here for the UK, here if you're in the US), with the usual kick-ass illustration from Neil Williams.Actually, I say 'the usual', but if anything I think Neil's illustrations get better with every instalment!
Spectral's Simon Marshall-Jones tells me he thinks this is the best yet. Is he right? You'll have to see for yourselves.
Meanwhile, the serial is drawing the attention of reviewers. Anthony Watson at Dark Musings says:
'Black Mountain is a bold venture but one which in my
opinion is paying off wonderfully... Above all
it’s the writing that makes this serial adaptation so worthwhile and the style
and substance Simon has brought to all his previous work is here in abundance.
The dialogue (both internal and external) which has so far carried the story is
pitch perfect and – even though it’s only half way through – Black Mountain is already an
atmospheric, intriguing and, most importantly, downright scary piece of
James Everington singles out Black Mountain as one to 'Look Out For...' over at This Is Horror (alongside Kate Jonez' upcoming Ceremony Of Flies, calling it:
'...an innovative reimagining of the serial novel for the Kindle generation... Of course, regardless of format, that this is a new work from Simon Bestwick, author of The Faceless, should be reason enough to capture your attention... This mixture of old school episodic storytelling and modern techniques
reminiscent of found-footage films means you’ll finish each episode of Black Mountain wanting more… will appeal to the descendants of those readers who used to wait at the harbour side for the next episode of Oliver Twist to be unloaded from the boat.'
All of which, as you may guess, has left me with a rather big smile on my face.
So what is Episode 7 about?
1988: The farmhouse called Blas Gwynedd, standing in the very shadow of
Mynydd Du, is the last human habitation within the 'Bala Triangle', home
to a teenage boy, his downtrodden mother and his fanatical, tyrannical
Now, at last, the story of the farm's desertion can be told: a tale
of strangeness, insanity, violence and death. The tale of one man's
doomed attempt to prove himself the master of the house.
There were about a dozen people spread out in among the trees. All of them were robed and hooded – white robes.
I made some sort of sound; whatever it was, it brought Dad to the window beside me, pulling the curtain wide. For once he wasn’t shouting at me, wasn’t angry; he could tell, somehow, there was something he had to see. There was thunder, and then the lightning again, and they were still there. Dad saw them too: I know because I heard the gasp he made seeing them.
The hoods they wore were a bit like the Ku Klux Klan’s, except there was a hole at the bottom, leaving the mouth exposed. I don’t know why. Never seen or heard of anything like it before. They didn’t move, and I don’t think they made any sounds. Although you’d have been hard put to hear anything over that storm.
None of them moved or stirred. The only motion was their robes, flapping and rippling in the wind and rain. The storm lashed them, but still they stood, and watched the house.