Relics by Shaun Hutson

 

There are certain writers who do not knock politely. They bash in hinges and grin through the splinters. Since the 1980’s, Shaun Hutson has been doing precisely that – long before ‘extreme’ became a marketing badge and splatterpunk found its modern clergy. If horror has a gutter laureate, Hutson has long occupied the throne.

Relics opens up with a premise that is archetypal and academic: an archaeological dig which uncovers a subterranean chamber packed with the skulls of children. The bones seem ancient. They are not. This unsealing coincides with a series of ritualistic murders in which victims are disemboweled and their entrails contorted into letters of the alphabet. Language becomes viscera. Communication, carnage.  

The novel orbits two poles. On one side, a dig rich in Celtic ecofacts where archaeologist Kim deciphers tablets foretelling the rise of an ancient God named Dagda unless innocent blood is spilled. On the other, inspector Stephen Wallace is tasked with pursuing a killer who gouges out eyes and rearranges organs with a butcher’s finesse. Between it all lies a landscape of British hooligans, sadists, and opportunists … figures far removed from the incel loners who populate a universe like Richard Laymon’s. Hutson’s England is all boot boys and bile.  

The procedural threads, it must be said, strain credulity. Wallace will appear at crime scenes with uncanny punctuality, as if ushered by a narrative teleporter rather than real transport. The investigative mechanics feel perfunctory, even intrusive. Yet this has never been Hutson’s true arena.

His true arena lies in gore. When Hutson writes it, he does not suggest; he saturates the fucking page. Blood has temperature. Excrement and other bodily emissions are rendered without coyness. Animal cruelty, particularly in the depiction of dog fighting and other scenes of calculated brutality, will repel many. It probably should. However, the caveat is clear: this is pulp horror operating without anesthetic. To enter such territory expecting restraint is to misread the signpost.

Hutson’s excesses are not limited to gore. His action scenes tend to sprawl, sometimes running twice as long as they need to, and a firmer editorial hand could have sharpened several confrontations. The narrative momentum sags under the weight of its own enthusiasm.

What elevates Relics beyond adolescent provocation is craft. Beneath Hutson’s juvenile ferocity lies a writer who understands cadence, pacing, and the architecture of dread. The suggestion of curses, of ancient forces stirring beneath earth moving machinery, lends the narrative a mythic undertow. Bizarre accidents at the dig hint that something older than law enforcement has taken an interest.

For a novel born in the 1980s, Relics is unsubtle, frequently excessive, and occasionally clumsy in its scaffolding. Yet it possesses an energy that many contemporary horrors, polished to a lackluster sheen, lack.

Part archaeological nightmare, part occult procedural, Relics is wholly committed to its own depravity.

The Eyes of Darkness by Dean Koontz

 

Returning to early Dean Koontz feels oddly reassuring. Those mass-market paperbacks, spine-creased and yellowed, carry with them muscle memory. Before you begin, you know the rhythms. And yet, like revisiting an old neighborhood, the journey retains its power to unsettle.  

The Eyes of Darkness, originally published in 1982 under the Leigh Nichols pseudonym, occupies an interesting position in Koontz’s mythology. It’s a product of its time … but also a blueprint for everything that followed. A grieving mother; a child presumed dead. Shadow agencies operating beyond accountability. Beneath it all, there is the suggestion the horrors are not supernatural but bureaucratic, sanctioned, and carried out in fluorescent rooms by men who believe themselves necessary. 

The novel opens with a premise that Koontz would return to: a deceased child who refuses to stay silent. Tina Evans, one year on from the loss of her son Danny, is in survival mode when a message appears in his bedroom: NOT DEAD. From here, Koontz allows grief to do what it does best: erode certainty. Is this madness? Or something worse? Tina’s refusal to accept an easy answer becomes the novel’s emotional engine.

Koontz’s formative prose has a workmanlike quality that is often overlooked in discussions of his later, more philosophical work. Here, the language occasionally slips into something dreamlike, especially when Tina’s internal state fractures. The gaudiness of Las Vegas is rendered vividly in the opening act, all neon excess and artificial promise … before the narrative migrates toward harsher terrain. Desert gives way to mountain, heat to ice. The geography mirrors our protagonist’s descent into a truth that grows increasingly inhospitable.

Structurally, The Eyes of Darkness adheres closely to what would become a familiar Koontz pattern. Tina is joined by Elliot Stryker, a man of competence, integrity, and unwavering belief. Together they form the novel’s moral axis. This is both a strength and weakness. On one hand, the author excels at forging bonds under pressure. On the other, both characters are almost aggressively virtuous. Their moral clarity is so absolute it occasionally strains credibility. They feel less like ordinary people than idealized figures; the sort of good-looking, unblemished protagonists favored by Hollywood films. 

The antagonistic forces, by contrast, are more compelling. Koontz’s fascination with secret government programs and unethical experimentation is on full display, and he approaches the material with a restraint that latter novels lack. There is no overt political sermonizing here, no heavy-handed thesis. The menace arises instead from implication: the casual efficiency with which lives are erased, the institutional certainty that sacrifice is justified so long as it remains classified.

Our climax delivers what readers expect: psychic phenomena, megalomaniacal figures … and a conspiracy large enough to swallow individuals whole. There is also, in hindsight, an eerie prescience to some of the novel’s speculative elements – ideas that would take on an uncomfortable resonance during the recent pandemic. Whether coincidence or intuition, it adds a faint aftertaste of unease to an already charged finale.

The Eyes of Darkness is not without flaws, but I feel it’s an important artifact. It captures Koontz at a point where his imagination was ferocious but his voice unencumbered – where story took precedence over doctrine. Like other early works such as The Key to Midnight, Shadowfires, and The House of Thunder, it is a reminder of why his readership grew vast in the first place. Predictable, yes. But predictability, in the right hands, can feel less like limitation and more like ritual.

Dead on the Dolmen by Cameron Trost

 

There is something naturally comforting about mysteries that know exactly where they live. Dead on the Dolmen: An Oscar Tremont Mystery is rooted in a way that feels increasingly rare, and the soil it draws from is ancient, stony, and steeped in story. Brittany is not used as postcard scenery, but as lived-in geography. You can feel the damp in the air, the weight of centuries pressing beneath the grass; a sense that folklore hasn’t vanished so much as learned to wait.

At the heart of the novel is the Ankou, that skeletal ferryman of Breton legend, rattling through the night on horse and cart, his scythe in hand. Cameron is careful with this figure. He does not overexplain or modernize the myth into something slick. Instead, he allows it to retain its strangeness, its rural terror, and its ambiguity. The Dolmen itself becomes a locus of unease: a place where history, superstition, and violence overlap. Stones remember. This book understands that.

The narrative pairing of father and son, David and Rowan, serves as an emotional crux. Their relationship feels unforced, lived-in, and quietly affectionate. This is not a story that relies on melodrama to manufacture stakes. The fear grows organically, seeded in concern, curiosity, and the realization that something old may not be content to remain symbolic. When Oscar Tremont enters, he does so not as a disruptive force but as an extension of the novel’s temperament. An investigator of the strange and inexplicable, yes, but one who listens as much interrogates.

This was my first encounter with Oscar Tremont, and what struck me most was his restraint. In a genre sometimes populated by outsized personalities, Tremont feels refreshingly human. Competent without arrogance, curious without condescension. Trost resists any urge to turn him into a gimmick. Instead, our Investigator becomes a lens, someone through whom the uncanny can be examined without being diminished.

Stylistically, the prose is clean and unadorned. Sentences move easily, inviting immersion rather than demanding attention. There is a British coziness to the structure, recalling Midsomer Murders or Father Brown, yet filtered through a continental sensibility that gives the book its European verisimilitude. Dialogue is natural and unshowy … and the supporting cast of village characters feel lightly sketched but authentic.

Perhaps most telling is the sense that the author cares. Trost writes like someone invested not only in story, but in reader experience. There is an openness, a conversational quality that extends beyond the text itself. This is the kind of novel that encourages curiosity, not only about its mystery, but about the folklore it draws from. You may find yourself pausing to look things up, to wander down adjacent paths.

Dead on the Dolmen is not interested in reinventing the mystery genre. As an alternative, it polishes well-worn stone until it shimmers. Atmospheric, the novel reminds us that the most persistent horrors are rarely the ones that announce themselves … but those that have been quietly occupying the landscape all along.

Different Masks: A Decade in the Dark

And so, after ten long years in the reviewing business, I’ve decided to hang up my quill pen. I hope - by way of this Blog – that you have managed to find something you like ... enough so that it prompted you to seek out the author/creator responsible and purchase a copy of their novel or film.

Next year, HodgePodge Press has agreed to publish a polished and updated version of this Blog in its entirety. Entitled Different Masks: A Decade In the Dark, the book aims to be a legacy of support, shining a spotlight on works that continue to inspire all of us working in the horror genre today. With this chapter closed, it will give me ample time to finish all that I have within me personally ... those mythologies that have always been there, just waiting to be unearthed.

Matthew Tait, July 2014.

 

Crimson Peak by Nancy Holder

A confession: during my first viewing of Crimson Peak in a theater I was, at the time, subtly deflated. Guillermo del Toro, such a creative artistic behemoth, had co-written and directed a Gothic romance with shades of unmistakable horror. And yet the experience for me (and for others) felt somewhat tepid.

I stress this was only my first viewing, riding coattails with weighted expectations.

In the time elapsed since then, my appreciation of Crimson Peak didn’t just grow, but began to haunt me in the same way our protagonist is haunted: the color, tone, and imagery all conspiring to make the journey a thing for the ages. Not intended to terrify, Crimson Peak instead invokes both an aching nostalgia and emotional frisson … responses seldom generated in the modern film-making epoch.

Nancy Holder’s adaptation in novel form encapsulates the film flawlessly. There’s a graceful sweep of syntax, a haunting melancholy to proceedings that arouses Fernando Velazquez’s poignant score. Here, the author manages to nail each scene with enough restrained nuance it’s like experiencing the tale in a more intimate (and blackly adorned) Gothic setting. A perfect parenthesis to the source material from which it sprung.

 

Hollow House by Greg Chapman.

The author under the spotlight here needs no introduction. Greg Chapman has worked for years now to shed light on the many mediums of horror, both through his own work (novellas, illustrations, and design work), and the work of others; being a vocal mouthpiece for the literary achievements of friends and colleagues and helping to establish horror as a serious genre both in his native Australia and abroad. Earlier this year, Omnium Gatherum saw fit to publish Greg’s first stab at novel length fiction. Already, Hollow House has picked up some favorable reviews. 

Without delving too deeply into plot territory (the bare bones of this can found both in the novel’s description and the many assessments floating around), let’s examine instead both the positives and pitfalls. In Hollow House, the scene is set with an archetypal haunted house at the center of the maelstrom: Kemper House on Willow Street. Surrounding the house, numerous players (the immediate neighbors) are drawn into a spiraling web of death, possession, and desires made manifest. In effect, Greg is taking the inhuman aspect (the house), and using it as a springboard to see how his character's behave and interact. If I could compare this formula to other works, we can see a similar method explored in novels such as Richard Bachman’s The Regulators, and the darker fantasy of both Bloch and Bradbury.

The positive aspects of this novel derive from the human element; Greg has sketched out numerous damaged characters that are a real-life echo one would find on any suburban street: angst ridden teenagers, a retired Army Vet, and the conventional large family. Witnessing how they cope with a house of horrors is an entertaining testament to Greg’s burgeoning storytelling prowess. However, there are pitfalls, and this is often the generic make-up of certain gambits. For instance, opening up proceedings with something as arbitrary as a dead body. In addition to this, having a reporter on the prowl to uncoil layers of information has its DNA firmly entrenched in dozens of horror films.

Small drawbacks aside, this is a novel showcasing genuine heart with some adequate turns of phrase. Above all, it’s a competent signpost of what to expect. With Hollow House, Greg Chapman is merely laying down the load-bearing foundations of a universe of horror to come.  

      

Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

A small declaration: the film adaptation of Wonder Boys is one of my all-time cherished film experiences. And I suspect you will probably hear the same thing from many writers, both of the prolific and broad ilk, in addition to the hermetic and oblique. Belonging to a sub-tribe of people who spend a lot of time in the shadows can promote a feeling of loneliness or longing. Fortuitously, along comes a major motion picture with major star power where that sub-tribe is put on show for all the world to see: their intellects and foibles; their addictions and over-abundant capacity to love. Although I don’t know for sure, I'll wager there were wordsmiths all over the world celebrating Wonder Boys. A writers time in the spotlight is brief, and any air-time at all, no matter how momentary, is a brief salve to that ever-present loneliness.

So why did it take such a long time to come around to Michael Chabon’s original novel? Primarily, the man dabbles in genres I seldom haunt. Which is a pithy excuse. Though I think it bears mentioning the author seldom writes about subjects that interest me: (topics such as Judaism, spiritual heritage, among other things). However, something I do know as a certain truth: one's storytelling aptitude can eclipse any theme on show. Or, put more bluntly: an elegant turn of insightful phrase can be the sole reason I plow through a novel, plot be damned. In any case, I am an undergraduate of Michael Chabon’s prose, but foresee steaming ahead with his entire resume.

For those yet to read the novelization, Wonder Boys (for the most part) adheres to all the clever comedy and drama up there in Curtis Hanson’s interpretation. Writer and teacher Grady Tripp is a likable protagonist because he’s all too human. Whether we as a species like to admit it or not, a huge number of us are entirely prone to making mistakes and dabbling in narcissism. And Grady Tripp, over the course of a weekend, frequently does both. But he does so in way that is endearing because we, the observers of his headspace, are given an intimate glimpse into private thought processes; the entire lynchpin of the novel medium itself. (And the reason many books feel like marriages, whereas movies can feel like one-night-stands; but that’s a whole different editorial). Complimenting Grady Tripp in his downfall from literary lion to underdog are characters every bit as flawed: James Leer, Hannah Green, and Terry Crabtree. Except for minor deviations in hair color and attire, what you experience on the page is every bit as nuanced as the laid back performances given by Michael Douglas, Katie Holmes, and Robert Downey Jr, respectively. Filtered through the ringer of Chabon’s quirky prose, I would go so far as to say these individuals are even more entertaining. I’ve known creatives like these; I’ve broken bread with them and gotten blind drunk. (Although I’ve never shot a dog or carried a tuba).

One thing needs to be said: halfway through this novel is an extended dinner scene, and it was during this interlude where I almost abandoned the novel altogether. Let it be known I loathe dinner scenes in any book. And this one, featuring an immersion into Jewish ritual, is the granddaddy of them all. If you can overcome such hurdles (and I have no doubt some out there will actually find the scene hilarious), then keep on trucking. Regarding the novels third act and climax - Grady Tripp’s epiphany and subsequent redemption - some of the film scenes were altered dramatically … although this is the nature of any adaptation. Cinema is a different language, and translations need to take place.

Wonder Boys as a novel is witty, and it’s absorbent. Sure, the grand appeal here might be a writer writing about writers. But as the old saying goes, somebody has to do it.