Years ago while still in college I spent one summer working as a nightwatchman for a popular kitchen stoneware company. Not much happened during my shift so I spent the majority of time listening to the radio and reading Harold Robbins novels. 

Even though I once saw an enormous rat chewing on a bone in the factory’s basement, nothing really scary ever happened at night. It was just me and a handful of hardworking ceramicists dutifully working the graveyard shift. 

Bruce Cooper, a prison guard in Sean P. Gibson’s new novel Prehistoric Nightmare: The Graveyard Shift, had a completely different experience than I did. He went to work one night and found himself face to face with a gaggle of aggressive (and hungry) dinosaurs.

But were they dinosaurs from 66 million years ago? Bruce wasn’t sure. More than likely they were not of this world. “They were spawns of the devil,” he told himself. 

The creatures were actually bio-tech monsters pumped full of DNA variants including, but not limited to, dinosaurs. Some were tall, some were short, some were red and some were green, but they all had teeth like knives and fingers like swords. 

One particularly nasty beast had two Tyrannosaurus rex-like heads sitting atop muscly necks like bowling trophies. Said the author: “Its claws were as sharp as a wolf’s cunning and teeth as deadly as a crocodile’s embrace.” So frightful was this monster that it had to be either Lucifer’s right-hand demon or the Dark Lord himself. 

Cooper needed help getting out of that prison ASAP. He couldn’t do it all by himself. His coworkers were dead and all of the prisoners had been slaughtered. He needed the police. He needed the army—he needed help from anyone he could find. Even if it was his ex-wife.

He and Myla were married for 16 years before they eventually divorced. Even though they were guards at the same prison, they were no longer on speaking terms, professionally or personally. Reuniting during a dinosaur apocalypse wasn’t something either of them anticipated. 

There was a bit of awkwardness between the two ex-spouses (as expected), but not enough to ruin the momentum of this fast-paced dino thriller. Kudos to the author for keeping his third act tight. 

The two former lovers actually made great partners. Through teamwork (and a lot of luck) they made it to the prison’s emergency access gate. They knew it was their only shot at survival. What they found at the gate, unfortunately, was a total shocker. 

I enjoyed Prehistoric Nightmare: The Graveyard Shift, but I have one negative comment. The novel concludes three weeks later in the hospital where Cooper reads a newspaper account of the dinosaur prison invasion. It’s a big chunk of exposition that explains the whole situation from top to bottom. Fair enough. But the news article is totally dappy. Any reporter with a J-School diploma hanging on the wall (like me) will wince at the weak attempt at journalese. 

[ Prehistoric Nightmare: The Graveyard Shift / By Sean P. Gibson / First Printing: January 2025 / ISBN: 9798303822214 ]

Have you ever seen a peacock mantis shrimp? Colorful and big, they are super aggressive with raptorial appendages that strike prey 50-times quicker than the blink of an eye. Their claws are able to break glass and snip off fingers. In other words, they are equally pretty and deadly.

Now try to imagine a gigantic nine-foot-long bioengineered super stomatopod. Without a doubt, it would have the potential to be an apex killing machine. But with luck, it might also be a government asset. The creature’s weaponized abilities could enhance any Navy armament—able to sink ships, take out subs and absorb any torpedo blast with a shrug. 

Such a beast already existed according to Stu Groskell’s new novel Splitter. The result of U.S. Navy bio-skills tech, the mutant shrimp was “enhanced” to increase endurance and subsea maneuverably (among other things). For added cognitive capabilities, Naval scientists decided to add a human element to the process. It was the crustacean version of transhumanism. 

With human consciousness, the sea monster (code name: Skeeter) had the mental faculty to plan, to strategize and to learn. But Skeeter turned out to be a dud, an “experimental impasse.” 

Instead of being a tactical win for the Navy, the giant mantis-shrimp turned out to be an uncontrollable liability. When it escaped into the Caribbean Sea, the U.S. Government was desperate to eliminate the abomination. “There was no place for such a thing in this world,” said Admiral Val Clewton.

Enter Jack Tarr, former Navy SEAL and current college professor. Because he was now a crustacean expert he was the logical choice to lead an expedition to find (and capture) Skeeter. At first, he was hesitant to jump back into service, but he couldn’t resist the lure of a new species of marine life. With some reservations, he signed up for a seven-day tour of duty. 

From this point forward, the author starts using a jumble of USN lingo in his prose. Fans of seafaring adventures will undoubtedly enjoy the elaborate details, but others might be overwhelmed by the tactical exposition, mundane operational procedures and opaque Navy slang. If you’re like me, you’ll be tempted to skip big chucks of text to get to the monster action. 

Otherwise, Groskell’s prose is excellent. He makes you really hate the villains, Admiral Clewton and his mad scientist bitch Dr. Lucas Tammes. He also addresses the relationship shared between monster and man. “Monsters made you aware of your tininess status,” he wrote at one point, “the utter irrelevance of your existence.” 

And, of course, the monster was monstrous. When finally revealed, Skeeter was primal and maddeningly inscrutable—and weirdly creepy like all biological and technical hybrids. Moving from the Bahamas to the Florida Keys and finally to the Mississippi River, it proved to be an unstoppable deviance of God’s law.

[ Splitter / By Stu Groskell / First Printing: January 2025 / ISBN: 9781923165441 ]

After 600 years of sleep, Coont Draculi emerged from his casket hungry and horny. No longer in his homeland of Romania, the vampire found himself ensconced in a mansion built at the foot of British Columbia’s coastal mountains. It was a strange new world he found himself in. 

“Igor,” he immediately said to his faithful slave, “bringeth the blood of a virgin maiden. I needeth thine nectar. Bathe shalt I in their blood as they surrender to mine desires.”

Unfortunately for the newly arisen monster from the 15th century, privy chambers had changed over the years. “Thou cannot bathe in maiden’s blood now, Master,” replied the slave. “The manse we live in only has a shower.”

Assembling a harem of succulent maidens was also going to be a problem for the Coont. It wasn’t like the good ol’ days in Transylvania when there were queens and princesses aplenty who were accessible to his charms.

The Coont settled on a single woman named Josephine, known locally as the blowjob queen of Vancouver. She was a druggie with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but the horny bloodsucker was soon hooked on her opioid and psychoactive gifts. “Sinking his teeth into her neck, the vampire groaned with pleasure as he felt the crack cocaine, heroin and everything else Josephine had pushed through her system that day began to flow through his veins.”

Obviously, The Disciples of Coont Draculi isn’t your standard vampire story. Not only has author Paul Slatter written a spoof of Bram Stoker’s iconic monster novel, but he’s also written a blunt commentary on the worst traits of humanity. Overall, it’s funny and miserable at the same time. 

The Coont was supercilious and grand and looked like some kind of ridiculous street mime. At first, Josephine thought he was just an idiot from a local community theatrics club. Only later did she realize that he was a relic of the forgotten past. 

As entertaining as the Coont could be at times, the real hero of Slatter’s novel was Igor, the former medieval warrior with scars all over his body. He’d been granted immortality 600 years ago in exchange for servitude to the undying vampire. There was one catch, however; Igor would only live as long as the vampire lived. It was imperative that he kept his master safe. 

Over the years, Igor turned a blind eye to his master’s unholy perversions and had reinvented himself as a cultured gentleman. He was a violinist who played music composed for him by Antonio Vivaldi. On his walls hung original paintings by Claude Monet, Paul Cézanne and others. And even though he was duty-bound to protect Coont Draculi, he was a relentless demon hunter who tried to rid the world of evil. 

But Igor was a phony. He didn’t deserve the gift of immortality. Deep down he knew that he should’ve killed Coont Draculi the first chance he got. “How long do you need to live?” asked a character late in the novel. “What gives you the right to eternal life when this bloodthirsty vampire has cut short so many?” 

[ The Disciples of Coont Draculi / By Paul Slatter / First Printing: October 2024 / ISBN: 9798861653817 ]

Satan’s Anus was a tricky route through some very tall and very rugged mountains in the Pacific Northwest. Treacherous to navigate, the passageway was nonetheless used by cartels to move illegal drugs from one distribution outpost to another. 

It was also a place where huge and dangerous cryptids lived. These eight-foot-tall monsters were notorious for pillaging isolated villages, killing pets, abducting children and raping men and women. “Few who ventured into Satan’s Anus ever returned,” said author J. Rocky Colavito, “and those who did were struck mad by the experience.” 

One night, a small plane carrying a big payload of heroin sputtered while passing through the passageway. The plane and its passengers crashed and burned. The illegal cargo, on the other hand, tumbled safely to the bottom of the gaping crevasse. 

The incident caught the attention of the local drug cartel and the Drug Enforcement Administration. Each organization dispatched paramilitary personnel to the area to assess the situation. It wasn’t a rescue mission, though. It was a recovery mission. Or rather, according to the lead DEA agent on the case, “It was a goosefuck of a mission.” 

The cartel goons and government agents arrived at the crash site simultaneously. Waiting for them was a raging sasquatch taller than two men and stronger than ten. He had ingested several doses of high-end smack and was alert, cognizant and hornier than hell. The recovery mission had suddenly turned into a suicide mission. 

In addition, six freewheelin’ coeds were having an orgy in a nearby cabin. These over-sexed kids would unwillingly play a big part in the third and final act of Colavito’s sleazy and violent novel. 

There was, in fact, a lot of sex and violence in SmackSquatch, but I wouldn’t call the sex erotic. There was nothing titillating about it. For example, here’s what happened the first time readers caught a glimpse of the sasquatch in action: “The beast picked up the dead body and raped it with his engorged penis, easily the size of a mature daikon radish. The corpse hung on his penis like a pig on a skewer. He then slid the husk back and forth, squeezing gore out of the ruptured carcass like toothpaste from a tube. He savaged the body until it fell apart.”

Things only got worst from there. A few pages later, the woodland monster approached one of the obligatory female characters. “The creature’s eyes were red with lust and she could see his penis rising. He rammed it into her mouth, shattering her front teeth. It tore open her epiglottis, and the spasms shattered her nasal cavity. The flood of semen cascaded into her lungs, drowning her.”

It’s hard to feel sorry for any of the characters, however. All of them (except two) were disposable. The DEA agents, the college kids and the cartel mercenaries all died in some horrible way. The slaughter even continued into the denouement. It was never-ending. 

[ SmackSquatch / By J. Rocky Colavito / First Printing: October 2024 / ISBN: 9798340845023 ]

Some monsters are born and some are made. And some, like Mouth, are simply bizarre glitches of nature. 

Mouth was certainly weird, but it wasn’t evil, predatory or ambulatory. It was just a hole in the ground with teeth like a leatherback turtle. When Wayne Rogers discovered the phenomenon in his seven-acre backyard, it felt a bit magical, like something out of a fairy tale. 

Rogers quickly turned his woodland fairy tale into a bloody nightmare. As a former horror movie director, he recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He immediately began abducting hitchhikers, runaways and criminals to throw into Mouth’s gaping maw. By the end of his “career,” Rogers produced a staggering 30 years worth of snuff films. The townspeople silently called him the Dillsboro Death Dealer.

Rogers was gone now, but Mouth was still in the forest and chewing up scenery. Its current caretakers were a pair of lonely and damaged misfits: 50-year-old Rusty and 19-year-old Abigail. There was no romance between them (thank god!) but the couple was united in their commitment to the hungry hole in the ground.

Even though Mouth looked like an old-school monster movie monster, Rusty didn’t consider it a monster at all. It was a living organism just like him. And besides, he didn’t consider the term “monster” to be negative. He saw beauty in the diversity of nature and that beauty was manifest in Mouth. “I think it may be my best friend,” said Rusty.

At this point, Joshua Hull’s debut novel makes a big pivot. Instead of being a full-on horror monster novel, Mouth morphs into a story of redemption and rebirth. Rusty, Abigail and their man-eating hole unite to form a strong family bond that’s surprisingly sweet. “Life had a funny way of fucking everything up,” said Hull, “but it also had a funny way of bringing misfits together.”

In addition to its life-affirming message, there’s a lot of jibber-jabber about movies and moviemaking in this short novel. In fact, the novel itself is sort of like a cross between two iconic films: Tremors and The Blair Witch Project. 

Even beyond that, it’s a love letter to the power of cinema. Rusty and Abigail found solace in the monster movies they watched as kids—most notably Jaws and The Blob—and movies gave them the hope to find light in the darkness. 

Said Abigail: “Movies are the best. They’re the greatest gift we’ve been given. Can you imagine where humanity would be without them? We would be lost, man. LOST. Movies make people feel alive. Without them we’d all be fucking miserable.” 

[ Mouth / By Joshua Hull / First Printing: March 2024 / ISBN: 9781959790020 ] 

When I pick a book to read (especially for this site) I have expectations. I want to see sentient flora, evil blobs, Nazi werewolves and zombie private investigators. I want to see a giant ape shove the Transamerica Pyramid up the ass of some otherworldly beast. 

I definitely don’t want to read a story about a man’s sad attempt to contact his dead sister. But c’est la vie, that’s exactly what I got in Beyond Here Be Monsters, the new anthology from author Gregory Frost.

“That Blissful Height” takes place a couple of centuries ago during the golden age of somnambulism, clairvoyance, metaphysics, alchemy and all that supernatural jazz. It was an exciting time in history when spiritualists were squinting into the inexpressible.

Even Robert Hare—a stuffy academic who thought all phenomena must be open to the proofs of science—saw some merit in mediumship. To prove his hypothesis, he hired numerous psychics to help locate his sister in the afterlife. He even went so far as to invent a Ouija board-like contraption called the Spiritoscope. 

After summoning his sister a few times (along with a group of famous dead people like George Washington, Isaac Newton, Lord Byron and others), Hare was honestly convinced that a communication pathway between the living and dead truly existed. 

Unfortunately, his carefully researched and documented theory was dismissed by everyone. Did he actually talk to his sister? Did he really discuss Saturn’s rings with Isaac Newton? No concrete evidence could be established because the entire business of spiritualism was clouded in trickery. “Did you genuinely believe you sat in the presence of Washington, Franklin and Newton?” asked one skeptical colleague. “Honestly, you’re as possessed as any medium ever claimed.” Poor Robert Hare, how desperately he wished to embrace those shabby spiritual charlatans. 

“That Blissful Height” is an excellent story and there are more delightful non-monster stories included in this collection as well—“The Final Act,” “No Others Are Genuine” and “Traveling On” to name a few 

But (thankfully) the book’s main agenda is monsters. In service to this programme, Frost partially rewrites Homer’s Odyssey (!!) to include vampires inside the Trojan Horse, he reports on Abraham Van Helsing’s first undead encounter and he follows two grifters as their dupery unexpectedly brings forth the “First Mother.” 

There’s also a few nods to Lovecraftian monsters in this volume—which is odd because in his endnotes, Frost confesses that he doesn’t like the writings of H.P. Lovecraft very much. I had to laugh because, despite his lofty reputation, I don’t care for Lovecraft and his clumsy purple prose either. 

If I had to choose, though, I’d say my favorite of these Lovecraft-inspired stories is “The Seal of New R’lyeh.” Cthulhu comes to Earth and destroys civilization. Later we find out that the cosmic creature is actually fleeing from a pantheon of ancient gods. There’s no doubt that Cthulhu is an immense and terrifying entity, but it’s nice to see ol’ octopus-head finally get a little well-deserved comeuppance. 

[ Beyond Here Be Monsters / By Gregory Frost / First Printing: November 2024 / ISBN: 9781958880265 ]

“I write whatever I feel like writing,” says author Grace Mirchandani on her website. “My books cover a wide variety of genres, tropes and styles.” Good for her. I hope her genre-hopping hero’s journey is fruitful.

But if I may be so bold, I’d like to encourage Mirchandani to stick with the science-fiction-monster-invasion sub-genre she plays around with in her novel The Them. It’s a terrific effort that’s a bit like H.G. Wells’ classic novel The War of the Worlds with a genderfuck twist along with plenty of heart and a little bit of humor. 

Like all SF invasion literature, Mirchandani’s novel taps into our insecurities about invincible alien forces coming to Earth unopposed. In this case, froggy neck-headed slug beasts slaughter two-thirds of the planet’s population before eventually abandoning their mission. And, for some inexplicable reason, these monsters really hate the ladies. They go out of their way to decapitate every woman they come across. That’s the big mystery in Mirchandani’s tale. 

In The War of the Worlds, the Martian invaders are defeated by indigenous microscopic bacteria. But in this case, it’s the female population who hold the key to forcing the aliens to retreat from Earth. Again, and like always, women are the best weapon for saving mankind.

The Them isn’t feminist science fiction, however. There’s no male/female paradigm to smash or political message to explore. The action and storytelling is pretty straightforward. I can only imagine what kind of novel Mary Shelley, Ursula K. Le Guin or Lois McMaster Bujold would have written given the same milieu.

Instead, Mirchandani finds a way to keep her storytelling as chipper as possible. She gives us a gaggle of characters who never pictured themselves in an apocalyptical scenario. Instead of being comic book superheroes, they turn out to be a motley crew of helpless victims. 

Readers see the invasion through the eyes of three main characters. Brian and Tamara are two regular people trying to survive the tragic loss of their partners. They’re hanging on as best they can. 

It’s Cal, on the other hand, who’s the wildcard. I wouldn’t call him an idiot savant, but he’s definitely an eccentric guy who possesses extraordinary survival skills. He helps his friends navigate the situation and is a valuable expositional tool for the author. 

In due course, Cal figures everything out. He understands the power of women and he finds a way to weaponize it against the invading space monsters. “We hold all the cards now,” he says triumphantly. “We found their kryptonite. It’s time to reclaim our planet and send those fuckers home.”

[ The Them / By Grace Mirchandani / First Printing: July 2024 / ISBN: 9798329433890 ] 

Forget about Christmas and all that Winter Solstice stuff. In my opinion, Halloween is the most wonderful time of the year. It’s even better than Ice Cream Sandwich Day, Chocolate Covered Cherry Day, Bourbon Day and Free Comic Book Day. 

And I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m sure publisher/writer Christofer Nigro agrees with me. For proof, I recommend that you check out his latest effort Halloween Horrors, Vol. 1. 

The holiday-themed novel is about a young girl’s ill-advised alliance with Lord Samhain and includes a klatch of Wizard of Oz-like monsters including a murderous scarecrow, a rampaging android and a werewolf. For fun, Nigro also throws in a couple of otherworldly monsters from the All Hallows’ Realm. 

Samhain is no joke. Generally, he’s referred to as the Lord of Darkness, but some people think he’s the Celtic God of Death. Either way, he’s not the kind of deity you want to fool around with—especially if you’re a high school kid named Jennie Quinn. 

Jennie is a girl obsessed with ancient Celtic mythology and the tenets of the Book of Samhain. She says she wants to bring back the good ol’ days of Druidry, but secretly, she simply wants to crush all the bullies at school. If possible, she’d like to kill her older sister too. 

At first, Lord Samhain is happy to make Jennie’s dreams come true. And why not? He’s a bad mammy jammy who enjoys causing mayhem on Halloween. With delight, he helps his young charge fulfill her reign of revenge. 

But after a while, the ancient Celtic god goes rogue. He’s got his own agenda. And besides, he hates Jennie. She’s a brat with a potty mouth who barely understands the magick surrounding her. 

The story follows Jennie as she terrorizes her home town killing cheerleaders, jocks and anyone else who gets in her way. Ostensibly she’s the villain protagonist of Halloween Horrors.

It’s Lord Samhain, however, who steals the show. He’s seven-feet tall with an oversized jack-o’-lantern head. He’s got rows of ultra-sharp teeth and his eyes possess a radiant yellow glow like a candle being lit inside his head. He is a charismatic blowhard who talks like a megalomaniacal Marvel supervillain. In other words, he’s a lot of fun. 

Eventually Halloween comes to an end. Lord Samhain gets “dispersed” and Jennie is captured and sent to the local psych ward. “You can’t keep me there forever, fuckers!” Jennie says as she’s loaded into the back of an EMS vehicle. “Look what I did tonight! I’ll do better next Halloween!” To be continued in Volume Two of Halloween Horrors. 

[ Halloween Horrors, Vol. 1 / By Christofer Nigro with Dustin Dreyling / First Printing: October 2024 / ISBN: 9798990366145 ]

All monsters crave a mate. King Kong, the Creature from the Black Lagoon and the Phantom of the Opera all notoriously pursued a pretty young lady for companionship. 

Probably the most famous example of this trope remains Frankenstein’s original monster. Brought back from the dead, the creature asked his creator for a similarly cast bride. “Shall each man find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone?” he cried. 

Acid Green, the Frankenstein-like creature in Loretta Kendall’s latest novel, suffered from the same unrequited desire. Unfortunately, he was having trouble finding someone who could match his preternatural passion. 

Acid was a big time horror movie star and a real-life reanimated monster. “He was twice as sexy as any human actor,” wrote Kendall, “with more charisma than the original Frankenstein.” In fact, he was so handsome, he had to use monster prosthetics to make himself look more threatening on screen. 

Even though Acid was a heartthrob to thousands of ghoulish groupies who doted over him like a goth king, he was a lonely guy. Being undead meant that he lived in a shadowy realm somewhere between life and death. And as a result, it was difficult for him to relate to normal woman.

That was before he met Roxy Malone, however. She was anything but normal. A punk rock queen who came on like a wrecking ball, she had a mad crush on Acid—the only man who made her lady parts quiver, despite the neon green hue to his skin. 

The attraction between Roxy and Acid was certainly explosive. In one chapter, their lovemaking took place during a rain storm. Thunder and lightning illuminated them like characters in a classic monster flick. “Howl for me,” Acid begged her. “Scream my name and let the stars know you’re mine!” In love or lust, the two were definitely wavering on the edge of romantic insanity together. 

Without a doubt there’s more sex in Twisted Diaries of a Monster Groupie than in any previous novel I’ve read by Loretta Kendall. The sex was more freaky too. Initially, Roxy and Acid’s affair was similar to the one between Harley Quinn and the Joker (and maybe Nancy Spungen and Sid Vicious). But after a while, things became less rocky. “We’re a couple of misfits,” said Roxy philosophically, “but being different makes us special.”

There’s also a couple of crazy twists late in the novel that turn everything upside down. But even then, Roxy and Acid remain the dynamic duo of anarchy. One way or another, Roxy Malone was going to be the bride of a real-life Frankenstein monster. 

[ Twisted Diaries of a Monster Groupie / By Loretta Kendall / First Printing: October 2024 / ISBN: 9798344258126 ]