Part of me finds myself weary of police procedurals. In a world where each series introduces new characters and spins a fresh plot, they all seem to dance to the same familiar tune: a case arises, a detective steps in, and some nefarious villains lurk in the shadows. It’s a formula that has been played out time and again, often with the predictable simplicity that commercial expectations demand—just look at anything stamped with James Patterson's name as if it were a fast-food franchise. Yet occasionally, a novel surfaces amidst the mediocrity, a work with a touch more substance, like When All Lights Fail by Randall Silvis, an author I had been blissfully unaware of until I stumbled into this, the fifth installment of the Ryan DeMarco series.

The narrative unfurls with an intriguing premise: retired police sergeant Ryan DeMarco is reluctant to return to the murky waters of private investigation, but when a nine-year-old girl from Michigan pleads with tear-streaked cheeks to help her find her biological father, he can’t say no. The journey to the Upper Peninsula promises not just the promise of closure for the girl but also a chance for DeMarco and his partner, Jayme, to mend their frayed edges from their previous case—one that spun dangerously close to death's embrace. However, once they plunge into Michigan's thick woods, what seemed like a straightforward paternity quest transforms into a treacherous game of life and death.

Ah, The Lady in Black. Just uttering the title sends shivers down my spine, and not for the reasons a good horror flick should. This cinematic catastrophe is one of the key culprits that nudged me away from the realm of low-budget horror films. You see, these so-called distributors have a penchant for scooping up smaller projects and marketing them under a flashy guise that has little—if anything—to do with the actual content. Just look at the poster: a creepy ghost girl clutching a teddy bear, standing before an ominous old house. In a shocking twist, neither the girl nor the house truly reflects what unfolds on screen. It’s the classic bait and switch, and in this case, it’s a masterclass in disappointment.

Now, onto the plot—or shall I say, the meandering saga that pretends to be one. Our protagonist, Nelson, is haunted not just by the grief of a nightmare, but rather a chilling premonition of a woman’s murder that sets off a string of serial killings. The stakes are high as he races to solve this ghastly mystery, driven by the eerie question of why his dreams are leading him down this blood-soaked path. So far, so intriguing, right? Wrong. What could have been a gripping psychological thriller takes a nosedive into the realm of melodrama.

I've amassed quite a collection of undead books in my library; it seems every time I turn around, I stumble upon another. Case in point: The Retreat, penned by Sherri Smith, which somehow wound up in my stack of 31 Reads of Terror. This might be my maiden voyage into her work—or perhaps I've read her before, but let’s not kid ourselves; my memory is about as sharp as a butter knife. I likely found this book at Dollar Tree, lured in by its eye-catching cover. After all, who can resist the siren call of a good book with an alluring façade? Publishers Weekly even dubbed it a “roller-coaster ride,” which certainly raised my eyebrows.

Let’s peel back the cover and take a look at The Retreat: We’re introduced to four women, each with her own dark secret, embarking on a weekend that promises transformation… provided they make it out alive. At the center is Katie Manning, once a beloved child star, until a horrific incident with her manager left her with a disfiguring scar that shattered her Hollywood dreams and plunged her into the depths of self-destruction. Now twenty-seven, Katie yearns for an alternative narrative to those pesky “Where Are They Now?” articles that haunt her online presence. She thinks she’s hit the jackpot when her brother’s seemingly perfect fiancée invites her to an upstate wellness retreat.

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I must confess, I have no idea what compelled me to hit play on The Resort. Perhaps I was daydreaming of a different cinematic experience, because whatever I expected, it certainly wasn’t this. In the realm of Vertical releases, one can either strike gold or be left with fool's gold, and this, my friends, was definitely the latter. While my impulse is to wrap this up as a lost cause and toss it aside, duty calls for today's horror feature. So, let’s venture into this murky pool of mediocrity.

Directed by Taylor Chen, The Resort follows four friends—Lex, Chris, Sam, and Bree—portrayed by Bianca Haase, Brock O'Hurn, Michael Vlamis, and Michelle Randolph—as they venture to Hawaii, lured by the chilling tales of a haunting at an abandoned resort. They’re on a quest to uncover the infamous Half-Faced Girl, but as they soon discover, sometimes it’s best to leave the ghosts of the past alone. That’s the crux of this scant 75-minute flick.

In an interesting twist, hip-hop artist Quavo produced this film—perhaps an attempt to cross seeds of superstardom with screen terror. The music, however, didn’t quite resonate; maybe he was too busy making beats to have a hand in the score. Either way, the aural experience left much to be desired, with credits going to John "Fingazz" Stary, who I can only hope found a more entertaining outlet.

I usually breeze past titles like Trust Me by Hank Phillippi Ryan, what with its mind-numbingly redundant title and a cover so dull it could put a caffeine-fueled squirrel to sleep. But when the price tag dips to a staggering $1.25, I’m willing to gamble on my literary luck, even with a flimsy blurb that might make other readers sprint for the exit as if fleeing a masked killer. Seriously, Forge should hang their head in shame over that description. It goes something like this: “There are three sides to every story. Yours. Mine. And the truth.” An accused killer insists she’s innocent. A journalist, shattered by grief, rises from the ashes. Their uneasy partnership spirals into a hair-raising game of deceit. But the moment you read that, you’re left wondering: who's put together such a mundane lure instead of hooking a reader’s curiosity?

Does anyone recall the infamous Casey Anthony trial? You know, the woman who somehow waltzed away from the accusation of killing her daughter with a smirk that would chill your bones? I can't help but think this real-life drama served as inspiration for Trust Me. There are just too many alignments. A quick Google search could probably verify it, but alas, the fatigue of the day weighs heavily on me. In any case, the plot revolves around the "Baby Boston" murder trial, where Ashlyn Bryant stands accused of dumping her two-year-old daughter, Tasha, into the murky waters of Boston Harbor. Yeah, you can see where the echoes of reality merge with fiction.

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The Midnight Horror is fashionably late once again, but I couldn't resist sharing my latest cinematic journey. I only managed to sink my teeth into today’s pick, Look Away, this morning, and let me tell you, it was worth the wait. Released in 2018 by Vertical, it’s one of those DVDs I stumbled upon at Dollar Tree back when everything had a humble price tag of just a dollar—those nostalgic days of treasures waiting to be unearthed in the aisles!

Now, Look Away caught my eye, not only for its intriguing premise but also because it boasts two big-name stars: Jason Isaacs and Mira Sorvino, alongside the up-and-coming India Eisley, daughter of the late Olivia Hussey. Directed and penned by Assaf Bernstein, this film represents his inaugural venture into North American cinema. Originally titled Behind the Glass, it took over two years to finally emerge from the shadows. 

The tale follows Maria (Eisley), a tormented teenage girl who seeks refuge in the enigmatic world of her own mirror reflection, a sanctuary from the relentless bullying at school and the chilly distance of her parents, played by Isaacs and Sorvino. In this twisted tale of identity, Maria discovers her reflection isn’t just a lifeless image; it’s a sinister confidant named Airam who understands her deepest wishes and darkest desires. As Maria's confidence starts to bloom, so does the plot’s darkness. The winter prom—ah, the evening where dreams can dash or blossom—becomes the stage for a fierce metamorphosis. The malevolent twin rises, and vengeance takes center stage as she embarks on a treacherous quest against those who've wronged her.

In limited theaters today, we welcome the playful whimsy of GROW, a delightful family film that invites audiences onto a delightful, pumpkin-spiced adventure. Produced by Double Nickel Entertainment, Sky Studios, and Orogen Entertainment, and distributed by Fathom Entertainment and US Pumpkin Distribution, LLC, this visually engaging picture is directed by the talented John McPhail. The screenplay is a collaborative effort by Nick Guthe, Christos N. Gage, Ruth Fletcher Gage, Mark Huckerby, and Nick Ostler.

The ensemble cast is nothing short of stellar, featuring the remarkable Golda Rosheuvel as the curmudgeonly farmer Dinah Little, and the charming Priya-Rose Brookwell as her spirited niece, Charlie. Rounding out the cast are familiar faces such as Nick Frost, Jeremy Swift, Tim McInnerny, and Jane Horrocks, along with a host of intriguing newcomers, including Joe Wilkinson, Kathryn Drysdale, Fisayo Akinade, Sharon Rooney, and the ever-quirky Alan Carr.

Ticket information can be found at here.

Set against the backdrop of the Pumpkin Capital of the World, GROW unfurls its enchanting narrative, where a stoic Dinah begrudgingly opens her homestead to Charlie, a vibrant young girl with an extraordinary talent for connecting with plants. This isn’t just a simple family reunion; it’s a journey of transformation and discovery. As the annual pumpkin-growing contest approaches, Charlie, with her green thumb and even greener dreams, must contend with a cast of eccentric rivals who would bend the rules—and possibly reality—to win.

Ah, the clamor surrounding Jack Heath's debut thriller, Hangman, was impossible to ignore when it hit the shelves in 2018. Yet, as fate would have it, I couldn't find a copy locally. It wasn't until I serendipitously discovered a copy at Dollar Tree that I decided to bite the bullet. A dollar for a book? Surely a harbinger of ill fate, right? But curiosity won out, and I brought it home, promptly tossing it onto my shelf to mingle with the dust bunnies. After a long, unflattering hibernation, I finally dusted it off to have it star in today’s installment of 31 Reads of Terror. Buckle up; it’s time to dive into the darkness!

The premise unfolds like a sinister puzzle: a teenage boy vanishes while walking home, leaving his frantic mother reeling from the horror. Suddenly, her phone rings, delivering a ransom demand thick with dread—pay up, or else the cost will be devastating. Enter Timothy Blake, a sharp-witted FBI consultant with a penchant for unraveling even the most twisted of mysteries. But this time, he may have met his match. The kidnapper is not just any run-of-the-mill villain; he’s a master of manipulation, outsmarting even the savviest among us. To make matters worse, Blake is forced into a reluctant partnership with a woman who has her own ties to his troubled past. He’s hiding a secret—dark and ghastly, one that he’d do anything to keep buried. 

I was left pondering just how old Jack Heath was when he penned Hangman. The bio in the back boasts that he was first published as a teenager, so essentially, we’re looking at a literary prodigy on the verge of terrors. Fast forward to the present, and he’s written three more thrillers in this series, along with a Doctor Who kids' book, all of which reveal a mind both vibrant and disquieting.

The prose flows with an effortless ease, embracing simplicity while delivering just the right dose of vividness to satisfy my craving for rich descriptions. The pacing is brisk, reminiscent of the late '90s X-Files craze, the kind of story that keeps you glued to your seat, even in the face of absurdity. Dialogue crackles with a believability echoing the charm of vintage Hollywood thrillers, the kind that could still scare you silly in an unholy, delightful way.

Now, let’s talk about our haunted hero, Timothy Blake—a cannibal, if you can believe that! Yes, you heard me right: Hannibal Lecter-like levels of chilling deliciousness. The twist? Blake struck a deal with the FBI, serving as their consultant in exchange for... well, let’s just say a rather disturbing dietary preference. What does a cannibal need with bodies? Gross, right? Yet, there’s a macabre brilliance in his character—a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, equipped with a photographic memory and a knack for solving crimes that would make even the most seasoned of detectives squirm.

Surprisingly, despite the icky premise, Hangman turned out to be an intensely gripping read that I enjoyed. I can see why Jack Heath found himself on the literary map at such a tender age; his raw talent for crafting tales is undeniable. I can’t wait to immerse myself in the other labyrinths of mystery he’s created. ╌★★★★★

⁓B.J. Burgess

Welcome to the Book Blogger Hop!

This Week's Prompt:

Would you rather read a book with terrible writing but a good story or a book with a terrible story but good writing?

My Answer:

If I had to choose, I'd take a beautifully crafted sentence wrapped around a gripping tale any day, but let’s be real: this rare combination feels like finding a needle in a haystack these days. Many modern reads often excel in one area but falter in the other.

Take, for instance, any James Patterson co-authored endeavor or those V.C. Andrews-inspired gothic thrillers penned by Andrew Neiderman. The prose might not win any awards—it might even make you cringe a little—but if the characters are interesting and the plot pulls me in, I can easily overlook the lackluster writing. After all, a thrilling story can sometimes light up even the dimmest of sentences.

〜B.J. Burgess

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Here’s a chilling thought: perhaps Canadians should steer clear of making horror flicks. The film that sparked this reflection is none other than the 2018 flick, Selfie Man—or, as it's colloquially dubbed, Selfie from Hell. This splendid piece of celluloid treasure—or should I say trash?—was one of those random finds lurking in the depths of Dollar Tree, back when they actually stocked DVDs. Clearly, I must have confused it with something else; there’s no other explanation for why I would squander a mere dollar on this cinematic abomination. Honestly, the filmmakers probably spent about the same amount on the entire production—who knows?

The credit for this masterclass in mediocrity goes to a certain Erdal Ceylan, a name that sounds more fitting for a character in a horror novel than the mastermind behind this travesty. The plot—or what passes for it—centers on Julia, a German vlogger who ventures into the U.S. to visit her cousin Hannah. However, upon her arrival, the poor girl collapses into a state of grotesque illness, setting off alarm bells in Hannah's mind. As strange occurrences spiral out of control in Hannah's home, she embarks on a frantic internet quest to uncover the source of Julia’s affliction. What unfolds is nothing short of a descent into cyber-hell, where terror has no bounds and sanity starts to unravel.

Happy October Friday to all my fellow book bloggers! I hope your week has been more rewarding than mine. It’s been a bit of a struggle, honestly. There were moments I considered skipping this week’s post altogether due to a nagging sense of burnout—but I pushed past that thought, because here I am, ready to return to our bookish world.

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

This week, my pick is Empty Boxes by Robin Action, courtesy of the lovely folks at Blank State Press, a Missouri publisher that generously sent me an ARC. This murder mystery thriller delves into the life of Pittsburgh crime reporter Rita Locke, who embarks on a chilling investigation after discovering a funeral director who’s been burying empty coffins. Talk about an eerie twist, right? Her journey leads her all the way to western Pennsylvania and an offshore Caribbean medical school, unearthing a web of deception that seems almost otherworldly.

I’m pushing the envelope a bit late tonight—ah, the classic tale of my life. This post should’ve been penned hours ago, but life had other plans. I crashed, burned, re-caffeinated, and here I am, crafting what I hope can pass as an excuse for my tardiness. Enough of my procrastination, let’s talk about my 16th pick for my 31 Reads of Terror, Daddy's Girl by Margie Orford.

First published in 2009, with an EPUB edition in June 2014, my version is the Witness Impulse paperback—though honestly, the publisher could’ve bothered to include the publication date. But who am I to complain? I'm too lazy to search for that little nugget of information.

So, here’s the plot: A little girl, blissfully waiting to be picked up after ballet class, suddenly finds herself vanishing into thin air after an unmarked car rolls up. But hold onto your hats—this isn’t just any child. She’s the daughter of Police Captain Riedwaan Faizal, a desperate father anchored by impotence as he finds himself suspended from his squad. His world spirals into chaos, and with no allies in sight, he turns to investigative journalist and criminal profiler Dr. Clare Hart. She has just gained notoriety through her documentary on Cape Town’s vanished young girls, and the clock is ticking. Clare knows that each passing moment gnaws away at the girl's chances of survival. Yet the investigation she embarks on comes with its own hazards, and with everything at stake, she’s willing to risk it all to aid a shattered father.

Daddy's Girl is the kind of book I’d usually brush off because of its bland cover, generic title, and predictable plot. It’s reminiscent of a tepid Lifetime movie: you watch it once, only to turn your gaze elsewhere before the credits roll, leaving little more than a faint trace in the memory. I’m not throwing shade at the authors, truly—I just hope they penned their tales without the help of some AI co-writer, a topic that has been causing quite the stir in the book community. Still, some readers are taking it to extremes, and I won’t tumble down that rabbit hole tonight; I might never find my way back out!

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As I sit here, fighting the heavy eyelids brought on by an insufficient supply of caffeine, I’m determined to get this review down for you. I recently stumbled upon a hidden flick from 2013, a British ghost story called Blackwood. Directed by Adam Wimpenny and penned for the screen by J.S. Hill, this flick had flown under my radar until recently. Initially, I could have sworn it was an adaptation of some long-lost horror novel, but lo and behold, it’s an original creation—bravo!

So, what’s the spine-tingling synopsis? Ed Stoppard (you might know him from The Musketeers or The Pianist) stars as Ben Marshal, a college professor trying to piece his life back together after a tumultuous emotional breakdown. He decides that a fresh start in the serene countryside of the Blackwood estate is just what the doctor ordered. But peace is a fickle friend at Blackwood, as Ben finds himself haunted by chilling visions of a murder he believes occurred in his new home. What begins as a picturesque retreat quickly spirals into a chilling exploration of lies, betrayal, and the sinister underbelly of this seemingly idyllic estate.

At first glance, the plot feels like a parallel universe crossover between The Shining and a less grandiose indie horror flick. A couple, wrestling with marital woes, relocates with their young son to a remote house, only to be confronted by the supernatural—or at least Ben seems to think so. The familiar tropes echo through the film, especially in the latter half of its 90-minute runtime. Yet, while the echoes might feel familiar, the execution is anything but ordinary. I’ll admit, the ending had its predictable moments, but just when I thought I had it all figured out, the film sent a shiver down my spine with a clever twist I didn’t see coming.