What the Night Knows by Dean Koontz

The signs were good, and early word of mouth suggested a return to form. With the inevitable hit and miss ratio of a prolific author, it appeared What the Night Knows was not only a homecoming to the magic of the past, but a transcendent step up the ladder; perhaps a piece of dark fiction that would be regulated to the status of classic and the author – while achieving greatness many books ago – would be held in even higher regard.

This optimism continued as I began my journey, and although difficult I managed steer away from an influx of reviews pouring in daily. Our opening monologue is pure Koontz, setting the stage for a power-play of epic scope where the author’s cerebral prose could be fully explored. Already, I had garnered the formula for What the Night Knows was going to be a similar one applied to Life Expectancy, where a domestic lifestyle is shattered by a series of malevolent dates over a certain time period. This worked for that particular book, and the ‘countdown’ or ‘ticking-clock’ effect is a tried and true prescription for suspense.

John Calvino is a homicide detective recently alerted to an entire family’s slaughter committed by a young member of it, one Billy Ryan, whose confession and lack of remorse highlights startling similarities between these murders and one's committed twenty years previous. Although not the Detective assigned to the case, John goes out of his way to initiate a meeting with Billy, and what he finds when coming face to face with him not only confirms this correlation to past events, but will open up whole new possibilities in regard to the perpetrator. For it was John’s family who were the victims all those years ago: his father, mother and siblings all the violent work of one Alton Turner Blackwood. Although dead, it seems Alton’s curse might just live on in the form of Ryan … until Ryan dies. Then all hell breaks loose.

At its core, What the Night Knows can be construed as a simple macabre tale – that of the invading spirit. One who is able to leap frog through time and space (and individual to individual), to finish off what he started. Thankfully, one of the strengths of the book is that Koontz can make believers out of us, and a serious mythology is constructed. Quiet easily, this aspect of spirit possession could have fallen into campy realms resembling something like Friday the 13th: Jason Goes to Hell, or perhaps a rampaging liquid-metal cyborg. The upsurge of dread and malice we feel from Alton Blackwood is real and pervading. The snippets of his journal interspersed throughout give an intimate glimpse into a worthy evil.

Progressing, the first oddments of doubt begin to creep in ... which slowly turn into outright disappointment. Koontz, over the course of years, seems to have lost touch with his fellow man. John Calvino is attached to a family almost perfect in its worldview. (They also have hired staff). His wife, Nicolette, is an acclaimed and successful artist; his children Zach, Naomi, and Minnie are faultless, often displaying little characteristics reflective of normal children. What we have instead are character motivations filled with nothing but 'Koontz-talk', where the author goes on rambling dirges advocating his Republican politics and conservative philosophies. In a brutal flip-side, everyone surrounding them are positively evil: thief's, sexual deviants, and even child murderers. And each are ripe for spirit possession. On a narrative level, I understand antagonists must be created for the purpose of fiction, but when they are heaped on with such loving abandon, it becomes unrealistic. Here, Koontz has attempted to step out of his comfort zone and create a story steeped in the supernatural, a narrative brimming with scenes almost Laymon-esque in their ferocity. But he doesn’t succeed. Horror (at a core level) is supposed to be fun … yet the depressing nature of this novel had me audibly sighing. When the final act came about, the un-thinkable occurred: I didn’t care whether I finished the final pages. As a reader, I was merely re-treading ancient ground from dozens of the author's previous stories.

Sadly, the return to form never came about. And (though I have unfailing respect for the author) a wide gulf opened in this particular experience. 

The Force Unleashed by Sean Williams

In all, there must be hundreds (if not thousands), of reviews for The Force Unleashed permeating the ether since it was first (unleashed). As a precaution, I have read none of them. HorrorScope has always taken its roots in literature – and that is how I approached The Force Unleashed ... a novel written by a local Australian, one given the opportunity to delve into an elaborate mythology almost unparalleled in its appeal to the world.

That said, there can be no denying what we are dealing with here: although my knowledge of the video-game itself was haphazard at best (I'm a rare gamer), the story-line of Star Wars Episode 3.5 had, of course, trickled into my awareness over time. How could it not? For there is an intrinsic Star Wars fanboy lurking within the psyche of any person who holds speculative fiction close to their heart. And for those of us who ignore the first two prequels as though they did not occur, another invitation to step into the window of the Dark Times. For this is apocalyptic Star Wars; a Star Wars where most childhood fancies have been discarded. Here, a more serious tone has engulfed the galaxy far, far away.

And through that window lies the story of Darth Vader’s secret Sith apprentice Starkiller and his whistle stop tours - a mission to find and squash the last rudimentary fragments of the Jedi, those scattered remnants pocketed throughout the galaxy. Accompanying him on his journey are his droid PROXY and adept female pilot Juno Eclipse. Both have tender and amnesiac pasts full of betrayal, and both are mentally warring within their awareness in relation to duties they perform in the service of the Empire. For gaming fans, I’m sure there is a veritable trove of information pertaining to a character like Juno … but this adaptation itself is complete with enough arc where our protagonist is concerned.  

Ensconced in the Rouge Shadow, the unlikely pair world skip from the festering droid wastelands of Raxus Prime to the lush forests of Felucia, encountering hostile natives and inhospitable terrain. Of course, what we have on show is a narrative unmistakably linked to a video-game … but I found myself warming to it. The Force Unleashed is non-stop battle and unrelenting action; descriptive graphics spewing from the page in the author's deft voice, giving rise to an utterly immersive world that will make you blink twice when lifting your head from the page. This is no Disney-esque outing; the Dark Side invades everything, lifting the curtain of a Sith mind denied to us in the prequels.

If the book reinforces anything, it is that Sean Williams is a chameleon writer. As a columnist currently living without deadlines, I cannot imagine the insurmountable pressure involved bringing another's vision to life, making it coherent, and pleasing a population of people without equal in its passion for the images. The Force Unleashed is a even a novel that manages to resonate on an emotional level (with a belter of a finale), so I was somewhat dubious when hearing a sequel is in the works. 

However ... knowing that once again its coming from the pen of Sean, reader's shouldn’t be discouraged taking yet another step back into the world of the Dark Times.

The Last Deep Breath by Tom Piccirilli

Another prolific writer whose talents have managed to slip under the radar, Tom Piccirilli is a four time Bram Stoker winner with over twenty novels to his credit and a slew of shorter tales ranging the gamut of mystery, thriller, horror, erotica and science fiction. A heavy-hitter in the horror clique, his name has clout – so I was excited to finally delve into his take on the novella form with Tasmaniac Publications The Last Deep Breath.

Even from the illustration and from Tom’s reputation, I pieced together this is a kind film-noir frolic and that’s exactly what's offer. The story follows Grey, a washed out drifter with no clear idea or centralized compass on where he wants to be - he only knows he must find his foster sister before the excesses of the world kill her. After both of them escaped the tortuous embrace of abusive foster parents, their crimes have seen them go in different directions … and his sister only desires reconciliation when death is just around the corner. After another vanishing act he follows her again – this time into the bustling heart of Hollywood. Soon he is seduced into a dirty world of scummy agents, fading movie stars, and half-baked leads.

The first thing that jumped out was the prose: Tom’s style is immediately accessible and I’ve always been partial to writers who are not afraid to lay on heavy doses of metaphor. Though somewhat grating at the beginning: to be sucked into a hard-boiled world set in the present day (let’s face it, most of us are conditioned to see this world through black and white sepia mirroring the styles of a bygone era). But this knee-jerk reaction is probably caused by not reading far or wide enough in the genre. Having never tackled a tome by Elmore Leonard, unfortunately my familiarity with the genus extends no further than films like Get Shorty with the locale setting of Mulholland Drive

Like other Tasmaniac titles, this one is short, sliping by with the speed of our protagonist Grey experiencing a chemical high. There are cool vintage cars, porn actors and pimps; there are movie stars and murders. And underlying all of it is the mystique and allure of what it is to come to Hollywood for the first time. Also, it wouldn’t be a Tasmaniac edition if it didn’t have a lengthy and very entertaining foreword - this time by Patrick Lussier.

To top it off there is a bonus short Between the Dark and Daylight, a completely original and funny romp whose idea might have been spawned by the real life ‘balloon boy’ saga that dominated headlines some time back. Although comical, it’s still skewed with a penchant for violence.

Quake by Richard Laymon

Richard Laymon was an author whose prolific sensibilities and writing work ethic guaranteed himself a legacy that keeps on giving: even if you’ve managed to slough through the majority of his tomes, chances are a few more lurk in the wings just waiting to be tapped. It was many novels ago during my reading life that I picked up a battered paperback copy of The Stake, and over the years I’ve kept returning to Laymon's work, sampling each novel in turn like a much beloved dish, never rushing the process and spacing them out so I can go on living with the sure knowledge there will always be another on the horizon. In 2001, the world of dark fiction lost a unique and glowing talent that comes along all too seldom.  

With a title like Quake and the accompanying illustration, Laymon enthusiasts will have no trouble envisioning what’s on offer: a gargantuan earthquake has devastated most of down-town Los Angeles. If this isn’t the big one, it’s certainly close to it – and the subsequent havoc wrought might just give Stanley Banks the opportunity he’s been waiting for with neighbor Shelia Banner. Every morning she jogs past his living room window, and every morning he ogles her. With his domineering mother now out of the equation and the streets in ruins, normal suburbia is suddenly transformed into a macabre playground for the depraved.

Racing to get home is Shelia’s daughter Barbara and her friends from school. Her husband Clint is also stranded and pairs with unlikely allies as the city abruptly becomes rife with roving gangs and looters. As the body count rises, Clint and Barbara try to make it home before Stanley catches Shelia, now trapped within her bathtub among the debris.   

One of Laymon’s more ambitious efforts standing at nearly 600 pages, the author never loses stride. Though sometimes small on action, he writes with the uncanny dexterity of making hundreds of pages fly by as though dozens of scenes are transpiring. A lot of this can be attributed to his study of character: rarely have I come across a novelist who can articulate people’s dialogue so accurately. Those familiar with his formula will know it often reads like a drama: narrative simplicity handled so craftily the tale becomes intricate. And it’s never more evidenced than in Quake. Probably the only pitfall is Quake's outdated nature – at the time of publication in 95, hand-held devices were still some time away. Hopefully this doesn’t deter a new generation from embracing Laymon’s oeuvre.  

As a horror writer, Laymon was authentic - someone who wore the genre like a badge of honor and never apologized for it. Years later he would pave the way for others like Brian Keene and Bentley Little to fill a void after his departure. One day, let's hope the world of cinema will pay homage by adapting one of his many visions.

Dread

There is no delight the equal of dread.

So begins the opening paragraph of a pivotal short story from the myriad of tales presented in Clive Barker's ground-breaking collection Books of Blood. Dread, a harrowing excursion into the nature of fear, stood out from others in the pantheon.  

Many years later we finally have a film adaptation from the funhouse that yielded semi-successful outings including Rawhead Rex, Candyman, Lord of Illusions, Book of Blood and The Midnight Meat Train. And it could not come at a more pertinent time. With the expansion of the splatter-porn field now firmly entrenched in the scaffold of the genre, I feel the original architects of such tales deserve their voice to be heard before we become swamped in a mire of imitation and unsympathetic translations lacking metaphor. Although shocking in tone, Clive Barker’s tiny tale of Quaid and his philosophical relationship with the ‘Beast’ of fear is somewhat loftier than the usual horrors.    

Jackson Rathbone plays Stephen Grace, a University cinema student who becomes acquainted with Quaid - a similar individual with a potent story from a past detailing horrific events: Stephen does not drive a vehicle after his sibling died at the wheel, and Quaid is still reeling from being a child witness to his parent’s dismemberment. Already, we are seeing elements deviate from the original story – subtle changes at fist but still keeping with the overall milieu. Quaid then proposes research into people’s fears for their first thesis, and soon they are joined by fellow-student Cheryl, there to document everything on camera. What follows is a character-driven descent into psychological terror with some gut-wrenching scenes.

Initially, I thought the restrained changes (and in particular the casting of Shaun Evans as Quaid) would hinder the build-up. This Quaid feels far too innocent and simple: gone is the dark charisma that made this expert manipulator so enticing. But as the narrative unfolds, Evans begins to exhibit all the distinctive traits needed to flesh out the character. Then, we face the conundrums associated with role-playing our fears … does staring into the eyes of the Beast for long enough finally grant revelation?

Writer/Director Anthony DiBlasi has worked recently on other Barker projects, and the final product of this small-budget outing is ultimately as slick and unnerving as anything released by a major studio. The tone has been honored; the material given a kind of dark reverence showcasing both an understanding of Dread tempered with the need for a clever rearrangement. While not containing the dark grandiosity of previous endeavors such as Lord
of Illusions or Candyman, Dread still manages to find its own shadowy niche in the legendary resume of Clive Barker. 

Review: Saw 3D

It hardly came as a surprise to the tribe when it was announced the inevitable SAW VII was to be filmed in 3D - perhaps a move that would hopefully make us less desensitized to the now repetitious ‘traps’ percolating through one of the most lucrative horror franchises of all time. Dealing with yet another mind-numbing circuitous plot might be worth it to see what story-board designers could envisage trying to hang ropey intestines and viscera all over a viewer’s 3D glasses.

We open with the usual fare, and at first it seemed SAW 3D was vying into new territory … more darkly comical and conceivably something like the last Final Destination whereby it moves in self-parody or satire. That notion is quelled in a hurry as we realize that what’s on offer is yet another unbroken continuation of the Jigsaw mythology … now a Russian doll tale that is a jigsaw within itself.

Bobby Dagan (Sean Patrick Flanery looking a little worse for wear) is a ‘Jigsaw survivor’ who has become a small celebrity by writing a book and doing the talk-show route detailing his experiences. He even holds morbid meetings not unlike AA whereby other survivors band together to give their take on the pitfalls and/or liberating effects of being unwilling participants in the serial killers game. Subsequently, he and his associates are abducted by Jigsaw’s newest torch-bearer Detective Hoffman (Costas Mandylor), and off we go on another merry-go-round of torture-porn.

The celebrity angle was a good one - and all the components were there to elevate Saw 3D into a suspenseful climax that might hopefully bring closure or possibly a deus ex machina to round off the legacy. Sadly, something is lacking, and I found the previous plot-device of a medical insurance corporation much more appealing than this often bloated and imitating work. Of course, we probably threw out ‘could this really happen?’ about four films ago and can happily suspend disbelief for the sake of cinema. But somehow this didn’t work here, and the elaborate processes to set such a series of events in motion delve into the land of pure fantasy.

With the conclusion on the horizon, the writer's had an opportunity here to tap into an emotional element, but what what's on offer is more of a jazzed-up musical score overlapping an excursion that still feels like a two-hour music video. (Saw VII actually contains a cameo by Linkin Park's Chester Bennington). The inevitable twist is somewhat compelling, almost like SAW’s greatest hits containing a hidden bonus track from the first film made by two Melbourne boys all those years ago. But regrettably, this is not the finale the franchise probably deserves.       

The Finger of God by Keith Williams

A retired Astronaut who once called the International Space Station home, Jordie MacAlister now spends his days in a different kind of isolation: sequestered away on the West Coast of Scotland mourning the death of his wife in the aftermath of an inoperable brain tumor. Furthering his woe, Jordie discovers his time in space has severely weakened his heart, thus curtailing a career in NASA. His life is peaceful – if not idyllic – until a top-secret NASA database is enigmatically downloaded onto his computer in a blinding flash of light. With his inside knowledge, Jordie knows such a thing isn’t possible. So it begs the question: whom or what is behind this inexplicable event now beginning to be felt around the world …

In the early stages, we get the feeling The Finger of God may be a short and speculative excursion not dissimilar to a stand-alone episode of The X-Files. This element is present as Jordie recruits an old friend and retired conspiracy-theorist to help him decipher the downloaded code. But what begins as a small mystery soon dovetails into an apocalyptic narrative incorporating every trope of science-fiction with added horror elements like those sprinkled throughout a Roland Emmerich film. Shifting settings from Geelong, Australia, to the upper echelons of NASA, Williams juggles an alien monstrosity hell bent on exposing the dark folly of the human heart.  

Unfortunately, when charting a plot evocative of sci-fi television, it becomes easy see everything through the lens of these fictions. There are troubled, hardened cops voicing cliched overtures; there are male and female protagonists linked romantically through the fall of civilization. And underlying it all, we get the feeling Williams is using his stage to preach on human hubris; maps of intent weighted down with half-baked philosophy that manages to taper the enjoyment of a fast moving plot. During certain sections, you’ll ‘know’ you’re reading a book. A perfect example of this would be:

"That statement from Maurice injected reality back into the surreal atmosphere as awareness of the impossibly dire situation permeated the kitchen."

Mishaps aside, The Finger of God will still manage to resonate with readers who enjoy old-school tropes with subtle hints of horror.

Borderland (2007)

When first reading the caption ‘Inspired by a True Story’ I invariably recoil. Do we have on our hands another Texas Chainsaw Massacre replica trying to emulate the success of that franchise? Or perhaps this is just another torture-porn outing with a series of events so loosely resembling the original crime its entire story is nothing more than a fictitious construct? Initially, that was my first impression of Borderland … a sordid tale set on the fringe of Mexico.

If there was any question regarding the film-territory we inhabit, the opening sequence quells all doubts in a hurry as two Mexican police officers find themselves in the hands of a drug-cartel that applies human sacrifice to please deities and thus remain anonymous from enemies. It sounds far-fetched ... but the tone and mood of Borderland enables the scenario to somehow be plausible. None of this is for the squeamish, and although we have a sinister world very Tarantino/Rodriguez on offer, I had the feeling even those icons would be applauding this.

Next, we cut to the main-players and inevitable future victims of the blood-cult: Ed, Phil, and Henry – three arrogant and ambitious American’s celebrating graduation. The boys have decided that before college they’re going experience freedom and liberty as defined by those living south of the border. At first reluctant, Ed joins his friends and we are then treated to their adventures with alcohol, drugs, and sex. But this is no teeny-bopper outing where dim-witted adolescents are fodder for embarrassing lines and actions; I found the characters innocence and naivety to be genuine. When the subsequent abduction of Phil takes place, the tension becomes palpable.

The prescription for a movie like Borderland is, of course, the same one applied to films like Hostel. But it’s a formula that will always work for horror. This is foreign land, everybody is corrupt, and when the maelstrom comes there is nobody to help you or hear you scream. The added true-story element (of which there is a surplus of information in the special features), gives credence to the harrowing brutality of human sacrifice. When the tides turn, and the victim seeks retribution, we discover they are capable of just as much atrocity as their tormentors. Although at times the pacing is slow and the dark tones will have you squinting, the climax ensures Borderland rises just above the usual crop to be a better than average horror film.

Aegri Somnia

Aegri Somnia is a Latin phrase, one that means, literally, ‘A Sick Man’s Dream.’

Aegri Somnia (for me, at least), was always going to be a winner. The news spread; little banners and bookmarks circulated with an illustration enough whet my fantastique taste-buds. For dark fiction lovers – for I assume you wouldn’t be reading this if you weren’t – the appeal that can often come with holding a little package like Aegri Somnia goes beyond mere words. Whereas some see nothing more than something to perhaps use as a drink coaster on a coffee table (god forbid), aficionado’s perceive a treasure trove; something priceless: imagined worlds evolved from sacrifice and sweat.  

Jennifer Pelland is our first executioner of tales with YY, and it’s a worthy opener. Reminiscent of the design on the cover, we know this is a kind of monster territory. Little monsters. Monsters that scurry. After an abortive attempt to fashion a human baby goes horribly wrong, the man for whom the experiment was designed has to repair the damage. Although concerning fiends, the story’s heart is ultimately a cordial domestic one between a small boy and a grieving adult ready to make the ultimate sacrifice to put things right.

Christopher Rowe’s The League of Girls is a little more subdued. The plot seems to fit well into the Aegri Somnia theme, but I was somewhat baffled; maybe this was the point. After coming home from hospital following debilitating injuries from a plane crash (or was it)? Sammi is allocated a place in a girl’s boarding house that may well be some kind of afterlife.

One of my favorite's follows: All Praise to the Dreamer by Nancy Fulda. It’s another story strongly tied with parenthood, and the lengths we go to preserve our brood. What makes this one tick, however, is the strange, sentient creatures preying on humanity’s infants. They are even given a delicious name (one I won’t reveal here), and you can tell the author has fun with her creations. A clever ending ensues.

Mythology comes to the forefront with Nothing of Me by Eugie Foster. Deity’s everybody will be familiar with – those from Homer’s Odyssey, rear up in a present day tropical setting. It’s a cool little story, and a lot of people will enjoy it; however, I’d just finished reading Dan Simmons’s epic Ilium the night before. Hence, was a little put off coming back to Zeus and his immortal family of gods, goddesses and demigods. They seem to be everywhere in fiction, marauding around writers heads and begging them for more tales. Eugie’s one is infused with curses, betrayal, and romance with immortals Scylla and Glaucus at the center of things.

Natural storyteller Scott Nicholson gives us Heal Thyself, probably the ultimate standout. Jeffery Jackson has problems – big problems. And when he sees a past-life hypno-therapist to heal his cerebral sufferings, his psyche dovetails into area’s better left unexplored. I’ve made it no secret in the past (pun intended), I predict Scott’s only a couple of books away from breaking through big-time, and here you'll see why. There is a miniature to Heal Thyself, and (in my opinion), he seems to grasp elusive topics with a fiery, almost effortless imagination.

Perhaps the only story not quite fitting in here is On the Shoulders of Giants by Bryn Sparks. Though only due to the hard science-fiction factor others have shied away from. Apex readers will know Bryn is talented, however – and here he fuses human emotion with robotic sentience. 

Dream Takers by Rhonda Eudaly tackles sleep disorders. Those familiar with insomnia (or nightmares) that invade us when we close our eyes will be chilled. In this future, technology has enabled one Timothy Lindsey to snatch nightmares from the subconscious and give them to somebody else. In this case, its inmates on death row . . . monsters already filled by the void. And of course, there is always a price …

The next piece, Letters from the Weirdside by Lavie Tidhar, seems dedicated to all the struggling dark fiction writers out there. We begin with a typical day in a horror magazine editor’s work-place. There follows his decent into story realm, known reality fracturing and the often blurry line between fiction and our own four-dimensional world ripped asunder: a motif Stephen King has explored to great extent.

Every story here seems to feed off the one before, and the next one, Wishbones by Cherie Priest, comes off as good as the rest. The plot concerns ancient mythical secrets during the civil war and is branched into the present involving teenagers working in a pizza store. Cherie’s use of language (especially between the teenagers), is right on the money; banter flies from the page like you’re watching it on the screen. Also, it’s the images evoked during the war camps (as apposed to the supernatural elements) that ultimately win out.

All becomes as Wormwood will certainly make a lot of techno-phobes and environmentalists out there squirm in their respective reading chairs. It’s authored by Angeline Hawkes, who purveys the wasteland of Chernobyl years after the meltdown and reports what's there. Alex has permission to travel to the abandoned city to add some verisimilitude for a school report and perhaps take a few photographs. Alex discovers (after his motorcycle breaks down), that Chernobyl isn’t quite as deserted as the world argues ... and the city has one last, horrifying gift for the world. Sounds great, and it is … except there is an element of disbelief for the reader as Alex comes to terms with his new environment perhaps too swiftly. Here, we’re thrust forward into B-grade territory as though we’ve been there all along – and you might potentially find yourself frowning. However, it is a short story, and ultimately the author is to be forgiven.

It seems just when you think the best story has shown itself, along comes Mens Rea by Steven Savile. What started out as a seamy cop London tale – perhaps a very gruesome take on TV’s The Bill – abruptly goes ape into dark regions involving experimental brain surgery, hoodlum thugs with telekinetic gifts – and an ending just begging for some kind of universe to be explored. Steven takes to the theme beautifully, imbuing Mens Rea with a vigorous, complex, and ultimately uplifting tale.

It was a good ride. And I was happy to make the journey. All authors are to be commended, as they have been given a task and responded. Bravo Jason Sizemore and Gill Ainsworth for editing. Aegri Somnia is sold through from Apex Publications. 

Within His Reach by Steve Gerlach

This novella is dedicated to the memory of Rod Serling (writer and creator of The Twilight Zone), and it shows. Within His Reach is a quaint little story, hearkening back to the film-noir days of the 1950s when American towns were a picturesque realm of suited, cynical attitudes against the backdrop of a black and white visual style. But underlying this hardboiled world’s glossy surface is also the propaganda beneath: that what lies on top is merely an illusion authorities want us to believe …

At this time in history, polio is an epidemic sweeping the nation, and Arnold Enright is one of the poor unfortunates to lose everything he holds dear to a disease regulating you to the mechanical prison of living in an iron lung. Told in first person narration, this is where the story picks up, and Gerlach does a good job conveying the despondency of the disease. When Arnold decides to go ahead with radical surgery and subsequently wakes up in his home town of Hope Springs a whole man, his elation soon turns to despair when he realizes the town is empty and everything has the drab quality of a nightmare. Was the surgery a success? Is he merely dreaming? Why does everything he touch vanish into non-existence? Despite the world around him falling apart yet again, Arnold goes in search of the wife who abandoned him and the daughter he’s never met.

Here, Gerlach has given himself the task of translating the The Twilight Zone ambiance into a literary format, and for the most part, he succeeds; reading, we can almost hear the show’s soundtrack in the background – can almost anticipate an intermission when events fracture into pure slippage. But I also had the feeling this is a short story stretched like taffy into the length of a novella. As I whole, I think it might have benefited from being sluiced down to half the word count … and made an enjoyable read even more palatable to fans of science fiction noir. A small quibble in an otherwise engaging story.

The Australian small Press Tasmaniac Publications have done a beautiful job with this edition, and though copies might still be available elsewhere, it seems to have sold out in its current incarnation. Tasmaniac have a reputation for glossy, imaginative illustrations, and Within His Reach is no exception. It also contains a nostalgic and original foreword by legendary writer William F. Nolan entitled The Twilight Years.