Chris Brookmyre’s The Cracked Mirror is a rather unusual murder mystery. It begins almost as a cosy crime novel, as we meet elderly Scottish lady Penelope Coyne, with her razor-sharp mind and her penchant for solving crimes in the sleepy village of Glen Cluthar. A corpse is found in the confessional booth of a local church, strangled. Meanwhile, in California, Johnny Hawke, a world-weary LAPD cop is investigating the possible suicide of a Hollywood screenwriter. At first the two characters seem totally unconnected – a blend of Miss Marple and Harry Bosch – but slowly the two characters’ paths converge and we see them embark on a case where things aren’t always as they first seem.

I haven’t read anything by Chris Brookmyre before, but this a very difficult novel to review. I am hesitant to go into the plot for fear of spoilers, suffice to say that the blurbs give so much away that I would recommend any prospective reader tries to avoid them before reading this book. In fact I’ll go as far as to say that there are certain quotes that gave enough away to allow me to guess the big twist at the end – so from a publisher’s point of view I felt these shouts about how imaginative and genre-splicing the novel is do the book a huge disservice. Brookmyre is already an established crime writer and the publishers should have trusted that word of mouth would have been enough to see this succeed. There is a large amount of characters (although some of them appear only fleetingly and have little bearing on the main plot) and at times the story lags a bit. There are telltale signs that give away the ending (especially when one has the descriptions in mind that suggest the direction the plot is headed) so I felt that it wasn’t quite as clever as it should have been. However it does try to do something very original with the crime novel and for that it should be applauded.

The writing is fast-paced and the plot is at times great fun. But the tone will probably satisfy neither lovers of cosy crime or advocates of the American suspense novel, and I feel the twist might leave some readers rather disappointed. The Cracked Mirror is something of a curate’s egg; not a bad novel, but rather an imaginative one, whose greatest trick is spoiled by over-dramatic marketing.

Kim Morgan, a lecturer of English at Seagrave College and also a local councillor, attends a protest meeting at a church hall about the proposed construction of a golf course in the area. When a fight breaks out, Kim is rescued by handsome Freddy Medwin, with whom she enjoys a romantic dalliance. Soon after she discovers that he’s actually a student at her college. If anyone finds out about their relationship, it could be a disaster for her career. The problem is someone has found out. Someone saw them. Someone took photos. As Kim fights to stay one step ahead of her blackmailer, her life begins to spiral into a maelstrom of deceit, murder and twisted revenge.

We Were Seen is the sixth thriller by Mark West and published by The Book Folks. This one, like the others, is a fast-paced psychological suspense novel, filled with twists and turns. West has a commanding ability to create believable characters and pitch them into extraordinary circumstances. His writing is assured, his characterisation masterful, West is one of those writers who makes the craft look effortless, yet I’ve been on this Earth long enough to know he works incredibly hard to be this readable. His prose demands you power on, just one more short chapter…

We get to spend more time in Seagrave, which is always a good thing. And there’s always a warmth to West’s protagonists, so we root for them in the midst of the darkness that lurks around them. This one is particularly dark, and it touches on societal prejudices and gender politics, as well as toying with our expectations relating to environmental issues, but deep down We Were Seen is a mechanism solely to provoke thrills, chills, and page-turning shocks, and at that it excels.

Estranged friends Dean and Bethan meet after five years apart when they are drawn to a network of caves on a remote Arctic island. Bethan and her friends are environmental activists, determined to protect the land. But Dean’s group’s exploitation of rare earth minerals deep in the caves unleashes an horrific contagion that has rested frozen and undisturbed for many millennia. Fleeing the terrors emerging from the caves, Dean and Bethan and their rival teams undertake a perilous journey on foot across an unpredictable and volatile landscape. The ex-friends must learn to work together again if they’re to survive… and more importantly, stop the horror from spreading to the wider world.

I’ve long been a fan of the work of Tim Lebbon. I find he writes from a rather unique viewpoint, always offering an alternative take on things, constantly looking to give his readers something unexpected. For some unknown reason I had missed his last few novels (I think that’s because I’ve been reading crime fiction for the larger part), but when I had the chance to read his latest novel Among the Living I seized the chance. Boy, am I glad I did.

The novel is set in the near future, featuring a small cast of memorable characters. The plot is fairly straightforward, but the manner in which the story unfolds is superb. It draws together contemporary themes such as climate concerns and environmental activism with body horror and a fast-paced thriller. Parts of it reminded me slightly of the Southern Reach trilogy of books by Jeff VanderMeer (although this does feel like a lazy comparison as Among the Living is so much more than a riff on these novels), but the body-horror aspect of the released virus strikes a strong chord, especially in the wake of the recent global pandemic we have all endured. Clearly Lebbon has researched the science behind the climate aspect, but this does not get in the way of his masterful storytelling. The pace is blistering, especially as the story reaches its climax, and the fate of the characters felt meaningful. This novel would make one hell of a film.

Lebbon has delivered another hit; a wonderfully prescient novel involving a great cast of characters, with a plot that has enough science as to sound totally believable. I had a fantastic time reading this and cannot recommend it enough.

Eileen Dunlop is an unassuming yet disturbed young woman who lives with her alcoholic father in 1960s Boston. She works as a secretary at a local prison for boys, and has sexual fantasies about one of the guards, dreaming about escaping to the big city. Deeply introverted, and burdened with caring for her father – with whom she endures a difficult relationship – she shoplifts at the weekends and daydreams of a better life. But when a new counselor arrives at the prison, the beautiful and charismatic Rebecca Saint John, Eileen becomes enchanted by her. It’s a budding friendship that spirals out of control, pitching Eileen into the darkest of crimes.

Eileen is a rather downbeat book, which feels rather like a debut novel (although it isn’t). I was surprised to see that it was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. Not that I didn’t like it, but I perhaps was expecting a little more. The character of Eileen is captivating, if not wholly original, but the setting and 60s era add an extra element of repression to the proceedings. It’s set at Christmas, but isn’t very festive, and the wintry prose chills to the bone. The morose tone makes it at times a difficult read, but the pace picks up more towards the end as the almost Hitchcockian reveal propels us off in a different direction.

There has recently been a feature film adaptation of this novel, one of which I am keen to see as I think the subject matter offers a lot cinematically. As a novel, it’s steady and decent, and one I can recommend, but nothing groundbreaking enough for me to search out more of this author’s work.

The anthologies edited by Ellen Datlow have always been, to me, an essential read, but when I saw the theme of her latest book – Christmas and Other Horrors: An Anthology of Solstice Horror – for the first time I felt a slight waver of enthusiasm. This was due to my (admittedly flawed) assumption that the contributions would likely be a collection of variations on a similar theme – stories set around the Westernised version or Christmas, or folk horror tales featuring Krampus. I’m pleased to say that my expectations were proved hopelessly wrong – I should have had better faith in Ms Datlow’s skill as an editor – because the stories in Christmas and Other Horrors do not fall into a traditional style and, as such, deliver a superb breath of scope in terms of tone and theme. There are even a couple of tales from Australian writers so even the wintry elements are mixed up with the summer feel of how those in the Southern Hemisphere experience it. To a reader from the UK this adds a surreal aspect to the story.

As with any anthology, what I find as a favourite will not necessarily match up with your choices, yet as an overall book of short stories, the breadth and scope is huge. There was only one or two that I didn’t really enjoy. The contributors do a fine job of illustrating the darker aspects of the winter solstice, picking up on the tradition of ghost stories told over a flickering fire, something that goes back as far as humans have existed. After each story is a short piece by the respective author, giving an illuminating insight into their own experiences and memories of Christmas, and what it means to them.

Return to Bear Creek Lodge by Tananarive Due is wonderful familial tale of (in the author’s own words) “intergenerational trauma”, a loose sequel to her previously-published story Incident at Bear Creek Lodge. Richard Kadrey’s The Ghost of Christmases Past offers a sinister alternative to child-eater Krampus in Gryla, an Icelandic witch whose supernatural counterparts have terrorised Laura since she was ten years old. The Visitation by Jeffrey Ford is a brief story, but none the more disturbing by its brevity, about the Angels of Accord who call at a house for assistance over the Christmas period, almost as a moral test. Australian Terry Dowling’s twist on the theme is refreshing and sinister, in The Mawkin Field, as our narrator comes across a refrigerator standing in a field in the middle of a backwater New South Wales town. This was one I was still thinking about weeks later. The always reliable John Langan’s After Words is a rather erotic tale of black magic and sex, told via a series of dialogues between a post-coital couple. Kaaron Warren’s Grave of Small Birds is one of the longer tales, about a gathering on an island for the Twelve Feast days of Christmas, a celebration of food and wine, but where ancient traditions still hold fast. Our Recent Unpleasantness by Stephen Graham Jones is a surreal tale in which a voyeuristic dog-walker sees something unsettling through one of his neighbours’ windows. Benjamin Percy’s heartbreaking yet unsettling The One He Takes is vividly told, featuring a grieving couple in snowy Minnesota who wake one morning to a Christmas miracle. But their joy is short-lived as they hear the approach of something dark and sinister…

Christmas and Other Horrors is yet another of Ellen Datlow’s original anthologies that mark her out as one of the best editors working today. The fact that she has had such a remarkable career over such a long time period is testament to her skill and hard work, and this latest collection of short stories comes highly recommended.

Darkness Beckons is the fourth annual horror anthology edited by Mark Morris and published by Flame Tree Press. Like its predecessors, this one is filled with an excellent array of dark tales, written by some of the best practitioners of short fiction working today. As Morris states in his engaging introduction, this book marks the first time that one of his anthologies has contained more female authors than males. I only mention this because it’s important to note that the genre is in constant evolution – not just with regards to gender parity or an emergence of writers from different social backgrounds – but also in terms of thematic tone and subject matter – and it’s certainly refreshing to see so many editors keen to bring new voices and viewpoints to a wider readership.

The stories in Darkness Beckon cover a wide range of what constitutes the horror genre; from folk horror to the more traditional ghost story, from the darkest heart of humanity to the weird tale’s outright macabre. There must be something here to satisfy the majority of horror fans.

As with every anthology or short story collection, every entry stands alone and, as such, each reader will find different favourites within the pages of the book. The standouts for me were the contributions I’ll mention here, but it’s important to state that I think the overall quality is of such a high standard, there wasn’t really any of them that I didn’t enjoy. In Dodger by Carly Holmes motherhood is painted in nightmarish terms, made even more unsettling by the thread of skewed truth discernable in its prose. The brilliance of He Wasn’t There Again Today by Peter Atkins is driven by a narrator with a strong voice; this one is quirky and fun. Reading Good Bones by Sarah Read actually induced a nightmare of bones and cobwebs in my bed, such is its power, where we find Jim visiting the home of elderly Mrs Kelsey in order to do some odd-jobs around her dilapidated house. The sinister subject of Stephen Volk’s Under Cover of Darkness is a recognisable character, and Volk’s story depicts what feels like an approximation of one of the grisly real-life events surrounding him, complemented by the author’s masterful prose. The Fig Tree by Lucie McKnight Hardy shows what happens when a couple and their two young children spend a weekend away in a Welsh cottage; this one has elements of folk horror and references elements of grossness that might just put you off figs for life.

They keep saying that the short story market is done, that nobody reads this stuff any more. But the quality of writing in these Flame Tree Press anthologies suggest that there’s a thriving industry in short horror fiction that should not be ignored. There are still wonderfully skilled writers willing to work at this length, honing their craft and developing ideas that speak about the very fears we have in the modern world. The Flame Tree Press anthologies in particular are important, because although each book includes commissioned contributions from seasoned writers, the publisher also allows emerging writers to submit original stories during an advertised submission window, which keeps the books feeling fresh and relevant. This one, like the other three before it, comes highly recommended.

I’ve been a fan of annual Best Ofs since I started buying books in WH Smith’s in the early 1990s and came across Best New Horror edited by Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell, which was my only source of reading short horror stories back in the pre-internet days. Of course there was an abundance of other horror anthologies around at the time in second hand shops – the Pan Books of Horror were everywhere, as were the teen horror collections edited by Peter Haining, the Dark Terrors series edited by Stephen Jones, the Ghost Books edited by Rosemary Timperley, and Robert Aickman’s Fontana Books of Great Ghost Stories.

But it was the annual Best Ofs that really excited me, because these were living proof that great horror stories were still being written, and these books collected together the editor’s favourites from the previous year. I bought and read them religiously. Once the internet became a thing I realised that there were several American versions, one of which was the Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (until 2002 when co-editorship switched to Gavin Grant and Kelly Link). This ended in 2005, at which point it changed to Best Horror of the Year edited solely by Ellen Datlow.

These are an annual highlight, gathering together the creme de la creme of dark fiction published in the previous 12 months. Each entry is a delight, and this one, Volume Fourteen, is no different.

This anthology features 23 stories/novelettes and one poem, pulled from various sources, each of them dark, all of them superb. As with all collections or anthologies, some work better than others. I’ll mention a couple of my favourites, but it’s only fair to say that the quality is of such a high standard, there are no real bad tales here, it’s just a matter of individual taste. In The Offering by Michael Marshall Smith an American couple go on vacation with their teenage son to Copenhagen, only to find that the AirBnB they are staying in has a very demanding guardian. Steve Toase’s Dancing Sober in the Dust details a series of grotesque costumes created by a husband and wife team who became notorious for a grisly crime a century before. The detached nature of the descriptions left a chilling fascination in the pit of my stomach. The Strathantine Imps by Steve Duffy might not be the most original story that this fantastic author has ever written, but it’s a beautifully told tale up to his usual high standard. When Amanda and Euan’s mother dies, they are left in the sole custody of their father, in his isolated family estate on the coast of Ayeshire, Scotland. Dark forces are at work, and Amanda’s worst fears come true when a weird visitor to the house brings with him an omen of death.

Eoin Murphy’s Three Sister’s Bog is a dark unsettling fairytale set in the remote depths of Ireland. This is one of the best short stories I’ve read all year, creepy and sinister – almost nightmarish in tone. When the family dog gets lost in the nearby bog, Michael sets out from his farm with his young son, Charlie, in an effort to recover the lost pet. What they encounter is something I haven’t been able to get out of my mind for days. Eric LaRocca’s I’ll Be Gone By Then is a compelling conte cruel, heartbreaking and nasty, but threaded with a stark element of honesty in its telling. Both these stories are the first I’ve read by these writers, but I guarantee that I’ll be seeking out more of their work.

Shards by Ian Rogers at first seems like a riff on the old ‘cabin in the woods’ trope, but Rogers’ writing elevates this tale beyond the normal into the realms of excellence. Simon Bestwick’s Redwater follows a small group as they journey by boat into a swampy flood-land in search of an elusively vague MacGuffin. This one is pulpy fun, brilliantly paced and features some great action scenes.

All Those Lost Days by Brian Evenson is another highlight. When two brothers visit a theme park and take a trip on the Time Machine ride, they have no idea what the experience will do to one of them, and the impact it will have on the rest of their lives. In Carly Holmes’s Trap a mother and her two daughters set up a motion-detector camera in an effort to catch a glimpse of wildlife in the surrounding countryside. What footage is recorded is unsettling and disturbing. Another writer who is new to me, but one whose work I will look out for from now on.

Ellen Datlow has an amazing knack of getting the right balance for her selections for Best Horror of the Year. Horror is a broad church, and every year she manages to showcase stories covering the furthest reaches of the genre. Monster tales sit side by side next to literary disquiet, dark crime stories mingle with subtly grim fantasy. None of it matters. All that counts is the quality of the writing. This year’s is no exception. Long may this series continue. Highly recommended.

Laurie and Mark live on the sixteenth-floor of a block of flats in the north-west of England. She’s a cleaner at the university, Mark a security guard at the nearby power plant. One random day in May, Mark goes missing, leaving his phone and keys at home. Laurie tells no one for several weeks, carrying on with her life as normal. Visiting her dementia-suffering father and his Ukrainian carer as if nothing untoward has happened, eventually revealing the news to her work colleague. When the police finally find out, they are suspicious. Why did it take her so long to report his disappearance?

This is the first of Jenn Ashworth’s work that I’ve read in long form, everything prior to this novel was a couple of her short stories in various anthologies (all of which I’d enjoyed). Ghosted is an absolute masterclass in how to balance literary fiction with the implication of genre writing. Right from the start we’re plunged into the life of Laurie, a fascinatingly complex young woman living a rather unglamorous life. Ashworth teases us with subtle suggestions of her being an unreliable narrator. Or at least providing enough information to indicate that something in her past has had a dramatic impact upon her relationship with Mark. Also fractious is her relationship with her father, who is in the throes of vascular dementia, brought on by a stroke; his memories and the truth of the past fading like handprints on glass. There’s a strong sense of regret in their scenes together, of Laurie’s frustrations at how her father behaved towards her late mother.

Is this a crime novel or a ghost story? There are telltale signs of the supernatural – or are these just manifestations of Laurie’s stressed mind? She is certainly haunted by something, even if it’s her own psyche. The narrative structure unfolds like that of a crime novel, even with mention of a past murder in the area – apparently already solved – on the news. We begin to suspect that things are not quite as they seem. And we’d be right.

There’s an honesty about Ashworth’s writing that feels intimate and real. The characters’ flaws, the narrator’s acknowledged selfishness, is of the highest calibre and you feel compelled to follow this story through to its conclusion. Ghosted is heartbreaking, scary, funny and intensely moving. Jenn Ashworth has become one of those authors whose entire output I will seek out. This is a stunning novel and it comes highly recommended.

After the sad loss of his wife Olivia, Joe Hunter begins to hear her voice again, speaking to him from the other side. “I’m not alone.” This chilling statement eventually draws him into the afterlife, a tenebrous place built by their dreams and memories. The more that Joe yearns to communicate with his lost love, the more he threatens the safety of the barrier separating the two worlds. He comes to realise that the afterlife is a world where darkness dwells and shadows lurk and the restless dead strive to return to that of the living.

I’ve been a fan of Ramsey Campbell’s fiction since I first discovered him in the early 1990s. He has such a distinctly unique voice – he often manages to be both hilariously funny and bone-chillingly terrifying in the same sentence – and I’m pleased to report that in The Lonely Lands these magical qualities are still on display. This novel is set during the Covid pandemic, which adds an element of disturbing surreality, and this fact is not there just as a gimmick – the facemasks act as both an unsettling side detail and also an essential plot point. Poor old Joe is a sympathetic central character, and the novel is peppered with brilliantly-drawn, grotesque secondary characters. Campbell’s style – always engaging – possesses a nebulous dreamlike quality, perfectly suited to the nightmarish plots he creates. The narrative jumps around the various timelines, deliberately wrongfooting the reader. I never find Campell’s writing style easy to read, as his meaning is sometimes cleverly skewed by the characters’ dialogue, but this is a good thing really because prose of this quality should be savoured, not skimmed over.

The Lonely Lands is yet another terrific horror novel from one of Britain’s best authors.