First published in the US in 1991, and in the UK in 1992, Waking Nightmares is Campbell’s next all-original collection after 1987’s Scared Stiff. Most of the stories it collects are from the 1980s (three were originally published in Night Visions 3, alongside fellow Liverpudlian Clive Barker’s Hellbound Heart), but there are a few mopped up from the 70s: “Jack in the Box” (one of Campbell’s EC Comics tributes), “The Trick”(previously published in the UK edition of Dark Companions, and presumably included here — despite Campbell himself thinking it “coldblooded” — because it had not been published in the US before and is set during Halloween), and “Eye of Childhood” from 1978. There’s also “Playing the Game”, written in 1980 — or, rather, rewritten, because it was originally written in 1974 as “Snakes & Ladders”. That earlier version was published in Twilight Zone Magazine (April 1982), but by this point Campbell had completely rewritten it because he felt the characters lacked motivation. (Having read both versions, I have to say I prefer the earlier one: motivation doesn’t seem to matter, as it gets straight into the action, and reads like a persecutory nightmare. By comparison, the 1980 version feels a bit overthought-out, and loses the fraught atmosphere of the first version through trying to make it seem more realistic. But, aside from the central idea, they’re almost completely different tales.)

Having a peppering of 1970s stories among the 1980s ones highlights what might have been a change in Campbell’s style (or, anyway, an expansion of his available styles). The 80s stories are less hallucinogenically intense and claustrophobic, with a clearer, pacier style — more easily readable (which isn’t meant as either criticism or praise), while still touched with moments of the perceptual weirdness that’s Campbell’s trademark. One that stuck with me from my first reading of this collection, back when it first came out in paperback, is “Old Clothes”. Here, 40-year-old Eric is working as a removal-man’s assistant, clearing out the house of a deceased medium. As her belongings are all going to be either sold or junked, when it starts to rain he grabs her coat and puts it on. Subsequently, he starts to find little items in the pockets: a flower, rare coins, a ring. He’s sacked when a pearl necklace suddenly appears in one of the pockets while he’s helping move house for a somewhat confused old lady who claims it’s hers. By this point, though, he’s realised that something is making these increasingly valuable objects appear. He learns that the medium whose coat it was had one particularly devoted but mischievous “guide” whose apports took an increasingly dark turn. As they now start to do for Eric, too… There’s a lot of action compressed into a short story, but it doesn’t veer into the territory of borderline mental instability (in both prose style and character) that marks a lot of Campbell’s fiction. Eric is quick to accept what’s going on and try to take advantage of it, at first, anyway.

“Old Clothes” points to a theme in Campbell’s fiction, not just in Waking Nightmares, but throughout: how characters are made to feel, and even be punished for, a guilt that is not theirs. Eric’s taking of the coat might be questionable (though the medium had no relations, and the chief removal man pockets the proceeds from selling her furniture), but the persecution he suffers — and the worse he manages to avoid by passing the coat on — massively outweighs whatever punishment he might be owed.

Elsewhere, the guilt-to-punishment ratio is even more out of whack. In “The Trick”, for instance, two girls are punished — by being drawn into a dark tunnel at night, towards a potentially nasty fate — and not for anything they’ve done, but because their dog barked at a local woman all the kids call a witch. To make it worse, the main character, Debbie, tries not to think of the old woman as a witch because she thinks it’s unfair — only, of course, the old woman is a witch, and Debbie’s simply the one who’s punished for it all.

In some cases, the very sympathy or sensitivity a character feels is what leads to them being singled out for a punishment that’s absolutely undeserved. The prime example of this is “The Old School”, whose protagonist, Dean, is a teacher who tries to connect with his pupils on their own level. Meeting a few eleven-year-olds kicking a can and smoking in the grounds of a historical house, he manages to direct them into a game of hide-and-seek. But while seeking, he finds himself lured into the woods, to the ruins of an old school renowned for the brutality of its teachers, and haunted by the cobweb-and-dried-leaves ghosts of ex-pupils, who, in a dark echo of “the best days of their lives”, have returned to the “greatest terror of [their] life” as a reaction to the greatest terror of all, their own deaths. Dean tries to assure them that, though he’s a teacher, he’s a kind teacher, and will even play with them for a bit. But, of course, they want someone to play with them forever, and they’re well beyond kindness.

Perhaps Campbell’s best-known story from this collection, “The Guide”, is a subtler continuation of the theme. The main character, Kew, on holiday with his daughter and grandkids but wanting a break from the children’s taste for the bloodthirstier extremes of horror, takes himself off for a day, led by an old guidebook written by the sort of writer whose subtle scares he much prefers, M. R. James. But the place he ends up in, thanks to some handwritten annotations in the copy he’s picked up, is one, it turns out, James deliberately left out, so seekers after the subtler thrills wouldn’t be tempted to go there. Kew’s very sensitivity to a rarefied aesthetic, then, makes him a victim. (This story contains a nice Jamesian joke, when the landlord to a pub Kew finds himself outside says “Come in and wet your whistle, my lad.”)

There are a number of main characters who are writers, in this collection, though Campbell never uses this as a mere background detail, but always as a key part of the story. Most effective is “Beyond Words”, in which a certain propulsive rhythm starts to infect the main character’s use of words. And this is at a time when his wife is pregnant and expecting their first child, as though the story were contrasting one, perhaps more authentic and natural, type of creativity with another that may just be a gateway to mental instability. Elsewhere, the mental instability has already arrived, as in “Next Time You’ll Know Me”, in which a budding writer keeps finding his ideas being stolen before he’s had time to even write them down, unaware that it may be an entirely different talent — precognition — that’s the cause. In “Meeting the Author”, on the other hand, the writer-figure is the source of horror, as the child-narrator is persecuted for not liking the writer’s first book, and is haunted by, of all things, a card-thin but looming caricature of the author that emerges from a pop-up book.

The writer-characters in this collection, though, are outnumbered by characters who are teachers. (This may be down to the fact that Campbell’s wife is a now-retired teacher.) But again, the choice of profession isn’t an arbitrary detail, as it allows Campbell to explore the relationship between children and adults — something he’s explored in a number of his novels that focus on parenthood, including The Nameless, The Claw, The Influence, and The House on Nazareth Hill. In “Eye of Childhood”, a girl casts a vengeful spell on a replacement teacher, showing how deeply even casual abusiveness can affect a vulnerable child. The teacher in “The Old School” has already been mentioned; another here is “The Other Side”, which Campbell wrote as his response to an image created by J. K. Potter (printed on the cover of the 1986 World Fantasy Convention’s Program Book, which contained Campbell’s tale). Here, the teacher is Bowring, who has moved across the river from the school where he teaches, but spends his time spying on his delinquent pupils on that other side through a pair of binoculars. He starts to see a clown-like figure whose assaults on these pupils are increasingly tied to Bowring’s own repressed disdain, even hatred, for those he teaches.

Waking Nightmares is a fine and varied collection, and though the developments in Campbell’s craft aren’t as dramatic as those in his earlier collections — The Height of the Scream and Demons By Daylight especially — it’s evident that even two decades into his writing career he’s continuing to expand and develop.

I came across this book in the old-fashioned way of going into a book shop and browsing till something grabbed me—something I don’t do so much nowadays, largely because of the length of my to-read shelf. First published in Chile in 2016, it was translated into English by Natasha Wimmer in 2021, and is Fernández’s sixth novel. (I almost bought her fifth—and the only other one currently translated into English—2013’s Space Invaders, which also makes use of a pop-cultural metaphor to examine the effects of living under a repressive regime.)

The unnamed narrator of The Twilight Zone is a documentary editor who becomes fascinated by the figure of Andrés Antonio Valenzuela Morales, a former soldier in General Pinochet’s regime who one day walked into a newspaper office, asked to speak to a journalist, and made “the terrible declaration nobody had made before: I TORTURED PEOPLE.” Throughout the novel, he’s referred to not by his name but as “the man who tortured people”; nevertheless he is, in a sense, the novel’s hero, not because he took part in the unlawful detention, torture and murder of political prisoners, but because he was the one who, after being sickened by his job for too long, spoke out. His interview, published internationally, becomes the first to break the silence around the regime’s methods, and can be seen, then, as the start of its demise. (And, I was surprised to find, Morales is a real man, and his confessional interview a real event.)

After deciding to write about Morales, the narrator proceeds to relate a series of episodes in the history of her country, going through three layers to each tale. First, she presents the story—always one of “forcible disappearance, detention, abduction, torture”—as it was known at the time by the families, friends, and communities of the people who disappear. And this is usually all about the lead-up to the moment of the disappearance, followed simply by mystery and silence. The people who disappear either remain disappeared—often, not even their bodies are found—or, if they come back, return changed, silent, in one case even having given themselves over to the government and joined the oppressors.

Secondly, there’s the tale as told by Morales. He, often, knew what happened to these people because he was there, not as one of the main instigators, but as a soldier following orders: guarding the prisoners, making sure they didn’t talk to one another (or, for instance, making sure they couldn’t sit down for a given period), or being there when they were killed, making sure the bodies couldn’t be identified, then burying them or dumping them in the river.

And then, thirdly, comes the narrator’s layer, where she frankly and openly brings her imagination to the story (some passages begin “I know—I’m not imagining”, to clearly identify which parts are real and which are invented), adding in the missing human details that are otherwise lost: what the people were feeling or thinking about on the day they were taken, what Morales felt as he carried out his orders, and so on.

This is a novel about the importance of stories. We know how repressive regimes control the truth, often by outright denial of facts and the elimination of anyone who questions their version of events; but this is about the other side of the matter, where the bereaved need to be able to tell stories about what happened. The disappearances, the lack of even a body to provide a full-stop to the tale, otherwise leave these stories floundering. Morales’ opening up about his crimes is, in this novel, a treasure chest of lost or completed stories, even if they’re all about terrible things. At least now the stories can be told in full, and not just as cold facts and statistics, but as human tales, however tragic.

The narrator several times turns to the TV show The Twilight Zone to explain the strange air around these stories: sudden disappearances into a place beyond reach require “another dimension. A world forever hidden by that old trick that makes us look the other way”. But, in Pinochet’s regime, “that parallel and invisible universe was real, not some fantastic invention.” Morales, then, becomes a sort of implicated Rod Serling, guiding the ordinary people of Chile into the world of the lost and disappeared.

As the novel is set thirty years after Pinochet’s rule, it takes place in less repressive times, but times when the recovery and preservation of memory—of precisely these twilight-zone stories—is so important, so that the dead get their proper memorial, and such abuses of power do not happen again.

It was the idea of the TV show The Twilight Zone being applied, as a metaphor, to a repressive regime that drew me to this book. In the end, Fernández didn’t turn to the metaphor as much as I’d have liked. The TV show isn’t always brought in to every story told in the novel, so there’s no gradual deepening or exploration of the metaphor. In fact it gets a little watered down when Fernández turns to classic ghost stories as well, which felt, to me, less striking, and so less thought-provoking—though Frankenstein is used quite effectively at one point, as an illustration of pieced-together memories attaining a power of their own:

“The women’s cries awaken memory, set it in conversation with the present, raise it from the crypt, and breathe life into it, resuscitating a creature fashioned from scraps, from bits of different people, from fragments of yesterday, and today. The monster wakes and announces itself with an uncontainable howl, taking everyone by surprise, shaking those who thought they were comfortable, problematising, conflictualising, provoking. And this is the dangerous primal state in which it should remain.”

There’s something in the idea of imagination as one of the few weapons the truly powerless have against an otherwise overwhelming repressive regime. I wrote a bit about it in my piece on Pan’s Labyrinth, though there it seemed a last refuge and a desperate measure. Here, imagination is used to turn fragments and memories into stories—and stories are how we, as humans, process the world. How to weigh this against the use of “imagination” (if that’s the correct term) by those in power—who deny facts, and appeal to emotive myths to drive people to violent action—is perhaps not explored in this novel. But it’s perhaps wrong to apply the word “imagination” to what are really just lies. Here, imagination is an individual, humanising thing, of a different nature altogether.

First published in 2013, Doctor Sleep is the long-gestated sequel to The Shining (coming out 36 years after the original), though not one King at first intended to write. Fans would occasionally ask him what happened to young Danny after the events at the Overlook, and the result is a quite different kind of tale than the haunted-hellhouse narrative of The Shining.

Although we get a few glimpses of young Danny’s life growing up, for the bulk of Doctor Sleep Dan (as he’s now known) is a 40 year old man. He’s had a lot to deal with, ghosts of the past both metaphorical and actual (gloopy old dead lady Mrs Massey pops up in the bathroom, even though there’s no longer an Overlook Hotel for her to haunt), as well a paternally-inherited weakness towards both drink and rage, which all leads to a descent into alcoholism. After a pretty unpleasant hitting-the-bottom moment, which involves stealing first from an addicted single mother then a homeless man, Dan arrives in the town of Frazier, joins Alcoholics Anonymous, and gets a job as an orderly at a hospice, where his uncanny ability to soothe the passage of the dying earns him the nickname “Doctor Sleep” (neatly tying in with his childhood nickname of “doc”).

Meanwhile, a group of shining-gifted oldsters who call themselves the True Knot have been ranging the United States in their RVs, extending their lives by consuming what they call “steam”—the psychic energy given off when someone, particularly someone with the shining, dies, and which is, unfortunately for their victims, made all the more powerful when combined with suffering. And, of course, “steam”, like the shining, is at its richest in children. It’s not Dan the True Knot come for (his shining abilities are a little faded from their childhood peak), it’s a psychically-powerful young girl called Abra Stone, who at first senses what the True Knot are doing when she mentally connects with one of their victims. She reaches out to Dan for help, first psychically, then physically, to put an end to the True Knot’s vampirism for good.

It was wanting to revisit King’s world of psychic powers than led to me re-reading The Shining, then reading Doctor Sleep. There’s a whole tangle of themes and ideas that recur in his depiction of these powers. There’s the association with children, for a start, in particular intelligent and sensitive children, as with super-smart Luke Ellis in what’s probably my favourite King novel, The Institute. Alongside that, there’s parental abuse, as in Carrie and The Shining, which extends to abuse by other forms of authority, such as in The Institute, Later (where the abusive figure is both an ex-step-parent and a police officer), and Firestarter (where it’s the government). All these ingredients—the abuse of a sensitive child—combine to create Carrie’s psychic rage, but Dan’s rage in this book, though rooted in his father’s (which comes from his own rageful father) is presented here as being as much inherited as down to circumstances. (Abra, though she has perfectly loving parents, has also inherited a little of that rage, and it’s part of what drives her power, in the moments when she really needs it.) Psychic powers, for King, encompass a whole range of abilities, not just telepathy and telekinesis, but premonition and the ability to see dead people—all of which, I suppose, can be divided into two basic categories: the sensitive (telepathy, premonition, seeing dead people) and the rageful (telekinesis, pyrokinesis). The members of the True Knot in Doctor Sleep tend to have a single individual talent, such as locating people, persuasion, or passing unnoticed.

Doctor Sleep is also King’s Alcoholics Anonymous novel. Dan is a recovering alcoholic, but the True Knot can be seen addicts too, it’s just they’re of the high-functioning type where their addiction doesn’t screw up their own lives (it just ends the lives of others). Their psychic gifts have led to the True Knot believing they’re special, “the chosen ones”—that, in fact, they are the only true human beings and the rest of us, including their child victims, are just “rubes” for whom they have no feelings at all. (This is the path Dan could have taken at his low point, the dehumanising effect of addiction.) The True Knot are vampires in all but not having the traditional aversions (daylight, mirrors, crosses), and their leader, Rose the Hat (they all have rather silly names), even has, in her feeding state, a single tusk-like tooth that recalls the Nosferatu-like Barlow from Salem’s Lot. (And King mentions that one of their favoured camping grounds is near the town of Jerusalem’s Lot.)

This is, I think, not so much a horror novel, certainly not like the The Shining—even though King, at the time, said this was going to be a return to the scares of yore. (I may, of course, be inured to the more horrific elements!) It’s more a supernatural thriller or urban fantasy, with its super-powered goodies and baddies doing battle in modern-day America. The main thing that makes it feel different to The Shining, for me, is it lacks the former novel’s sense of a non-human supernatural evil driving merely fallible humans to full-on evil. The True Knot certainly tick the box of being evil, but only ever a human evil, driven by greed and fear—recognisable emotions, taken to destructive extremes—rather than that cosmic coldness that seems to be driving the sentience behind the Overlook. Generally, King makes the members of the True Knot seem ordinary, even rather dull personalities (apart from Rose the Hat), meaning the impression they give is mostly of a community of self-centred, slightly grouchy, gossipy, well-off old folks living a peripatetic life, just a little bit cut off from the rest of the world, as old folks can be. They never make much of an impact as characters—I mostly couldn’t tell one from the other (again, apart from Rose the Hat, and even then I didn’t get the sense of her as a rounded human being).

What I said about The Shining and IT—that King is at his best when presenting human evil rather than overblown supernatural evil—seems to need modification here. Thinking about it, for me he can do purely human nastiness (the staff of The Institute, who are are so casually, thoughtlessly evil it’s genuinely chilling, and their only motivation is that it’s just their job; another good example is Annie Wilkes in Misery), but when he tries to make them out-and-out evil, it can come across as a bit forced and unconvincing (as in the villain in Mr Mercedes, with his rather tired set of arguments for the meaninglessness of it all). On the supernatural side, I prefer King when he has his supernatural having to work through human characters by playing on their weaknesses (something Ramsey Campbell does so well). When he lets the supernatural loose on its own terms, it all gets a bit overblown for me. Here, the True Knot don’t have a philosophy, just an unexamined sense of their own superiority. They’re a bit lacklustre as antagonists, in terms of character; but the threat they represent in the book is good—it really builds towards a tense finale.

The focus of Doctor Sleep is, on the one hand, Dan’s redemption from his lowest-of-the-low years, and on the other, another of King’s depictions of a psychically-gifted child in Abra Stone, only in this case an un-abused one. This is, far more than The Shining, a novel that’s about those psychic gifts—which, in King’s hands, really come across as being a metaphor for the individuality, humanity, and wonder of all children, and the way the world can all too easily crush those qualities. That, to me, is at the root of King’s narratives of psychic kids—basically, they’re just kids.

Doctor Sleep was adapted in 2019 by Mike Flanagan (who had by that point already adapted King’s novel Gerald’s Game, and would go on to create the Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House and the very King-like Midnight Mass, among others). Although it starts out as a fairly faithful adaptation, Flanagan’s Doctor Sleep is a sequel to Kubrick’s The Shining rather than King’s novel, meaning it gets to end in a showdown at the Overlook Hotel, which King (having blown it up in his novel) couldn’t do. It also has actors looking as much like Shelly Duvall and Jack Nicholson as possible, playing Dan’s mother and (ghostly) father, which tends to break you out of the story, as you find yourself thinking, “Hey that looks-like-but-also-doesn’t-look-like so and so”—but at least Flanagan didn’t attempt the sort of digital recreation of the original actors as seen in, say, Alien: Romulus. There are other little references to Kubrick’s film, such as Abra’s home being number 1980 (the year of Kubrick’s Shining), and Dan (played by Ewan McGregor) being interviewed in an office that looks exactly like the room where Jack was interviewed at the start of Kubrick’s film. Flanagan is an excellent horror director (this is far more of a horror film than King’s novel), with a fine cast, so it’s worth a watch, whether you’ve read the novel or not.