Review by Michael Bryant
The wind howls through the skeletal branches of the forest outside my house, as light of the flame throbs yellow on the paper. My eyes slide over the words on the page.
“In that lonely hollow, the oak tree broods as it has done since days of Eden, feasting on the dreaming dead, alight with autumn’s fire.”
Reading at my desk, the candle flame feebly pushing away the darkness, I feel my heart pulse and the bleakness of the winter night creep into my bones.
From author Daniel Mills comes a sampling of antiquarian New England horror. Mills serves up a melancholic brew of tragic characters, oppressive atmosphere, and the abysmal fear of the unknown beyond. He is the satyr leading us through the phantasmic history of the spectral wilderness, and bewitched urban landscapes of North Atlantic America. Melding pagan traditions…
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