In this podcast with the guys at Bergcast, I discuss the work of Quatermass creator Nigel Kneale, one of my favourite writers, and his direct influence on my own career as a screenwriter. As well as the abiding themes of the master, we discuss The Stone Tape, his iconic, brilliant BBC ghost story from 1972; the reason perhaps for the prejudice of the British TV establishment against "genre"; my first feature script, Gothic; the extensive influence of Nigel Kneale on Ghostwatch; 2020's Host, and "passing on the baton". 

"A Personal Anthology" is a fantastic project whereby writers, critics and others are invited to dream-edit a personal anthology of their favourite short stories. This is wjat I said in the introduction to my selection:

I grew up in the sixties in Pontypridd, South Wales, relieving the crushing boredom of secondary school byspending my pocket money at the local newsagent’s every Friday on volumes of short stories, seduced by the lurid covers of the Pan Books of Horror Stories, Fontana Ghost Stories and the Gunmen, Gallants and Ghosts of Dennis Wheatley. Later, much later, I’d sink into the warm Black Water of Alberto Manguel’s collections (which Amazon now calls “a kaleidoscope from the Magi of the imagination”), consuming countless other paperback anthologies along the way.   
 
Through these, my love of the genre was undoubtedly unlocked (or unblocked? for it felt like a liberation) by such visionary writers as Poe, whose ‘Tell-Tale Heart’, with its unforgettable opening POV – (much imitated but never surpassed, even by Robert Bloch’s ‘Enoch’) – and M.R. James, with his rising bed sheets, unwanted wetnesses, and deeds best kept buried. 
 
As time went by, the likes of Angela Carter with her carnivalesque symbolism, Robert Aickman with his “kitchen sink gothic”, J G Ballard with his stark unrealities, and many writers outside the field (Tobias Wolff, Bernard MacLaverty, Richard Ford, James Lee Burke, Joyce Carol Oates) became as important to me as the old masters I revered (and still do) like Conan Doyle, Machen, and Stevenson. 
 
I hate any kind of top ten list - or top twelve - but here is a selection of newer discoveries and old favourites I’d like to share. Ones that instruct me how that magical frisson of the uncanny and weird can be achieved. Sparingly. Subtly. Intelligently. Memorably. And remind me that the cause I’m obsessed with as a writer to this day – the creation of nightmares – is a noble and ongoing one. 

Read my full choices (with links to the stories where applicable) here

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My new book, Under a Raven's Wing, a paen to Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Conan Doyle, is in many ways a tentative follow-up to The Dark Masters Trilogy, and in some ways harkens back even further, to my first work to hit the cinema screens, Gothic: a telling of the origin of Frankenstein through the eyes of Mary Shelley. I have grown to like using genre authors as a prism through whch to examine and explore my own infatiation and obsession with creating dark fiction. But the aim of this was a little more specific, as I elaborated to PS Publishing head honcho Peter Crowther when he asked me write a short blog to give insight into what spark ignited the project in my mind. I said this:

I’ve been a fan of Sherlock Holmes, like, forever. I  know everyone says that, but really. Hand on heart, the first thing that genuinely scared me as a young kid was a radio production of The Hound of the Baskervilles. I couldn’t get off to sleep that night without my uncle explaining to me that the bone-chilling howl that echoed across Dartmoor was probably a bald man in glasses in a soundproof booth at the BBC. (I’m still only semi-convinced.) Still, the imagery, the chase, the detective, the clash between the rational and supernatural, all got in my blood and I’d never be the same again. 

I grew up. (Well, slightly. Let’s not be rash.) My reading choices changed, and I gravitated from Marvel’s Fantastic Four and Famous Monsters of Filmland to the numerous Pan books of horror stories, which almost invariably included the obligatory tale by Edgar Allan Poe. Back then, I never had an inkling of the tragic narrative of the author’s life (or even that he was American), but his incredible stories—“The Pit and the Pendulum”, “The Tell Tale Heart”, “The Black Cat”—reeked of deep, tangible psychological terror, unequalled even now for sheer symbolic bravura.

I don’t know when it first occurred to me there was an inescapable connection between the two: between Poe and Doyle.

It must have been on my first reading of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue”—featuring, as it did, a brilliant Paris detective and his not-so brilliant assistant and amanuensis. The case, one of brutal and bloodthirsty slaughter seemed completely unsolvable. However, under the might of Poe’s quill, C. Auguste Dupin did solve it—by a process of deduction he called ratiocination . . . Elementary, my dear Watson.

And there it was. Hidden in plain sight, just like “The Purloined Letter”—another of Poe’s tasty conundrums.

Dupin was no less than the exact progenitor of Sherlock, both in style and substance. And you don’t have to take my word for that. Doyle himself acknowledges it on numerous occasions.

“Poe,” Sir Arthur said in his preface to The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (1902), “in his carelessly prodigal fashion, threw out the seeds from which so many of our present forms of literature have sprung, was the father of the detective tale, and covered its limits so completely that I fail to see how his followers can find any fresh ground which they can confidently call their own.”

Countless scholars and writers since have agreed that Holmes owes his creation in no small measure to the “first detective” in fiction—Dupin.

Fast forward to 2010. Editors Charles Prepolec and Jeff Campbell ask me for a story to appear in their anthology Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes, the brief all to evident in the title, and I decide to submit something that dramatises Doyle’s indebtedness to Poe in story form.

The result was “The Comfort of the Seine”, which drew the curtain back from my C. Auguste Dupin and a callow young Englishman called Sherlock visiting 1870s Paris for the first time.

Little did I know, however, that this wasn’t the one-off story I thought it was, but rather the first of several featuring the duo of investigators I soon grew to love.   

I increasingly wanted to return to that sandbox to play and have more adventures, involving the most outrageous and shocking crimes that could be imagined.  (By me, anyway.)

Strangely, I am not constitutionally attracted to writing police procedurals. In a modern setting, their familiarity and ubiquitousness bore me. But in a Paris somewhere between the Franco-Prussian War and La Belle Époque, I found I could create a seethingly post-gothic world of crime and decadence that felt right in my wheel house.

Freed of the canon of Doyle, set as it is in Victorian/Edwardian London, I could paint my world unreservedly in vivid colours taken from Poe, populating my stories with baroque ideas, grotesque scenes, and concepts that nudge to the very edge of the inexplicable—even supernatural.

It was, I confess, as the stories added up year on year (and I wrote them really with no grand plan other than to please myself), a heady mixture and an intoxicating one. One that demanded I create impossible crimes—horrifying crimes—which would test the very limit of my detectives’ talent and resolve.

It was also a labour of love to not only the various actors I had enjoyed playing Holmes over the years—Cushing, Rathbone, Brett . . .—but also to the immense influence of the Poe films of Roger Corman had exerted over me, and still did.

But then something peculiar happened.

I realised that the solving of crimes was not what I was writing. The series wanted to be more, finally. It had to be about the passing of the baton. From master to pupil. From C. Auguste Dupin to Sherlock Holmes, before the young detective was to meet his Watson in London, and the rest is history.

That imperative took me on a journey to dig deeper into the two characters and what they meant to each other, and to me.

For that reason I feel intensely proud of this book. I hope it will find a readership as excited by turning the pages as I was when writing them. And, coming it does on the heels of my Dark Masters Trilogy, I hope they feel it is a fitting tribute to two magisterial authors who, probably more than any others, shaped my writing taste and abiding obsessions to this day.

Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe. I salute you. And I hope Under a Raven’s Wing does, too.

To order Under a Raven's Wing go to www.pspublishing.co.uk 

Another chance to listen to this interview from 2018 in the series Write Through the Roof, the podcast by Madeleine d'Este for writers who want to improve their craft.

In Episode 25, amongst he subjects we discuss are:
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• Mixing up different lengths and different mediums
• Surrounding writing space with ‘friends’
• The clash between belief and rationalism, fear of the unknown, and how finding out about your past affects your future
• Exploring horror, asking why are we attracted to the genre, and exploring that  through story
• Keeping your story secret or 'testing' it?
• Patrick McGrath, Stephen Gallagher, Taylor Sheridan, Liam Gavin, Yiorgos Lanthimos, Damon Lindelof, Tom Perrotta
• Exploring repercussions of crime and criminals rather than solving a crime
• The Dark Masters Trilogy : Whitstable with Peter Cushing, Leytonstone with Alfred Hitchcock.
• Losing impetus with a long project if you take a break
• And much more!

Terribly thrilled to be the subject of a sudden and somewhat humbling retrospective of my work thanks to the guys at Horrified Magazine. In their words (not mine) - "What better way to see in Halloween than with a celebration of the very writer who scared the hell out of anyone who settled down on a Saturday night, All Hallows’ Eve in 1992, to watch a BBC ‘spoof’ horror programme? Ghostwatch left an indelible mark on many, if not everyone, who experienced it and caused such tremendous shockwaves that it’s never been rebroadcast. Even 28 years later, Ghostwatch is still heralded as landmark horror television, and quite rightly so. 

"Yet, Stephen Volk’s career is about more than Ghostwatch alone. From the screenplay to Ken Russell’s Gothic (1986) to last year’s set of essays, Coffinmaker’s Blues, by way of the brilliant triptych, The Dark Masters Trilogy and 2011’s The Awakening, his work continues to terrify, thrill and challenge us. 

"Our celebration features an essay on Ghostwatch, a new 3-part interview with the man himself, a special Halloween giveaway of Stephen's books (see below) from PS Publishing, reviews of The Dark Masters Trilogy and Coffinmaker's Blues – plus a brand new short story, "For the Benefit of the Tape" written exclusively for Horrified. 

"And," they add, helpfully - "just before you think of leaving this page - remember, Pipes said we’ve got to stay…"

Best-selling novelist Neil Spring - author of The Ghost Hunters (adapted into the ITV drama Harry Price: Ghost Hunter starring Rafe Spall), The Watchers, The Lost Village, and The Burning House, kindly asked me to interview him for the online launch of his spooky and gripping new novel The Haunted Shore. I was more than delighted to do so.  I think we had an enteratining chat in the run-up to Halloween about what intrigues us both about the subject of the supernatural in fiction and real life - in fact, both of us rather blur the lines between the two. (For instance, Neil features Aleister Crowley as a background, malignant force in The Burning House, whereas I use him as a fully fledged character in "Netherwood" - one of the stories in my Dark Masters Trilogy.) Watch the whole conversation on Facebook here. Neil reveals some fascinating insights into the inspiration for The Haunted Shore, set as it is against the atmospheric and eerie background of Orford Ness, and, as ever with his stories, is as much about a sense of place as it is about the echoes of past traumas acted out in the present. A real page turner. ​

Buy your copy of The Haunted Shore here

I think it’s true to say that many of us horror writers of a certain generation have treasured memories of Hammer Films, Amicus Productions and their ilk. In fact, their output of genre classics is so important that some of us have secretly longed for a way to relive and recapture the excitement we had when we first experienced them. 

​That was my exact impulse when I first talked to Mark Morris about a book proposal entitled The Blythewood Horror Film Omnibus — an unashamed homage to John Burke’s Hammer Horror Film Omnibus, a fat paperback that came out in the sixties, comprising four novellas based on upcoming horror films. The difference being that our “Blythewood” would be a studio that never existed.

​Our four films would be movies that we’d invent from scratch. Movies we wished we could have seen as feature films when we were growing up. And now we can – in book form – thanks to PS Publishing.

Stephen Volk