by Guy Boothby (Author), Colin Heston (Introduction)

In the landscape of late-Victorian sensation fiction, few figures loom as large or as shadow-drenched as Dr. Nikola. Before the world had a definitive supervillain archetype, Guy Boothby introduced a mastermind who combined the cold intellect of Sherlock Holmes with the occult ambitions of a sorcerer. A Bid for Fortune, published in 1895 and often subtitled Dr. Nikola’s Vendetta, marks the debut of this iconic antagonist in a high-stakes adventure that spans the globe, moving restlessly from the dusty streets of Sydney to the high society of London and the secretive corners of the East.
The narrative follows Richard Hatteras, a rugged Australian sailor who finds himself accidentally entangled in a web of international intrigue. Hatteras is a man of action, yet he is fundamentally out of his depth when he crosses paths with the enigmatic Doctor. Nikola is not interested in mere petty theft or local power; he is obsessed with uncovering the ancient secrets of a mysterious Tibetan sect. To achieve his ends, he requires a specific Chinese stick—a relic of immense power—and he proves himself willing to manipulate, kidnap, and destroy anyone standing in his way.
Guy Boothby was a pioneer of the "Yellow Back" thrillers, and in Dr. Nikola, he created a character who fascinated readers as much as he terrified them. Accompanied by a massive, sinister black cat named Apollyon, Nikola is a master of science, hypnotism, and disguise, driven by a personal code that sits entirely outside conventional law. This work is more than a simple chase; it is a quintessential example of the "New Imperial" gothic style, blending the era's anxiety about the unknown with the thrill of global exploration.
Readers should prepare for a narrative that moves at a breakneck pace, as Boothby excels at building atmosphere through his descriptions of Nikola’s cat-like movements and calculated calm. As Hatteras attempts to protect the woman he loves while outmaneuvering a man who seems to see five steps ahead, the audience is invited into a world where the line between science and magic is dangerously thin. It is a story where the hero is constantly shadowed by a man who, as the text suggests, is just as dangerous to have as a friend as he is as an enemy.

Read-Me.Org Inc. New York-Philadelphia-Australia. 2026. 232p.

By S. Carleton. Introduction by Colin Heston.

The 1920 publication of The La Chance Mine Mystery by S. Carleton, the pseudonym for Susan Morrow Jones, represents a pivotal moment in the evolution of the North American thriller. By weaving the Victorian Gothic tradition into the rugged landscape of the Canadian wilderness, Carleton created a narrative that serves as a sophisticated precursor to modern psychological suspense. In contemporary literature, this work remains highly relevant as a masterclass in atmospheric isolation, where the "frozen North" acts not merely as a setting but as a primary antagonist. This technique mirrors modern "Environment as Character" tropes seen in current survivalist fiction, reminding readers that the primitive fear of being trapped in a vast, uncaring wilderness transcends technological advancement and remains a powerful literary hook.

From a criminological perspective, the novel offers a compelling study of frontier anomie. In the absence of formal state policing, the isolated mine becomes a vacuum where white-collar crimes like corporate fraud and title theft inevitably devolve into violence. This lack of social control forces characters into a state of informal justice, predating modern investigative frameworks through "bushcraft forensics." In an era before chemical analysis or DNA, Carleton’s characters rely on environmental reconstruction—analyzing the crust of snowdrifts or the set of a footprint—to determine the timing of a crime. This reliance on natural preservation within a crime scene provides a proto-historical look at how physical environment shapes both criminal opportunity and the subsequent forensic analysis used to untangle it.

The social dynamics of the mine also provide deep insights into early 20th-century victimology. Carleton highlights a hierarchy of vulnerability, focusing on how marginalized laborers and isolated individuals are targeted by those with institutional power. In this setting, victims are often chosen specifically because their disappearances can be conveniently blamed on the harsh climate rather than foul play. This exploration of "invisible victims" and structural exploitation resonates with modern social justice themes regarding labor and corporate overreach. By subverting the "hard-boiled" male tropes of her time, Carleton used her unique perspective as a female author to provide an emotional depth and keen eye for power imbalances that continue to inform the DNA of modern suspense and elevated horror.

Read-Me.Org Inc. New York-Philadelphia-Australia. 2026. 192p.

By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. Introduction by Colin Heston

When The King in Yellow appeared in 1895, it slipped quietly into a literary world already saturated with decadence, occult enthusiasms, and the fin-de-siècle’s peculiar blend of anxiety and intoxication. Yet Robert W. Chambers’s strange mosaic of tales—united by a fictional forbidden play that unhinges those who read it—swiftly distinguished itself from its contemporaries. In the decades since, this slim volume has grown into one of the foundational works of the American weird tradition, prefiguring H. P. Lovecraft, influencing generations of modern horror writers, and unexpectedly resurfacing in the twenty-first century as a cultural touchstone.

What makes Chambers’s book so unusual is its deliberate blurring of boundaries: between reality and hallucination, sanity and delusion, art and contagion. The collection opens with “The Repairer of Reputations,” a tale set in an imagined New York of 1920—an unsettling mixture of futurism, authoritarian regulation, and manic delusion. It is here that the mysterious “King in Yellow” first exerts his influence. The narrator, a deeply unreliable figure, is convinced of his noble birthright and guided by an enigmatic “repairer” who traffics in scandal and blackmail. The narrative unfolds as a case study in self-deception, political paranoia, and the fragility of identity—yet nothing in the story is easily dismissed as mere fantasy. Reality itself buckles under the weight of the narrator’s convictions.

The Mask, perhaps the most haunting of the early tales, shifts the setting to the Latin Quarter of Paris, where art, science, and obsession converge. The grotesque beauty of Boris Yvain’s alchemical solution—capable of transforming living beings into flawless marble—creates a collision of aesthetics and mortality that typifies Chambers’s most powerful work. The story’s dreamlike quality reflects the decadent movement’s fascination with artificiality, transformation, and the erotic pull of the inanimate. Throughout, the shadow of the forbidden play hovers, never fully seen but always felt.

Other sections—“In the Court of the Dragon,” “The Yellow Sign,” and additional sketches—extend the book’s architecture of dread. Chambers never provides the text of the play itself, only its aftershocks, its “second act” whispered about as a psychic abyss from which there is no return. This structural absence is one of the book’s great innovations: The horror lies not in spectacle but in suggestion, in the void where meaning should be. The King in Yellow, the Pallid Mask, and the Lost City of Carcosa are not fully explained but instead exist as fragments of a mythology the reader assembles intuitively, as though the stories themselves are encoded with an infectious idea.

The power of The King in Yellow endures because it is not simply a collection of supernatural tales—it is a meditation on contagion: of ideas, of aesthetics, of inner instability. Chambers’s fictional play does not merely frighten; it corrodes. It reveals hidden fractures in those who encounter it and amplifies their darkest impulses. In this sense, the book mirrors its age. The 1890s were marked by the collapse of old certainties, the rise of new sciences of the mind, and an artistic fascination with decadence, degeneration, and the beautiful ruin of the self. Chambers captured that atmosphere with uncanny acuity.

Today, amidst digital conspiracies, fractured identities, and a renewed cultural fascination with alternate realities, The King in Yellow feels more relevant than ever. It invites the reader to step into a world where truth is unstable, where art is dangerous, and where the boundaries of perception are mercilessly thin. The book’s whispered mythology has become larger than the text itself, seeding later works, reappearing in unexpected media, and reminding us that the most enduring horrors are those we cannot fully see.

To open these stories is to risk a glimpse of the Yellow Sign—a symbol of beauty, madness, and forbidden knowledge. Chambers offers no assurances. He only extends an invitation to enter Carcosa, where twin suns sink over black waters and where, once the play begins, the mask cannot be removed.

Read-Me.Org Inc. New York-Philadelphia-Australia. 2026 p.209

By John F. Mauro

Published in 1940 by the small New York firm Fortuny's, Rhapsody in Death is a quintessential example of the "weird menace" genre, characterized by its extreme and often lurid horror elements. The book gained a specific cult status due to its connection to cinema history, featuring an introduction by the legendary horror actor Bela Lugosi, who allegedly intended to star in a film version that was never produced. The story follows the villainous Professor Zoocarnivora, a classic mad scientist who embarks on a murderous rampage fueled by a deep-seated hatred for women who had rejected him.

The Professor’s reign of terror is carried out through bizarre and supernatural means, most notably a pack of fire-breathing hounds that he unleashes upon his victims. Amidst a backdrop of bats, vultures, and macabre experiments, the narrative pits the Professor against a spiritual healer named Father Theobald and a pair of young protagonists caught in the chaos. While contemporary critics often found the prose over-the-top and the plot nearly absurd, the book remains a highly sought-after collector's item today. Its rarity is compounded by the fact that its publisher went bankrupt shortly after release, leaving very few original copies in circulation.

Fortuny;s. 1941. 187p

Three Plays By Henry Becque. Translated From The French With An Introduction By Freeman Tilden. Preface by Colin Heston.

To enter the world of Henry Becque is to step into a theater stripped of its finery. As we present these three plays—”The Vultures”, “The Woman of Paris”, and “The Merry-Go-Round”—it is essential to recognize the revolutionary "brutal strength" Becque required to "knock over the idols of romance" that dominated the 19th-century stage.

Freeman Tilden’s introduction serves as a vigorous defense of Becque as the pioneer of realism. Tilden correctly identifies Becque as a "revolutionist" who flouted the "happy ending" and the rigid traditions of dramatists like Sardou. He eloquently describes Becque’s vision of a stage representing the "dramatic commonplaces of every-day life" rather than the "sentimental nonsense" of the era.

However, a modern critique of Tilden’s introduction reveals two areas where his analysis might be expanded:

First, “The Nature of the "Cruel Theatre": Tilden focuses heavily on the “structural” revolution—the five-act drama and the rejection of mystery-driven plots. While he mentions Becque’s "militant" social ideas, he arguably underplays the psychological darkness of the "cruel theatre". Becque did not just want realism; he wanted truth to go "defiantly bare," revealing a world where "vultures" (lawyers, partners, and creditors) wait for a man to die before descending on his family.

Second, “The Gender Perspective:” Tilden notes that Becque voiced "the protest of women against the prejudice that kept them from earning a decent livelihood". Yet, in his discussion of “The Woman of Paris” (“La Parisienne”), Tilden remains somewhat focused on the "naughty triangle" and the prosaic nature of adultery. A modern critique would emphasize that Becque’s women are often forced into moral compromises not by choice, but by a "bureaucratic system" that offers them only parasitism or ruin.

Despite these nuances, Tilden’s assertion remains true: Becque was the "wedge that opened the way for realism". He cleared the ground for Ibsen and the modernists by proving that a play could be "clear without being obvious" and that everyday existence held enough surprises for a master of stagecraft.

In this collection, readers will witness the "unexpectedly striking" scenes that puzzled 19th-century critics—from the savage dinner of the concierges in “The Prodigal Son” to the cold-blooded notary Bourdon in “The Vultures”. We invite you to experience the "cruel theatre" in its purest form: a mirror held up to the "marvellous dramatic commonplaces" of our own human struggle.

New York. Mitchell Kennerley. 1913. Read-Me.Org Inc. New York-Philadelphia-Australia. 2026. 267p.

By A. S. M. Hutchinson. Introduction by Colin Heston.

When If Winter Comes appeared in 1921, it entered a literary moment marked by exhaustion, reassessment, and a profound unease about the moral and emotional consequences of the First World War. Written by A. S. M. Hutchinson, the novel achieved immediate popularity on both sides of the Atlantic, resonating with readers who recognized in its restrained drama a faithful portrait of postwar disillusionment. Today, the book stands as one of the most representative middle-class English novels of the early 1920s, combining psychological realism with a quietly devastating critique of social conformity.

At the center of If Winter Comes is Mark Sabre, a man neither heroic nor villainous, but painfully ordinary—an embodiment of the conscientious, educated Englishman caught between private integrity and public expectation. Sabre’s tragedy unfolds not through sensational events but through accumulated compromises: the erosion of affection within marriage, the pressures of respectability, and the moral cowardice of a community that prizes appearances above truth. Hutchinson’s great achievement is to dramatize these pressures with such precision that the reader comes to see how social cruelty can be enacted without overt malice, simply through silence, gossip, and moral indifference.

The novel reflects a society struggling to redefine itself after catastrophe. Although the war remains largely offstage, its psychological presence is unmistakable. Characters speak and act as if something fundamental has been broken: faith in institutions, confidence in moral authority, and trust in traditional roles. Hutchinson does not frame this as a generational revolt, as some of his modernist contemporaries did, but rather as a slow moral suffocation. The England of If Winter Comes is orderly, polite, and profoundly unforgiving—a place where deviation from accepted norms is punished less by law than by social annihilation.

Stylistically, Hutchinson occupies a middle ground between Edwardian realism and the emerging psychological novel. His prose is clear, controlled, and often deceptively simple. Sentiment is present, but carefully disciplined; emotional climaxes arise organically from character rather than authorial intrusion. This restraint partly explains the book’s enduring power. Hutchinson trusts the reader to perceive the cruelty embedded in everyday interactions and to grasp the cumulative weight of small injustices. The result is a novel that feels at once intimate and inexorable.

Equally important is Hutchinson’s treatment of marriage and masculinity. Mark Sabre is not undone by vice or ambition but by a moral rigidity that prevents him from acting decisively in his own defense. In this sense, If Winter Comes anticipates later twentieth-century explorations of male emotional paralysis. Sabre’s passivity—his belief that decency alone will protect him—proves to be a fatal misconception. Hutchinson exposes how a culture that rewards restraint and silence can become complicit in personal destruction.

Upon publication, the novel’s success was amplified by its adaptation into a widely seen stage play and later film versions, cementing its reputation as a defining postwar narrative. Yet its popularity should not obscure its seriousness. Beneath its accessible surface lies a sharp moral inquiry into responsibility, courage, and the cost of social obedience. Hutchinson does not offer easy consolation; the title itself suggests a stoic endurance rather than renewal, implying that survival may require a reckoning with loss rather than its denial.

Read today, If Winter Comes remains strikingly contemporary. Its depiction of reputational ruin, public shaming, and institutional indifference speaks to modern anxieties about social judgment and moral isolation. Hutchinson’s novel reminds us that cruelty need not be loud to be lethal, and that the gravest tragedies often occur not in moments of drama but in the long, quiet seasons of neglect. As such, this book endures not merely as a historical artifact of postwar Britain, but as a timeless study of how societies fail their most conscientious members when compassion yields to convention.

By Frances Parkinson Keyes

Came a Cavalier by Frances Parkinson Keyes is a sweeping historical romance set against the backdrop of two world wars. The novel explores themes of resilience, identity, and the transformative power of love. At its heart is Constance “Connie” Galt, a young woman whose life is reshaped by personal betrayal and the chaos of global conflict. Her journey begins with heartbreak, which propels her into service with the American Red Cross in France during World War I. This experience becomes a crucible for her character, forcing her to confront suffering and loss while discovering inner strength and purpose.

The story delves deeply into the theme of personal growth through adversity. Connie’s evolution from a disillusioned college student to a confident, compassionate woman mirrors the broader societal shifts of the early twentieth century. Her relationships—first with Duncan Craig, an American doctor, and later with Tristan de Fremond, a French cavalry officer—highlight the tension between security and passion, as well as the cultural contrasts between America and Europe during wartime.

Historically, the novel captures the atmosphere of wartime France with vivid detail, from the scarcity and danger of the front lines to the elegance and traditions of the French aristocracy. It reflects the impact of war on both individuals and nations, portraying how global upheaval can dismantle old social orders while creating new opportunities for connection and renewal. The narrative also touches on themes of honor and duty, embodied in Tristan’s role within the prestigious Cadre Noir, and contrasts these ideals with the pragmatic realities of survival and love in times of uncertainty.

Ultimately, Came a Cavalier is not just a romance but a meditation on courage, endurance, and the human capacity for reinvention. It situates personal drama within the grand sweep of history, offering readers both an intimate love story and a rich portrait of a world in transition.

Julian Messner, Inc. NY. 1947. Read-Me.Org Inc. New York-Philadelphia-Australia. 2025. 437p.

By Erskine Caldwell. Designed and Edited with an Introduction  by Colin Heston

When All Night Long appeared in 1942, Erskine Caldwell was already one of the most widely read—and most controversial—American novelists of his generation. Known primarily for his unsparing portrayals of poverty, violence, and moral stress in the American South, Caldwell here turned his attention outward, to a global conflict unfolding at unprecedented scale. Subtitled A Novel of Guerrilla Warfare in Russia, All Night Long represents Caldwell’s direct literary engagement with the Second World War at the moment when its outcome remained deeply uncertain and when the Soviet Union, newly allied with the United States, had become a central symbol of resistance to fascist aggression.

Caldwell’s Russia is not a romanticized abstraction nor a detailed ethnographic portrait. Instead, it functions as a stark moral landscape shaped by occupation, deprivation, and constant threat. Villages, forests, and frozen terrain become arenas of endurance rather than scenery. The emphasis falls on night operations, secrecy, hunger, exhaustion, and the psychological toll of living in a perpetual state of danger. The title itself—All Night Long—signals this temporal and emotional register: war as an unbroken vigil, a continuous strain that erodes the boundary between action and survival.

For modern readers, the novel occupies an intriguing position in Caldwell’s body of work and in twentieth-century war literature more broadly. It stands apart from his Southern novels in geography but not in theme. As in Tobacco Road or God’s Little Acre, Caldwell examines how extreme conditions strip life down to its essentials and expose the structures—economic, political, or military—that govern human behavior. In All Night Long, the setting is international, but the underlying concerns remain consistent: power, exploitation, resilience, and the cost of endurance.

Read today, All Night Long also invites reflection on the evolving representation of guerrilla warfare itself. Long before such conflicts became a dominant feature of late-twentieth- and early-twenty-first-century military discourse, Caldwell recognized the strategic and moral complexity of irregular resistance. His novel anticipates later debates about asymmetrical warfare, civilian involvement, and the blurred lines between combatant and noncombatant—issues that continue to shape global conflicts.

Ultimately, All Night Long is less a novel about Russia per se than a novel about resistance under occupation. It captures a historical moment when global war demanded new forms of solidarity and new narrative frameworks to explain them. Caldwell’s achievement lies in his ability to translate that vast struggle into an intimate, unrelenting account of human persistence, sustained through darkness, danger, and the long hours of night.

NY.Book League of America. 1942. Read-Me.Org Inc. Australia, New York & Philadelphia. 2025. 161p.

By Bram Stoker

Bram Stoker's Dracula, first published in 1897, remains one of the most iconic and influential novels in the Gothic literary tradition. More than a simple horror story, Dracula is a rich tapestry of Victorian anxieties, cultural tensions, and symbolic complexity. Through its epistolary structure and vivid characters, the novel explores themes of modernity versus antiquity, sexuality and repression, imperialism, and the supernatural. It is a work that not only defined the vampire genre but also reflected the fears and fascinations of its time.

The late 19th century was a period of profound transformation in Britain. The Industrial Revolution had ushered in an age of technological innovation and scientific progress, while the British Empire stood at the height of its global influence. Yet beneath this veneer of confidence lay deep-seated anxieties about degeneration, foreign invasion, and the erosion of traditional values. Dracula captures these tensions through its central antagonist, Count Dracula, a foreign aristocrat who threatens the sanctity of British society. His arrival in England symbolizes a reverse colonization, where the East invades the West, challenging notions of cultural superiority and national security.

Stoker’s use of the epistolary format—comprising diaries, letters, newspaper articles, and ship logs—serves to ground the supernatural elements of the story in a framework of realism and documentation. This narrative technique reflects the Victorian obsession with empirical evidence and rationality, even as the characters confront a force that defies scientific explanation. The juxtaposition of modern tools such as typewriters and phonographs with ancient folklore and religious symbols underscores the novel’s central conflict between progress and the past.

One of the most compelling aspects of Dracula is its exploration of sexuality and repression. Victorian society was marked by strict moral codes, particularly regarding gender roles and sexual behavior. The novel subverts these norms through the seductive and transgressive nature of vampirism. Characters like Lucy Westenra and Mina Harker become battlegrounds for these tensions, as their encounters with Dracula blur the lines between victimhood and desire. The act of bloodsucking, laden with erotic undertones, becomes a metaphor for the loss of innocence and the threat of moral corruption.

Religion plays a crucial role in the narrative, often positioned as the ultimate defense against the vampire’s evil. Crucifixes, holy water, and sacred rites are employed alongside scientific reasoning, suggesting a synthesis of faith and logic in the fight against darkness. This duality reflects the Victorian struggle to reconcile religious belief with the rise of secularism and scientific thought.

Dracula also engages with the theme of identity and duality. Count Dracula himself embodies contradictions: he is both man and monster, aristocrat and predator, host and parasite. His ability to transform into animals and control the elements adds to his mystique and reinforces his role as a symbol of the uncanny. The characters who oppose him—Jonathan Harker, Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and others—represent various facets of Victorian society, from legal and medical professions to religious authority, united in their mission to restore order.

The legacy of Dracula is vast and enduring. It established many of the conventions of vampire fiction and inspired countless adaptations across literature, film, and popular culture. Count Dracula has become a cultural archetype, embodying both fear and fascination. The novel’s rich symbolism and thematic depth continue to invite critical analysis, from psychoanalytic and feminist readings to postcolonial and queer interpretations.

In conclusion, Bram Stoker’s Dracula is far more than a tale of terror. It is a mirror reflecting the complexities of its time, a narrative that intertwines the rational and the irrational, the modern and the ancient, the sacred and the profane. Its enduring power lies in its ability to evoke fear while provoking thought, making it a masterpiece of Gothic literature and a cornerstone of cultural history.

Read-Me.Org Inc. New York-Philadelphia-Australia. 2025. 284p.

By Henry James

From Wikipedia: The Turn of the Screw is an 1898 horror novella by Henry James which first appeared in serial format in Collier's Weekly (January 27 – April 16, 1898). In October 1898, it was collected in The Two Magics, published by Macmillan in New York City and Heinemannin London. The novella follows a governess who, caring for two children at a remote estate, becomes convinced that the grounds are haunted. The Turn of the Screw is considered a work of both Gothic and horror fiction.

In the century following its publication, critical analysis of the novella underwent several major transformations. Initial reviews regarded it only as a frightening ghost story, but, in the 1930s, some critics suggested that the supernatural elements were figments of the governess' imagination. In the early 1970s, the influence of structuralism resulted in an acknowledgement that the text's ambiguity was its key feature. Later approaches incorporated Marxist and feminist thinking.

• Plot...

  On Christmas Eve, an unnamed narrator and some of his friends are gathered around a fire. One of them, Douglas, reads a manuscript written by his sister's late governess. The manuscript tells the story of her being hired by a man who has become responsible for his young niece and nephew following the deaths of their parents. He lives mainly in London and has a country house in Bly, Essex. The boy, Miles, is attending a boarding school, while his younger sister, Flora, is living in Bly, where she is cared for by Mrs. Grose, the housekeeper. Flora's uncle, the governess's new employer, is uninterested in raising the children and gives her full charge, explicitly stating that she is not to bother him with communications of any sort. The governess travels to Bly and begins her duties…………

NY.London. Collier Macmillan. 1898. 118p.