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!

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

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.

I prefer to remain silent on this review, but alas, I needed a book for today’s 31 Reads of Terror, which is beginning to feel less like a celebration of suspense and more like a descent into a pit of mediocrity. I can already hear the chorus of well-meaning readers saying, “Don’t give it a bad review; at least the author made an effort.” But really, what a load of sugarcoated nonsense! Being a writer requires a thick skin. Not everyone will like your creation. Expect to face the music from critics, readers, and bloggers alike. Your writing won't be everyone's cup of tea—it's high time to accept that.

The real scourge lies within the mainstream publishing machine, churning out one abysmal book after another, all because it's riding whatever wave is popular on social media or the fleeting fads of a faux BookTok universe. Let’s face it: most of these books—well, they stink. I’m not saying the writing is atrocious, but the tales being told feel like cookie-cutter retreads, mere shadows of the stories that set the trend rolling in the first place. Wandering the shelves of your local bookstore resembles navigating an A.I.-generated fever dream, with countless covers that all look too similar, sporting one-dimensional titles paired with clichéd blurbs. Sure, the authors’ names differ, and the online literary community will insist these are "blockbuster" hits. But in reality? They languish on shelves, gathering dust, waiting to be marked down for clearance or tossed into the abyss, much like the soon-to-be-extinct mass-market paperbacks.

This brings us to today's unfortunate selection: The Sister by Louise Jensen. While this novel is hardly fresh off the press, having made its debut in 2016, the copy I found at a Dollar Tree is from 2018. It falls squarely within the realm of so-called psychological thrillers. 

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

Alright! Alight! I humbly apologize for my tardiness with today’s post. It appears the dreaded flu bug has taken up residence in my life, and I’m trying to soldier on, albeit at a tortoise-like pace when it comes to writing. So, bear with me as I wrestle with this pesky illness and the relentless high ragweed count that's making it hard to concentrate. But enough about my woes—let's delve into this week’s Midnight Horror pick: The Jack in the Box.

Picture this: a dusty, vintage jack-in-the-box, unearthed from the depths of some forgotten attic, finds its way to a quaint yet eerie museum nestled in the heart of the woods. But the moment staff member Casey Reynolds lays eyes on the creepy clown doll lurking within, he starts to suspect that this seemingly innocent toy is far more sinister than it appears. One by one, his colleagues meet their untimely, bizarre ends, and Casey races against time to unravel the dark mystery of the box. Will he outsmart the malevolent spirit that seems to be pulling the strings, or will he too become just another victim of this cursed contraption?

When it comes to British horror, I often find myself drifting back to the golden age of Hammer Horror and other classic flicks of the 1960s and 70s. Sadly, a lot of the modern offerings seem to be pale imitations of their American counterparts. In The Jack in the Box, I could almost hear the whispers of inspiration taken from Stephen King’s IT, the gore-fest Terrifier—which I still need to check off my list—and even a sprinkle of the Conjuring universe. There’s nothing inherently wrong with taking cues from previous classics, but here it feels more like a copy-and-paste job than a fresh interpretation.

A stunning cover can whisper secrets even before the first page is turned. The book that caught my eye was The Liar's Daughter by Claire Allan, a title I stumbled upon while rummaging through a box of worn-out paperbacks at a thrift store, half-buried beneath a mountain of forgotten clothing. The cover boasted the haunting image of a woman in a yellow dress, eerily poised amongst twisted trees, enveloped in shadows that only added to her unsettling charm. The tagline, "Family can hide the darkest secrets," teased my curiosity. What secrets lay hidden in this tale? How dark could they be? The answers were lurking just beyond the page.

Now, let's unearth the plot: When Joe McKee passes away, the tight-knit community of Derry is thrust into mourning, drowning in sorrow for the man whose laughter once echoed through their lives. Friends and family are left grappling with the gaping void left by his battle with cancer. But among the mourners, two stand apart—Joe’s daughter, Ciara, and her stepdaughter, Heidi—because they alone knew the real Joe. He was no protector; he was a man whose sins ran deep, veiled by the façade of a loving father.

The mourners gather for the traditional Irish wake, the air thickens with expectations—and the police arrive,drawn by the smell of something rotten in the state of Joe’s death. It quickly unfolds that this wasn’t a natural parting; the tangled web of lies Joe spun refused to be buried with him. The truth, as it unfurls, not only implicates but casts his daughters in the most chilling of lights, giving them a motive for murder that’s as dark as the secrets still clinging to the family.

I find it fascinating and somewhat perplexing how readers can harbor such a wide range of opinions about books. It’s like music; while one person hears a sonorous symphony, another perceives nothing but noise. Some will hurl accusations of “complete trash” or “unreadable drivel,” while others will stand on rooftops singing the praises of the same work. As someone who's offered both accolades and critiques in my own reading journey, it's unjust to judge anyone’s opinions.

This brings me to The Psychic ^[*] by Nancy Bush, the subject of today’s review. Recently, I stumbled upon a one-star rating that left me scratching my head. The reviewer lamented they couldn’t even finish the book because, in their words, it made their brain hurt and was, quite simply, “stupid.” Yet, they offered no substantial reasoning; no thoughts on the plot, the characters, or even a fleeting compliment about the narrative style, only a curt dismissal without the faintest hint of detail. I won’t judge this reviewer—if a book isn't resonating with you, it’s perfectly fine to walk away.

Now, let’s get into the heart of the matter—the book itself. The Psychic is a richly crafted thriller, or at least the advance reader copy (ARC) I devoured was. I suspect the final version hasn't strayed too far from what I experienced. The structure is tight, the pacing brisk, and the vivid imagery leaps off the page like a ghost in the night. The protagonist, Veronica "Ronnie" Quick, is nothing short of captivating, while the dialogue crackles with life. It checks all the boxes for a gripping read, one that promises to keep even the most distracted reader engaged until the final, breathless page.

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

Perhaps it took until the 14th day of my Midnight Horror selections to finally claw my way past the utter crap-fests of the previous nights. In the wee hours of the morning, I plunged into the 2012 low-budget horror flick, Devoured, penned by Marc Landua and directed by the visionary Greg Oliver. I imagine most horror aficionados have already stumbled upon this flick, as it’s been lurking on free streaming platforms for quite some time, eagerly awaiting its chance to haunt unsuspecting viewers.

The tale unfolds around Lourdes (Marta Milans), an immigrant mother from Mexico, who reluctantly takes on night shifts as a cleaning woman in a dilapidated old restaurant nestled somewhere in the shadowy depths of New York City. Driven by desperation, she struggles to earn enough money to secure a life-saving operation for her sick son back home. Just when it seems his condition takes a dark turn, malevolent forces within the restaurant begin to pick her apart, tormenting her relentlessly and leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. Lourdes becomes embroiled in a battle against the dual demons of supernatural dread and her own psychological torment as she races against time to return to her beloved son before the darkness devours her very essence.

I was swept through a mix of emotions as I navigated this 90-minute gut-wrencher. For the vast majority, we linger in a psychological haze—a slow burn punctuated by moments of breath-stealing dread and fleeting supernatural occurrences—until the shocking twist slams down like a heavy axe falling from the gallows. Suddenly, the film morphs into a full-throttle horror fest, brimming with shock, gore, and a cavalcade of dead bodies.

I’ve been digging through the recesses of my memory, trying to recall if I’ve ever dipped my toes into the literary waters of Linda Castillo before cracking open today’s selection, Fallen. As the title suggests, it’s not a tale of terror from the dark corners of horror fiction, but rather a gripping mystery thriller. This genre will make sporadic appearances as I continue my journey through the 31 Reads of Terror event. While I’m familiar with Castillo's name and her oeuvre, I can’t say with confidence that I’ve read any of her works. Given my affinity for stories drenched in Amish culture, though usually laced with romantic undertones, perhaps Fallen marks my inaugural foray into her fictional world.

The story kicks off when a young woman is discovered brutally murdered at a motel in the quaint yet eerie town of Painters Mill. Chief of Police Kate Burkholder, our protagonist, is shaken to her core—not only by the violence of the crime but by the shocking realization that she once knew the victim. Rachael Schwartz was a captivating yet troubled soul, an Amish girl who had fled her community for reasons cloaked in shadow. Why had she returned? And who could wield such heinous violence against her?

Kate's memories of Rachael haunt her; they share a bond forged in rebellion, both women struggling against the rigid constraints of their Amish upbringing. Yet, as the layers of Rachael’s life unfurl, Kate grapples with the unsettling truth: Rachael’s reputation as a troublemaker was well-deserved. From a raucous childhood to a tumultuous adulthood, Rachael was a whirlwind of charm and chaos, effortlessly drawing people to her, while simultaneously accruing a roster of enemies—both Amish and English.

♰ Welcome to The Midnight Horror! ♰

If you’re expecting to uncover a gem in the sordid heap of garbage that masquerades as horror flicks, brace yourself—it’s a bleak landscape out there. The sole title worth mentioning in this morass is 13/13/13, a sequel in name only to the abysmal 11/11/11 and 12/12/12—movies I have no intention of ever enduring. I can’t help but wonder if 13/13/13 is a twisted homage to the 2010 remake of The Crazies, but let’s be real: that’s just a wild guess. You might ask why I’ve dragged my feet on this post, and the answer is simple—I hesitated to carve out more time for a flick so utterly hopeless.

Now, let’s talk about the absurdity of the plot, shall we? For eons, calendars have absurdly deemed it worthwhile to add an extra day every four years. But in doing so, they’ve defied the ancient Mayan calendar—oh, the horror! Here we are, marooned in the 13th month of the 13th year of this new millennium, where a handful of unfortunate souls born in a leap year must wage war against a cacophony of demons. Yes, you read that right—demons. Because why not?

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?