James P. Blaylock, twice winner of the World Fantasy Award, is a southern California writer whose short stories, novels, and collections have been published around the world. He was one of the literary pioneers of the Steampunk movement along with Tim Powers and K.W. Jeter. His short story "Unidentified Objects" was nominated for an O. Henry Award in 1990. Despite his close association with Steampunk, most of his work is contemporary, realistic fantasy set in southern California. His novel The Rainy Season was chosen by Orange Coast Magazine as one of the ten quintessential Orange County novels.

The Ghosts Trilogy 1 - Night Relics by James P. Blaylock

From the dark imagination of James P. Blaylock comes a chilling tale of the supernatural.

When Peter Travers moves into an old house in a remote canyon to try to separate himself from his old existence, his wish becomes reality... all too literally. For his wife and son vanish and the people of the idyllic rural town begin to relive the horrors of a nightmarish crime committed one windy autumn, sixty years earlier. Against a backdrop of murder and midnight terror, Peter must contend with the abandoned relics of his own past before he can overcome the dark forces that haunt the canyon and the people he loves.

CURATOR'S NOTE

One of the finest American authors of the fantastic, Jim Blaylock needs no introduction. Every book from him is a marvel – let alone three! – Lavie Tidhar

 

REVIEWS

  • "Blaylock's evocative prose and studied pacing make him one of the most distinctive contributors to American Magical Realism."

    – Library Journal

  • "Blaylock is one of the most brilliant of that new generation of fabulist writers."

    – Washington Post

  • "A magical world, magically presented... having journeyed there, you will not wish to leave, nor ever to forget."

    – Philip K. Dick
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Another windy night, warm for late November and smelling of sagebrush and dust. Restless autumn dreams. The night haunted by a slow and deliberate creaking in the bones of the old house, by the rattle of doors shaken in their frames, by the sighing of the wind beneath the eaves, murmuring past the stones of the chimney. Tree branches tossed and rustled out in the night, and dry leaves skittered across the screens and scraped along the brick path.

The full moon hung above the ridge like a lantern on a dark wall, and leafy moon shadows swayed across the kitchen floor. Peter Travers put a match to the mantle of a propane wall lamp, and the lamp hissed alive, turning the shadows into pale, flitting spirits. He measured coffee grounds and water into the shell of a stove-top percolator and lit the burner beneath it.

Leaning against the counter, he looked out through the window, waiting for the coffee to boil. Beyond the oaks and sycamores, the hillside glowed under the ivory moon. Dust devils rose off the dry earth, whirling up out of the sage and sumac like uneasy spirits. The first smells of percolating coffee leaked out into the air of the kitchen, masking the desert smell of the wind. Ghosts. Even coffee had begun to smell like the ghost of mornings past.

A gust of wind shook the house, moaning past doorjambs and windows and through the crawl-space cellar under the floor. How Beth could sleep through such a racket was a mystery, especially in a nearly strange bed. He felt a quick pang of guilt for not being there himself. It was almost like leaving a good-bye note on the bureau, except he wasn't going anywhere and this was his house.

The wind simply made him restless. For the past couple of days it had whispered across the back of his mind even when he slept, and he had awakened a dozen times in the night to the sound of the casements rattling and the walls creaking, sleepily certain that the wind would pull the old house apart piece by piece and shingle the canyon with it.

Another gust shook the house now, and an unlatched shutter banged open against the clapboards, hard and flat like someone beating on the wall with a wooden mallet. He walked into the living room and pulled open one of the casements in the bank of windows on the back wall. The loose shutter swung out on its hinges, leafy moonlight reflecting off the chipped white paint. He pushed it all the way open and locked it in place with its iron hook. The night air smelled of oak and sycamore and just the faintest scent of jasmine. He leaned out the unscreened, open window and watched the dark woods and the high shadow of the ridge beyond. After a moment the wind fell, leaving behind it an uncanny silence, as if the night had abruptly quit breathing.

And then very faintly, from somewhere in the trees behind the house, there arose on the still night air the desolate sound of someone weeping….