected. And so, when they try to cure him by purposefully inoculate him with a parasite, they don’t really know whether they are actually saving him — or condemning him (and, by extension, themselves).

Ice is an extremely well executed hour of television that served as an early high bar for what the show could accomplish at it’s very best. It’s a chilling examination of human nature under duress, that employs relentless tension to ratchet up the terror, all while touching on themes of fear, trust, and identity.

It isn’t just a great example of a scary X-Files episode, it also helped solidify the show’s reputation as an intelligent horror series, specifically by leaning into both these thematic explorations and the underpinning science that allows our heroes to make sense of this most unnatural horror they are confronted with.

This essay is an extract from my book Spooky: The Horror of The X-Files now available to buy on Amazon and Kobo.

He shuffled cautiously forward, each step an effort in the thick and heavy snow. Each time he set down a boot it landed with a hollow crunch, yet when he went to raise that foot again it was as though the ground had frozen tight around it and refused to release it without a fight. Though his face was numb and pale with the frigid air, beneath his many layers he felt a trickle of sweat snake its way down his back, from the nape of his neck to the crack of his arse.

Most of the carcasses he’d dealt with this spring were newborn lambs, frozen to death by the sudden brutal cold. Decimated when they should be frolicking. But at least their bodies were clean.

Blackened red pooled around a mutilated sheep’s corpse, casting an ominous stain on the pristine white ground. Darkening. The adult ewe’s matted wool was harsh with blood. A trail of bloody hoofprints emanated from a ragged gash across the animal’s belly as though some cruel and violent mimicry of birthing had occurred. Over the course of three or four meters, the prints gradually faded until they were simply impressions in the snow headed down the mountainside and away.

The old man crept closer to the body, wincing with disgust at its ruin and destruction. Thankful for the freeze, knowing that the smell would otherwise be unbearable. The wound ran the length of the animal’s abdomen. Certain organs — guts, intestines — lay frozen on the ground next to the body at once brittle and unmalleable. The barrel had collapsed in on itself. He lifted the flap of flesh with the tip of his shotgun to see inside the opening. A mashed and steaming hollow. He recoiled. It stank.

A gloved hand covering his nose, he turned and stared around him. Blinking at the snowdrops that continued to fall. There was nothing but whiteness all about, falling off at intervals with the slope of the landscape, the sky so thick with clouds he couldn’t even see the peaks beyond his own. His eyes stung and watered with the blinding vastness. It felt in that moment that it had gotten much colder.

He tracked the mysterious hoofprints down the slope for a while before they vanished altogether beneath the more recent snowfall. Then he cut briskly across the hillside towards his stone cottage; the flickering eyes of its windows a beacon in the murky weather.

Inside, he stomped his feet to shake off the compressed ice from his boots and the dusting of snow from his shoulders and hat. He pulled his stool up near the fireplace and tossed on a couple more logs. Warming himself and taking pleasurable comfort in the hissing and spitting of the flames. As he gradually defrosted, he removed his hat, his coat, his boots. He made himself a supper of bread and cheese with a pot of hot tea.

After eating, he looked out of the window. Wondering about the violated sheep. Worrying about the remainder of his flock. Hoping that this storm would soon relent and spring could come once more — and that this time it would stick.

Then, out of the darkness across the hillside a shape emerged. It was a boy. A child. He couldn’t quite believe it at first, but as the figure drew closer, he was sure it was not a mere figment of his imagination. He was a young boy, naked and dirty and covered in dried blood — his eyes big and dark and black — stumbling forward, trembling violently from the cold.

The old man paused only to put his own boots on, then dashed out into the blizzard. Had he been a second later the child would have collapsed into a snowdrift where he would have surely perished, but the man’s arms were there to catch him. He carried him inside, laid him by the fire, and stacked mounds of blankets on top of him. He didn’t know what to do then, so he stood stupidly over the boy, watching him. Breathing heavily. The old man’s eyes widened in panic and confusion as he noticed that the child, who appeared otherwise ordinary, had two black cloven hooves where his feet should be.

A tremor of fear squirmed down his spine. His forehead knotted into a tumor of anguish. Exhaling purposefully, he steadied himself then set about boiling a fresh pot of water. He found a bowl and a washcloth and knelt beside the boy, carefully cleaning his skin of the crusted blood and filth that had accumulated all over him, although he left the hooves well alone.

The boy slept through it all. The man watched his chest rise and fall as his eyeballs danced beneath their lids. He looked to be at peace. The old man barely slept that night. Instead, he sat at his small table and kept watch over the sleeping child, only occasionally moving when his back got too stiff or when he needed to refill the tobacco in his pipe. Eventually, however, he too surrendered to the Sandman.

When he woke, the boy was gone. He started, refusing to believe that it had all been a dream — but no, there was a pile of blankets on the floor where the boy had lain. He stoked the fire, then pulled on his outdoor gear and headed out into the sparkling morning.

It was cold out and the sky was still white-grey, but the air was clear. The world was quiet and calm. The ground was wrapped in a pristine covering across which it was easy to track the path of the abominable child. He trudged after him, breathing roughly as the cold air hit his aging lungs, whispers of fog dancing on his lips.

He found the boy just around the curve of the hill beneath his cottage, wrapped in one of his blankets, suckling on the teat of a grieving dam. The ewe seemed unbothered and there was something about the way the boy suckled that implied he’d gained sustenance this way before. The old man held back so as not to intrude. Eventually the boy noticed him. He turned to the old man and bleated a greeting in what sounded to be an annoyed tone, then resumed his feeding.

Once he was done filling his belly with fresh warm milk, he trotted over to the man and looked up at him. His expression blank, betraying no suggestion of shame nor satisfaction. The man saw now that whisps of white hairs were showing on the boy’s arms and shoulders. He was certain they had not been there the night before.

“This way,” croaked the old man — for it had been a not insignificant time since he had cause to speak aloud, “let’s get you some proper clothes.”

He turned and headed back uphill. He didn’t check to see the boy was following. Somehow, he knew instinctively that he was.

He found the boy a pair of thermal long johns that was surely far too big, but beggars can’t be choosers. To this he added a woolen jumper and an old wax jacket. He determined that the boy had no need for boots. He made them each a plate of toast and a cup of tea, but the boy touched neither. He just sat and watched the old man eat. The old man was amused by the boy’s blank stare, his big black eyes always watching. It was nice to have some company.

When it was time for the old man to head outside and track down his flock and ensure all his animals were well, the boy followed him. He remained always a few steps back, never drawing attention to himself, never getting in the way or being a bother. Simply shadowing. The boy never said a word, never shifted the vacant expression on his face. The man was satisfied to let the boy be; he asked him no questions because he was sure the boy would provide no answers, even supposing that he was able. As the day wore on, he found himself increasingly comfortable with the boy always being at his back or in the far reaches of his peripheral vision.

That night, the man prepared them both supper while the boy sat in front of the fireplace and watched the flickering flames. Once again, the boy ignored the food that was offered, but he sniffed around the mug next to his plate and, realizing that the man had provided him a cup of sheep’s milk, he chugged it down. A thin line of milk graced his upper lip which remained as straight and as expressionless as ever. He looked at the old man with those big blank eyes and watched him as he ate.

Over the next few days, the man and the boy grew ever more comfortable in each other’s presence. The old man was satisfied with the silence between them. He was accustomed to it. As the boy became familiar with the old man’s routines, he grew to understand the man’s grunts and nods and gestures, and so the boy became his apprentice: wordlessly assisting in breaking the ice on the sheep’s water trough, dragging a bale of hay from the barn, milking the childless mothers into a bucket. But though the old man enjoyed having the boy around, he knew that there was something very unnatural about the child.

The growth of hairs on the boy’s skin had become thicker and more pronounced until it got to the point where the old man recognized it for what it truly was: a burgeoning fleece of lamb’s wool. Added to the hooved feet and all-black eyes, it was impossible to ignore that this boy was some kind of impossible sheep-child.

One evening, after they were done with their chores for the day, the old man shaved and then offered his razor to the boy. He was thinking that the boy might want to sheer himself of the fleece which was now getting quite thick. The boy simply looked at the razor, then back at the man, simply staring until the man felt foolish and hurriedly put his shaving kit away.

The days wore on. The snow stopped and hardened into ice. Over several days, the sun melted it into translucency and then to nothingness. Only the larger drifts in shadows were spared to linger. Mottled patches of green and brown appeared in the tundra’s crust and there was a resurgence of yellow flowers. The clouds above grew less impenetrable. Though he was cautious in his assessment, it seemed to the old man that spring had finally arrived at last.

The delayed progression of the seasons was welcome and spurred a change in the old man himself. He was energized and eager to break free of the confines of the overlong winter. The grass was lush and fresh, so his sheep required less regular attention. He could take a break for a day or two, so he decided to take the boy on an excursion to the far side of the valley. They would camp out beneath the stars, the old man thought. He boy would enjoy that, wouldn’t he?

And so he packed his rucksack and tried to articulate to the boy what they were up to. He wasn’t sure that the boy understood, but still he followed the old man as he hiked off across the meadow. Only when they reached the furthest reaches of the flock did the boy hesitate. The old man looked back at him. The boy himself looked back at the grazing sheep. He seemed unsure. Eventually, though, he continued following the old man.

They walked. The exercise felt good to the old man as the movement worked out the stiffness that had settled in his bones in the cold winter months. His famished muscles that had felt tired at first now felt eager as a renewed sense of energy was unleashed through his veins. The boy seemed excited by the adventure too — it didn’t take long for him to bound ahead of the old man, skipping and frolicking on the bare rocks as they scrambled over the hillside.

The old man liked watching him. He felt a paternal joy in doing do. As he looked upon the strange child, he felt a burgeoning smile grow across his lips into a broad fatherly grin. He’d had no reason to smile in years.

By late afternoon, they had reached the far side of the valley where the old man intended to set up camp. The sky was thick with clouds, but they were not laden with snow or rain. It would be a cool night, but dry and not too cold. He had decided to forego a tent as his thick sleeping bag would provide sufficient warmth. The boy would be fine curled up. That was what he was accustomed to, such was his nature.

They set about building a fire. The man made some coffee. The boy drank some milk. As they sat on the hillside and watched their flock across the valley the old man suddenly spoke, the words flowing out of him before he even realized the thought of them had sprung from his head. “One day, all of this will be yours, bach. You’re a good boy and I’m glad that you came to me. There’s probably not too many years left for me, so I’m glad to know all of this will be in good hands when I’m gone. It’s hard work as you know, and a lonely life, but I’ve always liked it. I think you will too.”

The boy just looked at him with his black unreadable eyes as impenetrable as ever.

In the morning, the old man woke to the sight of the boy scrambling across the hillside towards him on all fours with something limp and red hanging from his mouth. Suddenly the boy was upon him and dropped the carcasses of two freshly killed rabbits at the old man’s side. He nudged one of the bodies towards the man. As the old man studied the offering, he considered how this new development impacted what he thought he understood of his companion. Up until now he had only known the boy to drink milk. True, there was one time when he caught the boy chewing on some hay, but he had ignored it, had no desire to make a fuss about it. He wondered now whether that had indeed been a one-time occurrence as he’d allowed himself to believe or not. Certainly, he had never known the boy to touch meat.

But today was that day. The boy tore into his own rabbit. Ripping away the fur with his bare hands and biting straight into the raw and exposed flesh beneath. For the first time, the old man saw just how sharp the boy’s teeth were. They were more wolf’s teeth than sheep’s. Blood dripped down his chin as he ate, and when he was done the entire lower half of his face was smeared in scarlet. The boy smiled. Satisfied.

The old man felt sick to his stomach. Seeing the boy eat in that manner had utterly nauseated him. He gestured to the boy that he wasn’t hungry, but the boy didn’t seem to understand. He pushed the rabbit away from him, but the boy nudged it back. The man raised his hands, no, but the boy pushed his face closer to the man’s. The boy bleated as though giving a command. The man stumbled backwards in fear. The boy nudged the rabbit towards him. Bleated again. It was a threatening cry of a bully and a beast. You will eat.

Obediently, the old man did as the sheep-boy demanded, but he did it his way. He relit the fire which had gone out overnight. He butchered the rabbit and strung the meat to a branch he positioned over the flames. While his breakfast roasted, he set about packing up his gear. He’d left the guts and other inedible parts of the critter to one side but noticed now that they had disappeared. He didn’t know for sure, but suspected the boy had eaten them when he wasn’t looking. The thought sickened him. When the rabbit was cooked, he forced himself to eat. The gamey taste was welcome, but it was very greasy and there wasn’t much meat. He offered a leg to the boy, but the child had no interested in it.

Afterwards, the boy seemed smugly satisfied at having won their standoff. He skipped around near the old man as he prepared to leave. It was like before, except it wasn’t at all. The power dynamic had shifted between them.

The old man nodded back towards his cottage and his flock. Ready to go. But the sheep-boy shook his head and scowled. He gestured in another direction, towards a distant hillside dotted with some other flock. The old man shook his head, gestured again towards his home. The boy grew angry, got close into the old man’s face again, but this time the old man did not back down. The sheep-boy headbutted him, knocking him to the ground. The old man sprawled in the grass as the boy towered over him threateningly.

“No,” barked the old man like a master might command his dog, “I’m going home. You want to go that way, fine. Go that way. Leave me be. Good riddance to you.”

The sheep-boy did not react.

“Go!” yelled the man again.

The sheep-boy bent and grabbed the man’s trouser cuff in his teeth and started dragging him towards the distant hill.

“No,” cried the old man. “Leave me be.”

But the sheep-boy continued to tug him away. The old man reached out and tried to grab anything that he might hold on to. Wet grass and dirt slipped through his fingers, but eventually he clutched hold of a rock. He drew it up inside his fist and hurled it at the sheep-boy’s head. It struck his skull with a hard wet crack.

The boy released the man’s clothing and dove on top of him, his razor-sharp teeth now gnashing at the old man’s face. The old man held him off with one flat palm while the other searched desperately out of sight for another stone. It found one. He smashed it hard against the monster’s head, knocking him off and causing him to roll a little ways down the hillside. Wasting no time, the old man scrambled to his feet.

They boy stood too. He was nowhere near so tall as the man, but stood straight with his shoulders up and his chest out, fangs bared. They stared at each other like that. Both angry at the other, but neither willing to back down. They sheep-boy snarled at the old man, his lips and nose now looking more like a sheep’s muzzle than ever before. Then he turned and walked away, heading down the mountainside. The old man remained where he was, watching the boy until he was far away down the hillside and then no longer visible at all.

All the way home, the old man kept watch over his shoulder; fearful that the boy would return and launch a sneak attack, but he never did. Finally, he reached his own hillside. His sheep were all fine. He went inside his cottage and shut the door.

The next few days were a hangover reintroducing him to reality. The time he had spent with the boy — a horrid creature he had been tricked into thinking of as a son — was now nothing more than a fantastic memory which didn’t seem like it had ever been real. As he worked his chores, normality returned. It had always been like this.

He dug a trench a satisfactory distance from his cottage, deep enough to bury the bodies of those lambs that had not survived the freeze. As he filled in the last of the dirt and smoothed it flat with his shovel, he told himself that this time next year the scar on the earth would be covered with grass that his living sheep would graze. Life would continue and no-one would be any the wiser.

That night, he woke with a start. Terrified and instantly certain that he was not alone. The fire was dying and the moon and stars were bright. He saw something rush past his window. He heard dull scrapes against his door. He sprung from his bed and grabbed his shotgun. Checked it was loaded. He burst outside and pointed the weapon.

“Where are you?” he demanded. “I know you’re here, I know it’s you.”

But there was nothing but the night.

The next morning when he woke there was a dead rabbit on his doorstep torn asunder. Dismembered, scattered. An ear here, a leg over there. Clotted blood everywhere.

The old man’s legs buckled. He was scared and suddenly filled with overwhelming sorrow. He sunk to his knees in the doorway. Just beyond his cottage, his flock continued to graze, unaware and unconcerned about the horrors he had endured.

He never saw the boy again.

Isn’t this the experience you want from a horror movie based on a video game? You want to feel scared, you want to feel like danger lurks around the next blind corner, you want the push-and-pull of the white-knuckle adrenaline ride and subsequent dopamine rush for momentary survival. At least, I imagine you do. I definitely enjoyed it.

Resident Evil is the third video game adaptation I’ve watched this year. Each of them approached their task in very different but equally creative ways. Until Dawn (David F. Sandberg, 2025) utilized the Groundhog Day nature of dying in a game only having to redo what you’ve already done — but with the added complexity and horror of things being different every time. Exit 8 (Genki Kawamura, 2025) similarly made excellent use of the relentless loop of experience, setback, and eventual progress to craft a surprisingly complex and compelling cinematic experience. Resident Evil doesn’t offer any such sense of second (or third, or sixth) opportunities, instead it is a speedrun for survival moving from Point A to Point B and so on.

The film’s protagonist, Bryan (Austin Abrams), is a medical transplant courier who begins the story with a mission to deliver a critical cooler to a hospital several towns away. But en route there, while driving along an icy road, a woman darts out of the trees and is stuck by his car. He helps her up, but there’s clearly something not right with her. From there, the undead Eldrich-esque horrors unfold in a relentless sequence of action-packed set pieces, thankfully slowing down every so often just enough to let us catch our breath.

Resident Evil keeps its focus narrowly focused on Bryan as he stumbles from one ridiculously outrageous situation to the next as the danger continually escalates. There is zero context as to what it happening lore-wise (at least until the film’s third act) and there is no need for it. We don’t need to understand what’s going on (Bryan doesn’t), all we need to know is there are monsters and he is in danger.

I was surprised but appreciative of the amount of humor in this film. Bryan is in constant disbelief at the horror scenario that he’s wandered into, and he spends most of the film screaming whilst hurriedly making poor choices or struggling with his weapons. As someone who is shit at video games, I could both relate and recognize that Bryan does far better than I would in his situation. Yet Resident Evil to avoid the clichéd trap of horror characters doing stupid things because that’s what the plot calls for. Here, Bryan literally doesn’t have a choice. Most of the time he is funneled from one scary moment to the next, simply trying to survive. Sure, he occasionally makes a dumb decision, but when he does, he chastises himself for it or else rails against the problem itself. For a legitimately terrifying horror movie, it’s very funny — and a whole lot of fun.

Cregger does a great job of balancing the tone of the film as well as elevating the artistry. There are some stunningly beautiful visuals throughout the film; in one early shot, after he hits the woman with his car, Bryan edges cautiously along the road, the snowy scene bathed in a creepy red glow from his car’s taillights. There’s another more kinetic sequence too, in which a hoard of murderous creatures hurl themselves off rooftops in a hair-brained attack on Bryan as he sprints through the street below, their diseased bodies splattering all around him. It’s magnificent but disgusting horror imagery — and there’s even worse to come.

Of course, this is a movie and not a video game, so there is an attempt at an emotional throughline for Bryan throughout his hellish night of terror. He has just learned that he’s about to become a father and is still struggling to come to terms with how he feels about that when everything goes sideways. While this context adds a little depth to his otherwise one-dimensional (yet entirely adequate) character, I found it suffered in comparison to the recent Exit 8 which utilized a similar approach but, I felt, did it much better.

I’ll admit that my enthusiasm for Resident Evil was muted when first learning of the project. After the creative originality of Barbarian and Weapons, Cregger was regressing to established studio IP? Certainly, he’s playing in a different register that we’re used to here, but it works. (As much as I love Weapons, the Paul segment does kill the momentum, but there is no such criticism here.) Resident Evil is a nerve-shredding, action horror thrill ride that does not let up. I loved it and, as ever, I can’t want to experience whatever Cregger does next.

Santiago was a sickly child, but he was loved greatly by both of his parents and indeed his extended family. He was also, evidently, the glue that held his parents’ marriage together. When Magos leaves New York to return home to Mexico City (where the family previously lived together), Joseph does not follow. Instead, Magos goes to stay with her mother, in an old house that, while it appears immaculately well-kept, is actually crumbling all around them. The metaphor couldn’t be more blatant.

Alone, depressed, yet still incapable of properly mourning Santiago, Magos discovers a folk tale about a woman who fed a deceased loved one’s heart until it regenerated into a new and different person. The story is intended as a warning, but Magos just hears opportunity. She feeds Santiago’s lung. Soon it becomes animate. Not too long later, it evolves into a small, very sneaky, and violently bloodthirsty creature.

The lung monster attacks Magos’ mother’s dog. It attacks Magos’ mother. It kills and eats various neighborhood pets.

Magos and Joseph are reunited, but it seems that any hope of their marriage surviving long term is a pipe dream. The lung monster grows into a young childlike monster, hairy and dexterous with a penchant for fresh flesh, but a welcome substitute for the departed Santiago nonetheless.

They name this monster child Monstrilio. For a while, the family rekindles their former happiness, but with the added wrinkle of preventing Monstrilio from attacking and eating any animals or humans that might cross his path and whet his appetite. Fortunately, Magos and Joseph have the support of their family and friends to support them in raising and protecting Monstrilio — as well as discouraging his true instincts.

As time goes on and the book progresses, it passes between different POV characters: initially Magos, then Lena (Magos’ childhood friend, now a surgeon, who has harbored a lifelong crush on Magos), then Joseph (after he has returned to New York to live, his marriage to Magos now well and truly a relic of the past), then finally Monstrilio himself — now a young man going, simply, by M.

It’s a deftly told tale and the four acts told through different perspectives allows the story to be revealed efficiently, diligently, and with ever-expanding depth. (As a parent myself, I did find Monstrilio to be rather poignant in its portrayal of passing time with regards to growing children — especially as my eldest nears the end of his high school career and is starting to look forward into the abyss of “what next?”. But I digress.)

There is violence. There is bloodshed. There is a literal monster. But Monstrilio is not a mere scary story, rather it utilizes the traits of the horror genre to spin a narrative that is very much about the human condition. As Monstrilio ages into M, he grows more and more humanlike — becoming a better-than-anticipated surrogate for Santiago. Just a lot hairier and far more bloodthirsty.

Sámano Córdova’s literary prose is simple, straightforward, and oh so easy to consume. Monstrilio is a breezy read — and yet, for such an undemanding novel, it does some exceptionally heavy lifting. It lingers in your mind for days afterwards, leaving you to contemplate the various themes and thoughts it evokes but never quite deals with directly.

How Magos and Joseph try to suppress M’s monstrous nature, yet are simultaneously (and secretly even to themselves) suppressing their true nature as queer individuals.

How part of allowing your kids to become adults is getting out of their way, letting them make mistakes and discoveries for themselves, permitting them to find themselves without any limitations or judgment — and realizing that they are far more amazing than you ever expected.

How the horrific can, eventually, produce its opposite. Wonder. Beauty. Pleasantness.

While I initially expected Monstrilio to be an engaging read about a mischievous and dangerous monster (which it was), it blossomed into something so much more. I loved this book and I’m sure that I’ll be thinking about it for a long time to come.

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Jason is now a horror icon. The slasher killer in a hockey mask is immediately recognizable — even to people who have never seen a single one of his films.

But why is that? I’ll admit here and now that this is as far as I’ve watched through the Friday the 13^th films so far (more on that shortly), but to this point there is nothing special about Jason that would warrant such a pedestal.

Yes, Jason is a brutal, vicious, robust killing machine. But shouldn’t an iconic villain be more than that? Freddy had a perverse sense of humor. Michael has a chilling psychopathic vibe. Art takes pleasure in inflicting pain. Jason just kills. He has no personality. And, despite the franchise’s best efforts to impose some sort of narrative reasoning for his manic bloodlust, Jason never becomes anything more than a generic bad guy — an unstoppable killing machine that murders horny teens simply because that’s what happens in slasher flicks. (Also, lest we forget, his presence barely registers in the initial film.)

As it happens, Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter doesn’t need Jason to be anything more than what he is. You could take this exact same set up and characters, swap in an entirely different villain — or even just a nameless, bog standard, faceless spree murderer, which Jason essentially is — and it would work just as well. All of which is to say that, despite my general lack of affinity for this franchise, Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter is actually pretty damn good.

As is widely accepted, it is certainly the best Friday the 13^th movie (at least of the initial tetralogy, which is as much as I can attest) but what’s good about it owes precious little to Jason. It’s everything around Jason that makes this so good. For the first time in the franchise, we have a bunch of likable characters that we don’t want to see getting killed. MVPs, of course, are Corey Feldman and Crispin Glover, whose lovable geeks elevate this beyond the simple formula of boobs and blood that slashers depend on to make bank.

But fear not, there are tits and ass aplenty in The Final Chapter — so much so, in fact, that a running gag involves Feldman’s 12-year-old Tommy repeatedly getting excited at chancing upon nubile nudes, only to have the sight forcibly hidden from him.

Indeed, for much of its runtime, The Final Chapter plays like a fun hangout movie. The characters aren’t just cannon fodder, they are actual characters. Tommy is an affable tween with a penchant for monster masks and a keen mechanical instinct. Jimmy (Glover) is an awkward yet confident guy struggling to make sense of a recent breakup and who desperately wants love and sex. There’s virgin Sarah, big sister Trish, vengeful Rob, divorcee Mrs. Jarvis, doofus Ted — hell, even the nurse at the morgue has a personality and invites empathy. The point is, after three films in which the cast is almost to an individual as dull as ditchwater, The Final Chapter has an embarrassment of riches.

There’s also decent splatter gore too, courtesy of the great Tom Savini, making his return to the franchise for the first time since the initial movie. There’s a lot of cutting edge slicing and dicing and the saw to the throat death is particularly gnarly.

Astute readers of my blog will have noticed that I don’t review horror films or books; I only provide recommendations. After slogging my way through the first three Friday the 13^th movies, I’m glad to have finally struck gold and find myself in agreement with the consensus opinion: that if you absolutely, positively have to watch a Friday the 13^th film, this is the one you should choose.

Will I watch any of Jason’s subsequent outings? Probably, but I’m in no rush to do so. I am curious how the character has endured for so long and why people seem so enamored of him based on the fact that, from what I’ve seen, there is zero reason. Presumably, he evolves to become worthy of his status in popular culture. Time will tell.

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It’s attention-grabbing, immediately intriguing, and strikes an appropriately disaffected, semi-regretful tone that suggests, “hey, we didn’t *want* to eat him, but we just kinda *had* to, you know?”

Although The Day We Ate Grandad is actually the third book in Rosens’ Pagham-on-Sea contemporary cosmic horror series, I must confess that it was the first that I read. Why? Well, that incredible title! Also, the blurb on the back of the book sounded far more interesting to me (i.e. utterly unique) than those of its predecessors, The Crows and Thirteenth.

The good news is that while The Day We Ate Grandad was easy enough to follow without having read either of the prior two novels, it’s obvious that the characters and their conflicts would have felt far richer had I been more diligent in my homework. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed the novel as a standalone read and, yes, I am now invested enough to want to go back and consume the others as well as any subsequent novels that Rosens will undoubtedly add to her already impressive legendarium.

So what is The Day We Ate Grandad about?

It’s a British kitchen sink soap opera about the apocalypse. More or less.

Wes Porter is a wealthy, antisocial playboy whose nascent sobriety has some curious side effects. Specifically, he can see the future. Or, even more specifically, he can see a handful of possible futures. Hence the novel’s gripping tagline:

“Three possible futures. Two versions of the apocalypse. One chance to save the world.”

You see, the Porter family is an ancient, cult-like family of eldritch entities. Wes’ younger sister Katy is currently the de facto leader of the family following her recent mutation into a ravenous, flesh-eating eldritch god (itself a fulfilment of her prophetic destiny as the thirteenth child of a thirteenth child). Yet despite her enormous power, she really just wants to live a normal life and finish university.

However, when Wes is alerted to a subset of the family cult wanting to bring about the actual apocalypse by breaching dimensions to bring the family’s original progenitor — the Porters’ titular grandfather — into the realm of our reality, Wes, Katy, and their soothsayer cousin Ricky must band together to outwit those who would stop at nothing to end the world.

As far as stakes go, you can’t get much bigger. But Rosens describes her series as “cosmic horror family drama” — so it’s not just about the decimation of humanity. It’s also something of a soap opera. Imagine, if you will, Eastenders or Hollyoaks but where the characters are tentacled monsters.

That’s sort of what The Day We Ate Grandad feels like: a lot of petty drama, vehement grudges, and bountiful backstabbing conducted by a cast of scheming narcissists who each believe themselves to be the main character.

It’s classic soap opera territory. We’re not supposed to like these people, but we do anyway. Their bad behavior is like a car crash we can’t bring ourselves to look away from. It’s fascinating. It’s addictive.

Wes — the central character of Grandad — is the epitome of this. He is an antihero for the ages: a spoiled rich kid who is callous, manipulative, and never entirely trustworthy. Yet fate has conspired to make him responsible for saving the world.

Because — lest we forget — for all the bleak, turbulent, toxic shenanigans that unfold, it does so against the giant threat of cosmic horror. That’s what The Day We Ate Grandad is ultimately about: an unlikely group of heroes struggling to save a world that doesn’t really care for them.

And that shit’s powerful!

Add in the novel’s themes of generational trauma and grief, all-too-human fallibilities such as addiction and self-sabotage, plus the more genre-centric elements of body horror, cosmic horror, and Lovecraftian monstrosities, and The Day We Ate Grandad is a delicious cocktail of horror fiction that is entirely — and so-so-refreshingly — very different.

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The film opens with a series of smash cuts of a family urgently fleeing their home. Amidst the chorus of confused yelling we detect they are fearful of some “she” that inhabits one of the bedrooms upstairs. Finally, just as they’re about to escape out of the door, a female ghost materializes, hovering above them, and screams bloody murder.

Soon after, the house is abandoned. Enter Jack. He is a handyman/decorator for the rental company that owns this property. Upon arriving, he discovers that the previous tenants left without taking most of their possessions, so there’s not a lot he can actually do until the movers come to remove all the furniture.

On a positive note, the vacant unit provides him somewhere to crash for a few nights as his apartment building is being fumigated and none of his acquaintances are returning his calls when he asks if he might spend a few nights on their couch. So, sleeping bag on the floor it is.

That catch, of course, is that this particular house is haunted.

It takes Jack a while to notice. As he busies himself numbering electrical outlets, taking notes of things to be fixed, and doing some light cleaning as he goes, he doesn’t notice the subtle haunting going on all around him.

Eventually, however, the ghost can no longer be ignored. The doorbell rings incessantly. His freshly-order pizza disappears into thin air. And all the markup tape he’d diligently and carefully placed throughout the house vanishes right along with it.

And then the ghost appears. She terrifies Jack just as she did the previous residents. He flees the house but then realizes he left his car keys inside. And then, in a moment of bravery and sheer stubbornness, he reenters the house and determines that the ghost is just a girl. Sure, she scared him, but she isn’t actually scary.

The ghost is Muriel. This is her house. Or rather, it is the house assigned to her by the posthumous firm that ensures houses are haunted. (Think Beetlejuice by way of mumblecore.) Muriel is an incredibly successful spectral agent. She has triumphantly terrified occupant after occupant out of this home for decades now. She has never failed in this mission — until Jack.

While Muriel tries to figure out how to scare Jack away, he only becomes more interested in why she does what she does, and the ultimate business of the organization that ensures the living are regularly haunted. The film dabbles in existential horror; although a ghost’s sudden appearance might make Jack jump, what truly scares him is being alone and of not having a purpose in life.

Gradually, a beautiful friendship blossoms between Jack and Muriel. Slowly, they come to have great affection for one another. But what possible ending could their love story hope to have?

A Ghost Waits is not a scary movie in the traditional sense. But it is a touching and riveting exploration of its themes, and a refreshing and imaginative take on the haunted house/ghost subgenre. The closest comparison I can think of is David Lowrey’s A Ghost Story; there are certainly abundant similarities between the two films, yet they are distinctly different in scope and intention.

It is a sweet, heartwarming, and bittersweet love story positioned very much within the horror milieu. If you’re looking for something a little different to watch with a special someone next date night, I urge you to give A Ghost Waits a try.

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When I first bought Valancourt Books’ boxset of Paperbacks from Hell, Let’s Go Play at the Adams’ is one that caught my eye early on. Its distinct cover design (featuring an illustration of a babysitter in a negligée tied to a chair) promised an obvious conceit: a babysitter at the mercy of the kids she’s supposed to be minding. It seemed like a fun, pulpy, entertaining read.

Oh, how misled I now feel! Better Watch Out, this is not.

Let’s Go Play at the Adams’ is not at all a “fun” horror read. It is a novel of harrowing sadness — and far, far darker than its cover led me to expect. Although, to be fair, my prediction of the story within was not entirely inaccurate:

A 20-year-old babysitter, Barbara, is held hostage by five children (Bobby, Cindy, John, Dianne, and Paul) ranging in age from 10 to 17.

That, essentially, is it as far as the plot goes. The book starts immediately (save for a very brief prologue) with Barbara waking to discover that she has been tied to her bed. Turns out that Bobby chloroformed her in the middle of the night and made her a prisoner. From thereon out, Barbara’s story is just that: her existence as a prisoner of the children. Tethered, shackled, fettered.

The book details what occurs to her over the course of the next several days. But Barabara is a bound and gagged prisoner for all of it.

The book, then, is about the suffering she endures, and the impossibility of her escape. It is a clear-eyed and unflinching novel about pain, the theft of autonomy, and ultimately about how her mind seeks refuge from the pain, from the humiliation, from the agonizing waking hours that seem to stretch into infinity.

I realize this likely doesn’t make the book sound appealing, but I promise you it is indeed a compelling and haunting read. I will concede that the book is torture for its readers.

Most of all, the book is about the horror those five kids represent.

Bobby, Cindy, John, and Dianne are not psychopaths (although it is strongly implied that 13-year-old Paul is), but rather they are entirely nonchalant about the horrors they are inflicting on this young adult that have conquered. At the beginning, they decide to imprison Barbara for a game, but when things rapidly escalate, they continue to act utterly non-plussed about the situation. Their nonchalance is the result of a staggering lack of empathy — and that to me is the heart of the book, and the core of the horror which it possesses.

As a political allegory, the stripping away of an individual’s sovereignty over oneself is sadly rather too on-the-nose these days, but Let’s Go Play at the Adams’ also speaks to the realization that world is unfair, but — rather than trying to change it, rather than fighting for justice and righteousness — try only to win the “game” by its established rules, despite already knowing it is unfairly rigged.

At one point, Cindy reveals to Barbara that they’ve played this way amongst just themselves. They’ve each taken turns being the one tied up, stripped naked, tortured. And then when playtime was over, they each headed to their homes for dinner, and a new game would be played tomorrow.

Let’s Go Play at the Adams’ is distasteful, distressful, and utterly haunting. I fully appreciate the perspectives of those readers who claimed to throw the book across the room upon its completion. I also understand Grady Hendrix’s assertion that Let’s Go Play at the Adams’ is not a book you need read multiple times — because it sticks beneath your skin and scars you for life. That’s horror.

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You Are Not Me (Tú no eres yo in its native Spanish) is a disconcerting horror film that benefits from keeping its cards extremely close to its chest. Although it’s immediately clear that something very odd is going on, the film is intentionally secretive about what that something is. Eventually — once the cat does indeed claw its way out of the bag — the film pivots into a wholly new and equally terrifying direction.

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

Aitana is a young woman who has always had a challenging relationship with her parents. Three years ago, she stormed off after a massive argument, and several months passed before they heard from her again. By that time, she’d wound up in Brazil where, eventually, she settled down with the love of her life, Gabi. Together, they adopted a baby. This trip is the first time Aitana has returned to Spain since her disappearance. It is also the first time Gabi and their infant son, Joao, are meeting Aitana’s family in person.

There is one other key character in Aitana’s immediate family: her disabled brother Saúl. While Aitana’s parents are decidedly standoffish towards Aitana and her burgeoning young family, Saúl is thrilled to bits to have his big sister home and quickly forms a friendly bond with Gabi. He is a lively character, despite his degenerative muscular disease — a condition which has worsened considerably in recent months.

And then there is Nadia the imposter. Aitana’s parents have never mentioned Nadia to Aitana the whole time she has been away. They don’t even think to mention her until Aitana goes into her childhood bedroom and discovers the woman sleeping in her bed and wearing her pajamas.

It is almost like her parents found a random stranger and substituted her wholesale for their actual, absent, daughter. Yet they dote on Nadia in a way they never did for Aitana.

Aitana is understandably perturbed. She has nightmares about Nadia throwing Joao off the balcony. Sure, it was just a bad dream — but in reality, plenty of freaky stuff is happening:

Aitana’s parents throw a Christmas Eve party for a whole host of strange old people Aitana has never met before… Her aunt and uncle who were previously very close to Aitana’s parents tell her they haven’t seen them in months… Nadia is gifted Aitana’s precious belongings, including her dead grandmother’s jewelry… Saúl claims to be able to talk to their dead grandfather then suffers a seizure… Aitana is locked in the isolated guestroom in a turret separate from the rest of the house… After only minimal detective work, Aitana discovers that Nadia might not be who she claims to be at all — but rather a criminal gypsy called Nathalia…

And yet Aitana’s parents won’t hear a negative word against Nadia. They love her like the daughter they never had.

Tonally, it feels like Get Out for anyone who’s felt disconnected from their parents during adolescence or young adulthood.

And then, as I hinted at earlier, You Are Not Me becomes an entirely different horror movie. Without giving anything away, Aitana’s discomfort at her parents’ earlier strange behavior is proved to have been valid and Aitana is forced to collaborate with Nadia as the true terror at work is fully exposed.

You Are Not Me is an unsettling, compelling, and highly creepy horror film. Despite the film’s understated nature, there is a lot going on. We are with Aitana as she suffers through trials at turns frustrating and highly suspicious.

This is lowkey horror, relying on mystery and unease to craft an atmosphere of continuous dread as both Aitana and the audience struggle to put the pieces together to learn what exactly is going on; there are multifaceted levels at play here, as well as shifting subplots and copious red herrings that only serve to emphasize Aitana’s disorientation — and keep you guessing.

Ambiguous in the best possible way, You Are Not Me will linger in your mind rent-free for days after watching.

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It’s only natural, then, that when he comes upon an eBay listing for a real-life ghost, he makes an impulse purchase for shits and giggles. He didn’t really expect to receive anything. And he certainly never imagined that the auction was an elaborate ruse to ruin his life and exact a very specific revenge on him and all those he held dear. Big mistake.

Those goth girlfriends I mentioned? Judas didn’t even bother calling them by their real names. Rather, he gave them each a nickname based on their states of origin. One recent ex was from and called Florida. She was a weird kid who constantly asked weird questions and who shared precious little of her life before meeting Judas.

Near the end of their relationship, Florida became increasingly preoccupied and depressed. Eventually, Judas put her on a bus and sent her home, worried about her well-being. But not worried enough to answer her countless letters or check in on her at all. His life moved on.

Not Florida’s. Her life ended. Mere months after being abandoned by Judas, Floria committed suicide. The ghost that Judas was tricked into buying is her family’s vengeance.

Turns out Florida’s stepfather, Craddock, was something of a psychic medium and conjuror. As his own life fizzled out, he concocted a plotted with Florida’s sister to get revenge on Judas for (as they saw it) killing Florida.

It is Craddock’s ghost that Judas unwittingly purchased — and now that he’s in Judas’ home, he will stop at nothing to drive the poor man insane, kill everyone near to him, and ultimately drive Judas to death himself.

And he’d’ve succeeded too if it wasn’t for that pesky kid…

I’m talking about Georgia. AKA Judas’ latest live-in girlfriend.

Mature beyond her years, Georgia is the level-headed adult that Judas desperately needs in his life — and it’s her who might just save it (his life, that is).

Neither of them may be perfect individuals, but Georgia’s love for Judas is an excellent realization of a sane adult relationship. It is only thanks to Georgia that Judas is able to escape his ranch with his life. But their escape is only temporary — and just the beginning of their trials and troubles… Now, the two of them must travel across the country to pay a visit to Florida’s sister and try to put an end to this whole horrible mess.

Heart-Shaped Box is a thoroughly entertaining and engrossing read. This was my first Joe Hill novel (I know, I know) but I will certainly be back for more.

Action unfolds naturally and often. This is a page-turner that never lets up. And yet, for all the narrative momentum and pleasurable horrors that abound throughout this book, the one scene that stuck with me was during a hiatus in Judas and Georgia’s hair-raising road trip where they spend a few hours at Georgia’s grandmother’s house. Safe for a moment, they take advantage of a comfy bed and a nap together while the afternoon sunshine wafts in through the curtains. It is such a delicate yet evocatively luminous scene, it stopped me cold.

Folks, this guy knows how to write!

If I had one criticism, it’s that the third act deviates into an almost metaphysical, dreamlike plain (something which rarely resonates with me) but the novel still packs a punch and is a virtuoso accomplishment of exciting horror storytelling with depth and levels and nuance. I really, truly enjoyed it.

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I say all this because I had watched the X-Files episode many, many times before I saw The Thing, and while I could certainly see the similarities, I found the two to be remarkably different beasts. True, both are set at isolated scientific stations, both deal with an undetectable infection, both deal with increasing paranoia and mistrust among those stranded together in close quarters. But whereas “Ice” executes perfectly on a TV budget, The Thing has a lot more cash — and blood — to splash on the screen. And splash it, it does!

The movie opens with an astonishing helicopter chase across the expansive white Antarctic landscape. A dog is pursued by two Norweigians, but manages to evade their shooting long enough to seek refuge at a US base, where the Norwegian’s arrival of violence and mayhem is taken as a sign of madness (one of them is killed as a result of a fumbled explosive, the other is shot given the reasonable belief that he is a threat).

But why were they shooting at the dog? Intrigued enough to fly in less-than-ideal weather, helicopter pilot MacReady (Kurt Russell) takes a doctor out to the Norwegians’ fire-ravaged base where they discover evidence that the Norwegians had excavated something from the ice. They also find the body of a horribly mutated person who was seemingly one of the targets of the fire.

Before anyone is able to properly put the pieces together, however, the dog that started this whole chain of events explodes into a nightmarish tangle of blood, guts, and tentacles, causing all the other dogs in the kennel to, understandably, go absolutely batshit nuts. MacReady and his colleagues witness it too — although the very sight of it is utterly unbelievable.

Finally it all makes sense: whatever the Norweigians dug up was an otherworldly shapeshifting parasite that can pass undetected while containing to infect and replace others. Think Invasion of the Body Snatchers and the Polymorph from Red Dwarf, then split the difference.

The point is: There’s a monster among them and there’s no way to know who it is, nor how many of them there are.

Each of the crew lean into their own area of expertise as they scramble to come up with a strategy to detect the impostor(s) and survive the long winter ahead. But tensions soon reach breaking point, individuals go crazy, and the alien creature continues to attack in a variety of disgusting and disturbing iterations.

In order to survive, each of these distinct characters must rely on each other. The only problem is that, given the nature of their predicament, none of them are able to trust each other.

Rightly regarded as one of the greatest sci-fi horror films of all time, The Thing is loaded with taut atmosphere, creepy dread, and intense paranoia. The practical special effects are astonishing — and wonderfully gory and goopey. The direction, the actors, the cinematography, the score, the production design — every element of this film is absolutely on point.

It is a masterpiece.

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Needless to say, I came to Amityville with high expectations, but after first watching the film, I was unimpressed.

I’m just going to say it: The Amityville Horror (Stuart Rosenberg, 1979) sucks. It is a dull, boring, not-at-all scary film.

Fortunately, the book on which its based is none of those things.

I really enjoyed The Amityville Horror. Although it follows a fairly standard blueprint for a haunted house story, it does a great job of slowly-but-surely cranking up the tension and escalating the horrors.

(Yes, it’s a well-worn trope that just as soon as the protagonists realize they need to flee, they are unable to do so, but it still gave me some perverse pleasure when the book hit that recognizable note.

Is The Amityville Horror derivative of countless other horror house narratives, or does it deserve to be considered an originator of the modern form? Feel free to discuss in the comments.)

Here’s the plot in a nutshell: a young family are looking for their dream home on a budget. They find the perfect property, only to learn that an infamous murder occurred there in the recent past. Ever since a young man killed his parents and siblings in those very rooms, the house has stood empty — which is why it’s listed for such a good price.

George and Kathy Lutz don’t care. They move right on in.

Very soon, they wish they hadn’t.

Almost immediately, strange occurrences begin to trouble the family. It is inexplicably cold throughout the house, a swarm of flies materialize in one particular room, objects move or go missing, and their little girl discovers a new imaginary friend who has the face of a pig.

Creepy shit!

Part of what makes the book so effective, even half a century later, is the relatable mundanity of the situation: George and Kathy are deeply disturbed by living in the house, it alters their psyches, spooks them, and yet they still have to continue with the tasks of running a household and earning a living. Yes, the family is being terrorized on a nightly basis, but life goes on and bills still need to be paid.

Anson tells the story in a mostly clinical and detached fashion, keeping us at arm’s length from the inner minds of the characters, but it is a cooly effective writing style for this particular spooky story, almost like reading a police report detailing the events of some unfathomable horror.

Despite this largely unemotional approach, it does provoke fear in the reader. There’s no attempt to explain or legitimize the things that are happening. All we know, all the characters know, is that something scary is going on — and not understanding of exactly what is not only feels authentic but adds to the frightfulness of it all.

Of course, this almost journalistic approach is only partially by design, as The Amityville Horror isn’t entirely fictional.

According to Wikipedia, the murders that occurred in the house were real. George and Kathy Lutz are real people, really did buy the house and then fled it less than a month later, leaving all their possessions behind. Naturally, there are various disputes over accuracy, but the consensus supports the book’s marketing that The Amityville Horror is indeed based on a true story.

I’m sure there are greater conversations that could be had (and surely have been in other corners of the internet) about the truthiness of the book, but my interest is only in whether or not it’s a good horror novel.

It is.

The Amityville Horror is a decent ghost story that is well told. It’s a stark, spare, and scary horror novel — worthy of the pedestal upon which it is placed, and far, far superior to the lackluster film it inspired.

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Bring Her Back is a polished and professional horror movie that takes some big swings, is unconventional in what information is laid bare early (or not), and does a great job of mining terror and suspense from its set up.

Half-siblings Andy and Piper find themselves shipped off to a foster home following the sudden death of their father. Andy is almost 18 and plans to seek guardianship of the legally blind Piper once he is legally of age.

Despite their conventional brother-sister ribbing of each other, it’s clear that the two of them share a very special bond and would do anything for the other. They even share a special code word, “grapefruit,” that compels the other to be completely honest. It is both a sweet and authentic-feeling portrait of an unusual yet highly specific familial relationship.

Enter the wedge that will seek to drive them apart: their kooky new foster mother, Laura.

Almost immediately, Laura sets about doting on Piper while keeping Andy at arm’s length. It’s not just the fact that Andy’s very nearly an adult man while Piper’s a young girl. It’s also because Laura’s own recently deceased daughter, Cathy, like Piper, was visually impaired.

It is a role that allows Sally Hawkins to both play with the limits of the whimsical archetype she previously perfected in such films as Happy-Go-Lucky and Paddington and go vehemently against type as something altogether sinister in a thoroughly unsettling performance of the caliber you’d hope would garner some sort of awards recognition.

Hers is a very strange household indeed — case in point: she has preserved her former pet dog via taxidermy; this is a woman who struggles to let go after death — and that’s even before we even get to the household’s fourth inhabitant: the mute young orphan boy named Oliver whose presence oozes maleficent mystery in every scene.

As for the plot, well, the title itself should have given you a fairly good idea of what’s going on… Laura has been unable to get over the death of Cathy and now, somehow, has evil plans for Piper. But what, exactly, isn’t entirely clear.

Horror movie aficionados will of course note the numerous clues that are present as the table is laid: the opening scene depicting some shady occult ritual, a line of white (salt? paint?) that encircles Laura’s house, the barely contained feral personality of little Oliver… (There’s more than a touch of prime M. Night Shyamalan about this one.)

Something bad is destined to happen here — and it’s only a matter of time until the shit hits the fan.

So we know, vaguely, Laura’s goal. What we don’t know is what, precisely, her plan is — or what she’s capable of. Is she simply deranged, or is there a more tangible threat hanging over these kids’ heads? And just what the hell exactly is up with Oliver?

As with Talk To Me, the Philippous employ troubled teen characters who understand the dangers that lurk in their world, but precisely because they are categorized as both “troubled” and “children,” they struggle to convince anyone to believe them — setting up an enormously tense situation where they themselves are powerless to stop the inevitable.

Bring Her Back is a fantastic, fearless, and wonderfully realized horror film that leaves a lasting impression and lingers in your mind for days afterwards. Affecting, suspenseful, and outright horrific, I guarantee that Bring Her Back will compel you to look away from the screen on at least two occasions.

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Despite having only known each other a few months, Billy, Melody, and Troy have quickly formed true friendships, partially because of the shared burden of having each suffered tragedies in their recent pasts. Billy, for example, lost both his parents in a car accident — which is what inspired his interest in the phenomenon of roadside memorials.

Their idea is to discover memorials and share the stories behind them — of those who were lost and those that they left behind — in the hope of not only shedding some light on why the bereaved feel compelled to erect a roadside monument but also, by extension, serve as an additional artifact of remembrance.

Yet despite the three musketeers’ respectful intentions, it seems someone (or, more likely, plural someones) is apparently vexed at their snooping around these shrines.

Someone is watching them. Stalking them. Trying to scare them. Willing to hurt them.

At first, there are merely the expected cultural conflicts between the bigoted hillbillies and the two-thirds POC traveling outsiders. But then, things get creepier… Our heroes begin to feel (quite reasonably) unsafe camping out every night. The very real threat of violence against them grows increasingly palpable. And that’s before things get downright freaky.

They discover a strange symbol covertly graffitied on several of the memorials. Naturally intrigued by this eldritch emblem, they seek out its meaning — only to learn that it has ties to an ancient folk religion; that they might have unwittingly angered a local cult, and thus put a target on their backs…

Memorials is an engrossing and compelling read; an affable adventure that, while it takes its sweet time, allows us plenty of opportunity to get to know its characters and to enjoy their company.

The characters are what makes this book. Chizmar does a great job of crafting three individuals who are at once both recognizable archetypes and fully-rounded and unique individuals.

Despite the fact that the story wasn’t plotted in advance (according to the author’s endnotes), its pace and twists flow naturally and sufficiently to keep you constantly engaged and wanting to find out what happens next.

There’s also a significant mystery element to the book, which keeps you turning the page to learn more. The longer the journey goes on, the more clues and red herrings are uncovered. People from Billy’s past come back into his life, new characters are introduced… But who can actually be trusted?

Eventually, of course, the book veers into severe horror territory, but by the time it gets there, the stakes are compounded because we’ve spent so much time with these characters and come to like all of them very much. We don’t want anything bad to happen to them. Which, well, too bad.

In that way, Memorials unfolds both naturally and realistically; beginning in a world analogous to the reality we all inhabit, and slowly slipping into one altogether stranger and more terrifying — a jolt of true horror in a world that is already harsh enough.

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Christine tries to justify her actions to both herself and the elderly Mrs. Ganush by saying that she was just doing her job. (No doubt that rationalization has only become more poignant in the years since Drag Me to Hell was released — given the current state of American capitalism run amok, ever-increasingly disparate wealth inequality, and the general hellscape perpetuated by people just doing their job, that hollow justification is much harder to swallow.)

Unfortunately for Christine, Ganush doesn’t merely rage against the machine — she targets Christine specifically: she is the personification of the bank that has booted her to the curb. And not unfairly, as Christine herself later admits that she could easily have given her another extension. Except she wanted to be personally rewarded. God, capitalism sucks.

Ganush initially attacks Christine in a deserted parking garage in a virtuoso sequence of raw violence that is devilishly wicked. And then she places a curse on Christine — a curse, we later learn, which involves her being increasingly tormented by a Lamia goat demon for three days, at the end of which she will be literally dragged to Hell. No backsies.

Over the next few days, Christine endures multiple visits from the Lamia. She is terrified. She is attacked. She feels like she is losing her mind — certain that she is in grave danger from something horrific that shouldn’t exist in the too real world of car payments, rent, and 401ks.

Desperate to make sense of what is happening to her, Christine seeks help from a spiritual advisor. She scarifies her pet kitten in an effort to appease the Lamia. She participates in a séance. She tries to transfer the curse to someone else (top of her list: her competition for the promotion). But in selling her soul to the man, Christine has in effect done exactly that. She’s sold her soul. She has exactly zero of redemption.

Drag Me to Hell is a blatant critique of modern capitalistic exploitation: Christine’s problem is the direct consequence of her causing someone economic harm in order to benefit financially herself. Later, her dwindling hope for salvation is reduced to a medium who has prior experience dealing with this Lamia — but only if Christine can come up with $10,000 within a matter of hours. (She tries to, by selling crates of her prized possessions. But the pawn store owner senses her desperation and severely undercuts her asking price.)

But as thinly veiled as the film’s scathing social commentary is, it’s perfectly easy to focus purely on the horror story at hand and have a rollicking good time. Drag Me to Hell is one of the genuinely scarier PG-13 horror movies out there. I’ve no doubt that had I seen this film at a more tender age, there are certain scenes that would have certainly creeped me out. As the grumpy old man in training I now am, and with considerably more horror experience under my belt, it was less so — but still thoroughly impressive.

This is a slick, CGI-heavy, mainstream horror movie complete with a bombastic score that could have been ripped straight out of a comic book hero film. Darker, meaner, and more nihilistic than you’d expect, I found Drag Me to Hell to be both intelligent and an awful lot of horror-oriented fun.

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For Harry Picard, the homicide detective charged with solving their murders, the case is a real head-scratcher. To start with, leads are few and far between. Other than driving a distinctive black automobile, the only clue to the perpetrator is that he is apparently a wealthy foreigner. Not exactly a needle in the haystack of the nation’s capital — a city brimming with international dignitaries and civil service workers.

But as the killings continue — and the killer apparently escalates his prey beyond the irrelevant ladies of the night — Picard is forced to confront a most unfathomable truth: the killer might be a genuine vampire. Or at least someone who believes himself to be.

In Will Errickson’s introduction in Valancourt Books’ Paperbacks From Hell edition of Progeny of the Adder, he credits the novel as being the first example of fiction to take a classical horror villain and transpose them from their traditional setting into one more contemporary.

Exactly how accurate that is, I don’t know, but Errickson goes on to point out that Progeny of the Adder was originally published in 1965, a full five years before Jeff Rice’s more renowned novel, The Kolchak Papers, was completed. (That novel infamously inspired a series of movies and TV shows — and directly influenced The X-Files.)

Indeed, Progeny of the Adder feels much more in the mode of a procedural-focused crime novel than a typical horror genre piece. But that’s precisely what makes it so compelling.

Yes, we horror readers know going in that the killer of this story is a vampire (the cover illustration kind of gives it away) but for the bulk of the novel, the characters themselves are in the dark.

And so, we get to be a fly on the wall as this archetypal hardboiled cop slowly pieces together the clues available to him to try and catch the killer.

For the entire first half of the book, that’s what Progeny of the Adder is. It’s a police detective story. And it’s great. Dark, gritty, utterly compelling. We come to sympathize with Picard the same way we do, say, McNulty in The Wire, as gives his all to crack the case assigned to him, all the while hitting roadblocks, getting caught up in political red-tape, and all the rest of it.

We are with Picard all the way. He’s not a faultless hero, but neither is he just a cop. He has hopes and dreams of his own, damnit. He has a crush on a policewoman from the Women’s Bureau called Susy. Soon enough the two of them embark on a burgeoning romance and she is inevitably harangued into going undercover as a blonde streetwalker in an effort to help capture the killer.

And then everything changes. After identifying their prime suspect and cornering him on the property where he’s holed up, realization hits that there might actually be more to this murderer than anyone expected. Although Picard is still reticent to admit the killer is actually a vampire, it’s clear at least that the killer certainly wishes or believes himself to be a vampire — which, as far as the policeman cares, is all that really matters.

All of a sudden, this modern sleuth is up to his neck in research into vampiric folklore and movie tropes — and advocating for his colleagues to carry crucifixes and garlic to help bring this night stalker with superhuman strength to justice.

The fact that no-one ever truly believes the killer to be a vampire is in itself interesting. The novel plows on as it began, as a police procedural first and foremost. In that way, Whitten doesn’t just bring an ancient evil into the modern day, he supposes how the modern world would react to it. Of course no one would believe in the magic of it all! People would recognize that the vampire was a danger, sure — but not that he was really a vampire.

Progeny of the Adder is a lean, mean, violent and very different horror novel. It is a page-turner of an enjoyable cheap paperback, but one that provides a unique lens to engage with impossible monsters through a gritty, reality-focused perspective.

I grew up watching The X-Files. To me, it makes perfect sense that FBI agents should routinely hunt down liver-eating mutants who can squeeze through air vents. It never occurred to me that mainstream storytelling had to evolve to a point where the adventures of Mulder and Scully were possible. Even though their predecessor was inarguably Kolchak, Progeny of the Adder provides an engaging window into how entertainment got there — and we are all the better for it!

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