Running away (from assassins / evil secret service / the ghost of a little girl) this weekend? Take these books with you. And run faster.

Equal Danger, by Leonardo Sciascia

An attorney, a judge, and then another judge are all shot dead in an imaginary country. Random or conspiracy? Either way, it’s paranoia city in Sciascia’s metaphysical detective novel.

The Other, by Thomas Tryon

An evil twin story. A really, really creepy evil twin story. What more do you need to know?

Red Lights, by Georges Simenon

Steve and Nancy just want to pick their kids up from camp, but when Steve decides to get drunk and pick up an escapee from Sing Sing along the way, the couples’ plans are derailed. Those kids are just going to have to wait.

The Mad and the Bad, by Jean-Patrick Manchette

What do you get when you put an evil architect, an insane asylum discharge, a super bratty kid, and a hired gunman together? Chaos. Bloody chaos.

Rogue Male, by Geoffrey Household

A bored hunter decides to play out his own version of “The Most Dangerous Game,” with a vicious dictator as the target. Suffice it to say, the game turns on him and he’s chased o'er hill and vale by a hunter as good–or better–than him.

Fatale, by Jean-Patrick Manchette

Aimee’s secret to being a great killer?: be beautiful, be deceptive, and always exercise in the buff (no, that’s not a euphemism).

The Fox in the Attic, by Richard Hughes

A young Welshman, unjustly considered complicit in a murder, travels to Bavaria to stay at his relatives’ castle. There he discovers a Germany torn apart by its recent defeat in WWI, unrequited love, and an intimate look into a growing political party that threatens to change everyone’s future.

The Murderess, by Alexandros Papadiamantis

It’s no fun being a woman on the dirt-poor island of Skiathos, and no one knows that better than Papadiamantis’ grandma-turned-murderer, Hadoula.

Don’t Look Now, by Daphne du Maurier

Daphne du Maurier was a master of nightmares, and this collection is full of them: vacation-ruining ghosts, midnight trysts that devolve into homicides, and the killer birds that Hitchcock loved so much.

You’ve announced thirty-three forthcoming books. Why thirty-three?  

The list of thirty-three books that I’ve been announcing for forty years is not exclusive, restrictive, or prohibitive; the number thirty-three is the key figure of activity, of life. So this is not at all in ink. If might be an index, but it is not The Index. It doesn’t include the titles of novels which I will never write—the other day I was surprised to discover that La Main coupée, which I published in 1946, had been on this list since 1919. I had completely forgotten that! On the list are books that I will take up again and that will appear in the future. Also listed are the ten volumes of Notre pain quotidien, which are written but that I left in various strongboxes in South American banks and which, God willing, will be found by chance some day—the papers aren’t signed, and are left under a false name. I’ve also listed a group of poems that I value more than my eyes but that I haven’t decided to publish—not by timidity or pride, but for love. And then, there are the books that were written, ready for publication, but which I burned to the great detriment of my publishers: for example, “La vie et la mort du soldat inconnu” (five volumes). Finally, there are the bastards, the larvae, and the abortions which I will probably never write. 

—from Blaise Cendrars’s 1966 Paris Review interview

The Other, Moravagine, black coffee, and a Stella d'Oro (?) cookie in our Classics and Coffee Club.

Do you have a picture of one of our books with coffee or tea (hot or iced)? Send it to this address and we’ll post them here (making you an honorary member of the Classics and Coffee Club).

Hot. Getting hotter.
By day and by night, summer bloomed, blazed. The horse-chestnut
tree became a darker green, its leaves broadening, glistening with a
leathery, waxy sheen, its branches sprouting small prickly balls. The
lawns, however, sprouted only dandelions, crabgrass, and witchweed.
Awnings were useful. While certain people returned, sorrowfully,
to the city, others arrived to enjoy the blandishments of the
country. Some loved the weather, some endured it, some suffered
from it. My, wasn’t it muggy, sticky, damp, humid? And in an age
before air conditioning, too.
—  from The Other by Thomas Tryon

October is a great month to read horror stories. Whether they contain crazed psychopaths, demonic ghouls, cackling witches, or pissed off extraterrestrials, it just feels right to read these tales in the fading light of an October afternoon. (Or even better: late at night which a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.) I just stared Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon, which has been described by S.T. Joshi as “an imperishable masterpiece.” What are some of your favorite scary books to read late at night?

Watch on

“THE OTHER” (1972) (by svetac gabo)

Oh my God, it’s the whole damned movie.

If you don’t mind the Spanish subtitles, you should watch this, a delightfully creepy 70s film titled The Other, based on a novel by that name. The IMDB synopsis: “In the summer of 1935, 9-year-old twins Niles and Holland Perry live with their family on a Connecticut farm. Their loving grandmother Ada has taught them something called ‘the game.’ A number of accidents begin happening, and it seems to Niles that Holland is responsible. It is Ada who begins to see the truth, and she is the only one who can stop this macabre game of murder.”

I saw the movie when I was maybe 7 or 8 and read the book a short time after and feel like both had surprisingly long-lasting effects on my creative mind.

A sneak peek from The Other

And up in the barn, moving from the open door, out of the sunshine, stepping back into the shadow of the loft and once more laying his glasses down, Russell Perry blinked into the dim void and took four long steps to the edge of the loft. Arms flung wide, he leaped. ‘I’m the King of the Mountain!’ Down and down and down. Hardly soaring, but dropping merely, the smell of fresh-cut hay in his nose, holding his breath and dropping into the cool dark nothingness, rushing as though late for an appointment, hurrying to where, only a blur at first, then more clearly, clearer than anything he had ever seen, astonishingly clear, reaching for him with cruel beckoning fingers, waiting to catch him as he fell, he saw in the blackness the glinting silver prongs, sharp, sharp, and fire-cold…’Eeeyaiee!’ As the steel tore through his chest, shattering flesh and bone, his scream sent the mice scurrying with fright, and hot blood, all red and frothy, with little ruffles like ghastly lace, spurted into the yellow hay, and in another moment Winnie and Mr. Angelini had come running from the pump, and, at the landing, her parasol quivering, Ada stood, her body rigid, her head slightly averted, listening as the cry reached her ears, with it, on the breeze, the lazy thrum of a harmonica, while the fingers of her trembling hand pressed ever more fiercely against the sharp points of the golden crescent moon pinned at her breast.

—sneak peek sample from the upcoming The Other by Thomas Tryon, releasing October 2nd. Apologies for the slight spoiler, but it is only on page 56 of a 250-page book so we hope you’ll forgive us, plenty more death and surprises in store. We wanted to share because we saw it as a good example of horror writing. And why else does one read horror novels if not for the frisson of some blood and gore? And below is a photo of the author, who before writing was a Hollywood actor, most famous for playing the title role in Otto Preminger’s The Cardinal.