No, you're not losing your mind. Yesterday, I confidently declared that I was finished with my exploration of kids' horror in the 31 Reads of Terror. Well, it turns out I was wrong—there's one last middle-grade gem that managed to sneak under my radar: No Filter by Kelley Skovron, a 2025 Scholastic paperback that somehow found its way into my eclectic collection. And if you've guessed that I snagged this book solely because of its eye-catching cover, then you’d be absolutely right. It’s a little problem of mine; I tend to get swept away by illustrations before even glancing at the author or the blurb.

Meet Janessa "Jinx" McCormick, a girl whose passion for photography allows her to manipulate reality—making it just as beautiful as she wishes. Armed with her late father's camera, Jinx snaps pictures for nearly everyone in the sleepy town of Greenbelt, turning her into something of a local sensation. But when she’s editing a new shot, she catches a glimpse of… something lurking in the background. A shadow, an ominous presence that wasn't there when she clicked the shutter. It's dark and indistinct, but its shape resembles a figure. And here’s the chilling kicker: with every new photo she takes, that shadow draws ever closer to the lens, as if it’s coming to claim her.

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

Here I am, a bit tardy again—no excuses, at least none I’ll readily admit to. I've squandered enough time already, so let’s venture into today’s review of a low-budget horror flick: The Hexecutioners. This 2015 Canadian production, directed by the audacious Jesse Thomas Cook and penned by Tony Burgess, boasts a cast including Liv Collins, Sarah Power, Timothy Burd, Ari Millen, Barry Flatman, Walter Borden, Boyd Banks, and, of course, Burgess himself as Milo Somborac. Unlike the other Midnight Horrors I’ve dissected this month, The Hexecutioners has been whispered about in hushed tones by horror aficionados over the years, so naturally, I felt compelled to investigate.

Picture this: three years have passed since the government casually waved through Proposition 17—a bill that greenlights assisted suicides in private medical establishments. Our protagonist, a financially-strapped twenty-something named Madison McCourt (Liv Collins), stumbles into a job at a leading private euthanasia clinic dubbed Life Source Closures. Talk about a way to pay the bills! She’s tasked with shadowing Olivia Bletcher (performed with gravitas by Sarah Power), one of the clinic’s seasoned death administrators. They’re dispatched to a desolate estate to meet their latest terminal client, Milo Somborac (Tony Burgess). Amidst a ritual where they read from the Tibetan Book of the Dead—decent bedtime reading, right?—they inadvertently awaken the vengeful spirits of a Death Cult that once roamed the premises. And just like that, the evening takes a sharp turn into nightmare territory, proving that Milton's "death is the end" may not be quite so absolute.

I pose this question to any adventurers of Western fiction who might stumble across this post: which authors do you suspect are channeling their talents into the novels of William W. Johnstone and J.A. Johnstone? It feels improbable that a solitary writer could craft such a vast array of stories each year. With the staggering diversity of narrative styles at play, there must be a cadre of ghostwriters lurking in the shadows—unless my skepticism is unfounded, and perhaps there's just one extremely prolific author at work.

This brings us to today’s pick from the Gunsmoke & Grit selection: Fort Misery, attributed to the Johnstone duo and unleashed upon us by Pinnacle in 2023. Now, don’t be fooled into thinking this is your run-of-the-mill Wild West saga; I'd classify it as a slice of historical fiction teetering on the edge of ferment. It opens with a historical note but skips the author's note, recounting the legend of a log house erected by the army in Prescott in 1865. This dwelling was meant for Governor John N. Goodwin in the newly minted Arizona Territory. Not quite a fort, its infamous second resident, Judge Howard—a real piece of work—exercised a ruthless version of justice, which eventually earned the place its mocking moniker, Fort Misery. Tales swirl that the house was later transformed into a boardinghouse, run by a woman known only as the Virgin Mary. Supposedly, due to her relentless charity, she served up culinary creations so woeful that they could challenge the bravest of appetites. If she ever existed, her true name was Mary Brown—a ghost of a kitchen long forgotten.

Welcome back to my 31 Reads of Terror, where we dive into the delightful and dark corners of children's literature. Today, I’m pulling back the curtain on a spine-tingling tale that’s perfect for the brave young souls out there: It Watches in the Dark by Jeff Strand. This is my first dance with Strand’s writing, even though his name has been making waves across Kindle’s depths.

This book marks the inaugural entry in the EEK! standalone middle-grade horror series, drawing an undeniable parallel to the chilling charm of R.L. Stine's iconic Goosebumps. Picture it: a cover that grabs your attention with its eerie allure—its unsettling vibe practically screams to be picked up. Imagine a young reader standing at a school book fair, eyes wide with curiosity, and the moment they spot this masterpiece, they’re drawn in like moths to a flame. Who could resist? If the cash is light, the next step is the classic plea to parents—because what's a little horror without a hint of panel entertainment?

Meet twins Oliver and Trisha, explorers at heart, thrumming with excitement as they embark on a camping and canoeing adventure along the winding Champion River. However, their thrill ride takes a harrowing turn when a capsize in the churning rapids leaves their father knocked out cold. Suddenly, our intrepid duo finds themselves adrift—not just on the river, but in a treacherous situation where cell phones are as useless as a wet match.

After hours of paddling through the uncertainty, they stumble upon an old dock and a narrow, foreboding path that leads to a quaint, albeit odd, village. The townspeople extend a veneer of kindness, but an unsettling aura hangs in the air, all eyes gravitating toward a looming scarecrow in the village square. “He watches over us,” whispers fill the air like the rustle of dead leaves. “He keeps us safe.” Safe? Or sinister?

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

I must confess, today's post is arriving late, but trust me, I had my reasons. After enduring the sheer torture of the 2018 (or perhaps it was 2017) comedy-sci-fi-horror abomination known as The Jurassic Dead, I needed some time to clear the jumbled mess that had become my mind. It felt as if my brain cells had staged a mutiny, and I had to wait for them to recover before attempting to put my thoughts into coherent sentences. Let me tell you: this movie is an unholy disaster! I loathed every second of it! The blame falls squarely on the shoulders of the filmmakers—the directors (yes, there were two of them), the writer, the producers, and, of course, the actors. They each contributed to this chaotic train wreck, and I am more than willing to unleash my wrath upon them.

Let's talk about the plot—if you can call it that. Picture this: a ragtag group of redneck mercenaries teams up with a bunch of tech-savvy students after America is hit by an EMP attack. In the midst of the chaos, they stumble upon the source of their troubles, a mad scientist named Dr. Borge, who has inexplicably managed to create a living T-Rex. But this isn’t your average dinosaur; oh no! This one has a nasty habit of turning anyone it bites into a zombie. So, our ragged heroes must scramble to survive and avert the apocalypse at the hands of this ultimate undead predator.

Now, if you came in expecting a colossal, bad-CGI battle between a zombie T-Rex and an army of mercenaries rampaging through a city, prepare for disappointment! The grandeur promised on the Wild Eye Blu-ray/DVD poster is a cruel joke—aside from the T-Rex, which, mind you, is more comparable in size to a raptor than a towering behemoth. I can begrudgingly give the filmmakers a smidgen of credit for attempting to use practical effects for the T-Rex, but I absolutely cannot forgive them for the convoluted, cluttered plot. The blame lies entirely with them. Look, I understand the ambition behind attempting to create a B-level monster flick, but there's a stark difference between making a B-movie with an ironic twist and producing a jumble of incoherent nonsense. Sadly, these filmmakers lack the necessary talent to straddle that line.

There was nothing more alluring during the early morning power outage than snuggling up with a flashlight and diving into a middle-grade horror novel. The book in question? Last Laugh by K.R. Alexander—a name I wasn’t familiar with until now, but apparently, he’s penned quite a few spine-chilling tales aimed at kids, trying, perhaps in vain, to measure up to the legendary R.L. Stine. Yes, I admit it: my decision to pick this book was driven entirely by its cover art, which features a porcelain clown doll that practically oozes creepiness. I can't be the only one who thinks clowns are just a bit sinister, right? Ahem... Pennywise.

So, here’s the grim tale: nothing humorous lurks in the shadows of true evil. For as long as they can remember, siblings Victor and Genevieve have been warned about one particular room in their grandmother's house—it’s an off-limits zone, shrouded in mystery. No one dares to give details about what lies inside, only that the door should never be opened. Naturally, this prohibition only piques Victor's curiosity. When the opportunity presents itself, with their grandmother away, he seizes the moment. What he discovers behind that forbidden door is enough to chill the bones: a nightmarish collection of clown dolls, each more sinister than the last. But the real horror? Once that door swings open, the clowns are free to escape, and that's when the real nightmare begins. A race against time ensues—can they put the lid back on this grim Pandora’s box?

K.R. Alexander employs a strategy reminiscent of the Goosebumps formula: you’ve got the plucky child protagonist, an adventurous sibling sidekick—which we find in Victor and Genevieve—along with a delightfully creepy atmosphere that envelops their grandmother's house like a suffocating fog. The villain of the piece? Well, it’s not just the clown dolls, though they certainly take center stage; something darker lurks behind those porcelain smiles. I won't give the twist away, but let’s just say those dolls are confined for a very compelling reason.

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

How often do you enter Goodreads' Giveaways? And how many have you won over the years?

My Answer:

Once upon a time, I was a Goodreads fanatic, visiting the site religiously, but I’ve since drifted away. A quick look at my history reveals I’ve won seven books over the years—five of which actually landed in my hands. Contrast that with my experience on LibraryThing, where I’ve barely managed to snag 10% of the books I’ve won. Talk about a strikeout! 

Here’s to better luck and thrilling reads ahead!

〜B.J. Burgess

I trust everyone is savoring this crisp October Friday. Apologies for my absence on your blogs last week; life has been a whirlwind, and I've found myself with scant time to make my rounds. But fear not—I’m determined to catch up on everyone’s Friday 56s over the weekend!

This week, my pick is the newly released The Psychic by Nancy Bush, an ARC I had originally planned to review yesterday. However, my poor eyes were begging for a break after an intense reading spree. Sometimes, it’s essential to recognize your limits, right? 

Currently, I’m lost in a gritty western, Fort Misery, in preparation for tomorrow's Gunsmoke & Grit feature. After that, I’ll finally sink my teeth into The Psychic—the cover alone gives off deliciously eerie vibes, with its shattered glass hinting at the haunting thrills within. I can hardly wait to start! Just in time for my review on Tuesday.

'The Friday 56' is hosted by My Head is Full of Books.

Speaking of covers, modern designs often leave me feeling rather uninspired, but The Psychic? Truly a standout. The chilling imagery perfectly complements a plot that encapsulates the fear we all harbor—what happens when a psychic starts having visions of her own death? It’s enough to make anyone's hair stand on end.

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

I'm utterly at a loss for words—or perhaps it's just that I’ve been rendered speechless by an absolute abomination. For countless minutes, I've been fixated on the glowing abyss of my laptop screen, mulling over how in the name of all that is cinematic I should kick off tonight's review of Bride of Scarecrow, a 2019 film that I would tentatively label as the worst film in history. Yet, to be truly fair, it shares this dubious honor with two other laughable Scarecrow installments that I have no intention of ever torturing myself with. My purchase—a staggering $1 from Dollar Tree—has officially earned its place as a dollar squandered on nonsensical drivel. And that’s me being as generous as possible toward the filmmakers, who, bless their souls, expended time, effort, and resources on creating what can only be described as abysmal.

As for the plot? Well, let's take a quick stroll through this cursed cornfield. A down-and-out radio host, drowning in mediocrity and bad airtime, suddenly discovers she's inherited a farmhouse from a family she barely knew existed. In what seems like a scene straight out of a bad Rural Horror Starter Pack, she packs her bags and heads to the idyllic countryside. But instead of fresh air and picturesque landscapes, she finds herself immersed in a web of dark secrets, where folks have a peculiar talent for disappearing without a trace. It seems this farm is not merely a structure of bricks and mortar; it's a twisted incubator for something sinister, and that something happens to be the malevolent spirit of a man unjustly transformed into a scarecrow. Every year, for an agonizing stretch of 48 or 72 hours—time is a fuzzy concept when dealing with the malevolent—we're left wondering why this cursed soul is on the prowl for a bride. I can't help but speculate that the script's creator, Shannon Holiday, never got around to addressing such pesky details.

I'm scratching my head, pondering the curious decision that led me to pick up a battered ex-school library copy of The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die by April Henry. Perhaps it was the siren call of a ten-cent book too tempting to resist? Or maybe I was oblivious to the fact that it was a YA novel? Whatever the reason, here I am, ready to share my thoughts as part of today's 31 Reads of Terror. So, without further ado, let’s talk about this chaotic mess.

Here's the plot:

"Take her out back and finish her off."

That’s all our protagonist knows as she awakens in a ransacked cabin, disoriented and terrified. She doesn’t remember who she is or how she got there, just that two shadowy figures are debating her fate—fight or flight, life or death. Naturally, she opts to run.

In a whirlwind of tension and intrigue, April Henry serves up a thriller that explores the complexities of murder, identity theft, and even a hint of biological warfare. The story follows Cady and Ty—her unexpected rescuer-turned-ally—as they navigate a precarious race against time to evade their lurking threats.

Now, reading The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die feels akin to watching a B-movie late at night, the kind you find on a forgotten channel, oozing with melodrama and clichés. Hold on—a book can't be compared to a flick, can it? But if it could, this one is a popcorn thriller that would flop flatter than a two-day-old soda. This book marks my introduction to April Henry, and while she’s a New York Times bestselling author, I can't help but wonder if she’s written better material elsewhere—because this? This was a bit of a train wreck.

I'm caught in a perplexing conundrum regarding the so-called "requel" trend taking Hollywood by storm, especially in the realm of horror. On one hand, it's hard not to feel a rush of excitement seeing iconic titles like Halloween, Scream, and I Know What You Did Last Summer claw their way back onto the big screen, resurrecting beloved characters from their gory graves. However, on the flip side, if there’s no rich narrative underpinning this nostalgia, what’s the point of dusting off these relics?

Take the recent Halloween trilogy, for instance, where filmmakers boldly chose to ignore entire sequels, not to mention timelines, in a bid to humanize the infamous Michael Myers. They promised to explore the man behind the mask, only to end up tripling down on the supernatural elements that had been so potently unsettling in the original. As a dedicated horror aficionado, I find myself scratching my head in sheer bewilderment.

Then there's Scream's sequels, which sent a fan-favorite character six feet under, only to resurrect him (in possibly digital form, mind you) for the next installment. Seriously, what’s the rationale behind that? It’s as if studios are in a mad dash for nostalgia cash, and I get it—there's a thrill in revisiting our haunted pasts. Still, if you’re going to churn out sequels, for the love of all things terrifying, at least weave a solid story, lest you anger the very fanbase that holds these franchises close to their horror-loving hearts.

This brings me to the latest offering in the I Know What You Did Last Summer franchise. No, I’m not referring to the 1997 horror classic—yes, classic, even if some so-called purists bristle at the mention. Instead, I’m casting my gaze toward the new iteration, also titled I Know What You Did Last Summer. It makes sense, right? Apparently, numbering movies confuses today’s audiences. Technically, it’s the fourth entry, but let’s be real here; that 2006 direct-to-video affair—I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer—was a cinematic dumpster fire we’d prefer to forget. So, let’s just call this flick the third.

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

Ever since the Conjuring franchise unveiled the sinister charm of Annabelle—and yes, I’m fully aware that this horror icon is inspired by a supposed haunted Raggedy Ann doll—the floodgates for low-budget haunted doll horror flicks swung wide open. Among the most eye-roll-inducing entries is 2018’s Mandy: The Haunted Doll, which loosely borrows from the tale of a century-old porcelain doll that allegedly haunts the Quesnel Museum in British Columbia. Now, let’s not kid ourselves—a doll is just a doll, right? But those vintage ones? They can look downright unnerving. Just the thought of sleeping in a room filled with them sends shivers down my spine. Goosebumps galore!

So, what sinister plot plays out in the realm of Mandy? Picture this: Amber, Carly, and Neil, the trio of thieves, have concocted what they believe to be the perfect heist. Amber will don the guise of a babysitter, infiltrate wealthy households, and, while their unsuspecting little ones sleep, they’ll raid their homes. It seems almost foolproof until Amber’s luck runs dry. Hired by the enigmatic Miss O’Brien, she is tasked with watching over her “sweet, dear little Mandy.” Just one catch—never disturb the child. Once they’re alone, the thieves’ eyes glint with greed, and they begin their treasure hunt, only to discover that Mandy is far from a mere child; she’s a malevolent, possessed doll with a lethal agenda of her own.

What the hell has happened to box stores? It feels like they've abandoned the very heartbeat of childhood—books for middle-graders and authentic young adult novels, the kind that don’t feel like they’ve been filtered through a committee of adults wanting to relive their glory days. It’s disheartening to watch our neglected education system falter, while politicians stand idly by, too busy filling their pockets to care. Sometimes, I think about running for office myself, but who wants to sell their soul to the devil for a taste of power? I’d prefer to keep my soul intact, thank you very much.

Now, what does any of this lamenting have to do with today’s review of Scarewaves? Absolutely nothing. Except that I stumbled upon a hardcover at a local Walmart a year or two ago, back when the geniuses in charge still thought children's books were worth stocking. It may not be the case universally, but in my neck of the woods, the shelves are bare of anything remotely resembling a spirited read for kids.

Anyway, onto the meat of the matter: Scarewaves, penned by Trevor Henderson, a name familiar to fans of ghastly imaginings and chilling creepypastas. I have to admit; there’s a morbid delight in his work that keeps me coming back for more. I’ve heard there’s a second book in the series—I don’t own it yet, but let’s see if this initial dive captivates me enough to want a sequel.