Thursday, 16 February 2017


by: D. Melhoff

Book Description:

A remote summer camp becomes a lurid crime scene when the bodies of two teenagers are found in a bloody, real-life rendering of a classic Grimm's fairy tale. Trapped in the wilderness, the remaining counselors must follow a trail of dark children's fables in order to outwit a psychopath and save the dwindling survivors before falling prey to their own gruesome endings.

Drawing on the grisly, uncensored details of history’s most famous fairy tales, Grimm Woods is a heart-pounding thriller about a deranged killer who uses traditional children’s stories as tropes in elaborate murders. Set against the backdrop of modern-day Michigan, it’s a journey through the mind of a dangerous zealot and a shocking glimpse into the bedtime stories you thought you knew.

*this book was sent to me in exchange for an honest review. 

4/5 stars

I am a huge lover of the horror genre, so when I read the synopsis of the book, I knew this would be one epic read!

Even though I am not familiar with the original Grimm Fairytale, I was still able to grasp myself to the story, and enjoy it all the way through.

Throughout the entire book you're drawn into this gruesome world filled with true horror, mystery, and one heck of a thrill ride! The writing is fantastic, and very detailed. I was able to visualize all the scenes in this book, which made it all too real and creepy. Especially the murder scenes, oh my, were they gorey and messy!
I was constantly on the hedge of my seat anticipating what was going to happen next. With every chapter leaving you wanting more nd more!

I enjoyed all the characters in this story, even though Scott was not very likable at times. They all developed perfectly. You were on this mystery adventure with them, just trying to find out who the killer is.

This book had the feel of Friday the 13th movie franchise, mixed with Freeforms series, Dead of Summer. I love both of them, so that's a huge compliment in my eyes.

Towards the end of the book, I still had no idea who was the murderer! Every time I thought I knew, I was hit with another crazy plot twist!

Overall, I could not recommended this book enough! If you love horror, you will throughly enjoy and appreciate this story. It honestly needs to come on the big screen, that would be epic!!!

Buy the Book:  Amazon

Author's Bio:

D. Melhoff was born in a prairie ghost town that few people have heard of and even fewer have visited. While most of his stories are for adults, he also enjoys terrifying younger audiences from time to time, as seen in his series of twisted picture books for children. He credits King, Poe, Hitchcock, Harris, Stoker, and his second grade school teacher, Mrs. Lake, for turning him to horror. For more information, visit

Connect with the author:  Book Website  ~  Twitter ~  Facebook


Prizes:Win a copy of GRIMM WOODS by D. Melhoff or a $20 Amazon GC (4 print copies for USA & Can, 20 ebook copies for international winners, GC open int’l) 25 winners total
Ends March 11
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Thursday, 9 February 2017

Oh me oh my...there are some films in life that stick with you. For me Labyrinth was one of those films. The power of the voodoo some might say! So when I made aware of Wintersong I knew I had to read here. And so you find yourself here on today's stop of the blog tour and with a juicy little treat for you ( no goblin magic I promise) extract! Read on...

I could say the stranger was beautiful, but to describe him thus was to call Mozart “just a musician.” His beauty was that of an ice storm, lovely and deadly. He was not handsome, not the way Hans was handsome; the stranger’s features were too long, too pointed, too alien. There was a prettiness about him that was almost girly, and an ugliness about him that was just as compelling. I understood then what Constanze had meant when those doomed young ladies longed to hold on to him the way they yearned to grasp candle flame or mist. His beauty hurt, but it was the pain that made it beautiful. Yet it was not his strange and cruel beauty that moved me, it was the fact that I knew that face, that hair, that look. He was as familiar to me as the sound of my own music.

This was the Goblin King.

I came upon that realization with no more surprise than if I had come across the local baker. The Goblin King had always been my neighbor, a fixture in my life, as sure as the church steeple and the cloth merchant and the poverty that dogged my family’s heels. I had grown up with him outside my window, just as I had grown up with Hans and the milkmaid and the purse-lipped ladies of the village square. Of course I recognized him. Had I not seen his face every night in my dreams, in my childish fancies? Yet . . . hadn’t it all been just that—pretend?

This was the Goblin King. That was my sister in his arms. This was my sister tilting her head back to greet his lips. That was the Goblin King bending down to receive her kisses like sacred offerings made at the altar of his worship. This was the Goblin King running long, slender fingers down the line of my sister’s neck, her shoulder, her back. That was my sister laughing, her bright, musical bell of a laugh, and this was the Goblin King smiling in return, but looking at me, always looking. I was entranced; my sister was enchanted.

Enchanted. The word was a dash of cold water, and my senses returned with a jolt. This was the Goblin King. The abductor of maidens, the punisher of misdeeds, the Lord of Mischief and the Underground. But was he also not the friend of my childhood, the confidante of my youth? I hesitated, torn by conflicting desires.

I shook my head. I had to rescue my sister. I had to break the spell.

“Käthe!” I screamed. The woods resounded, and a raucous cacophony of startled crows took up my cry. Ka-kaw! Ka-kaw! Ka-Käthe!

This time the Goblin King took note. He raised his head and we locked gazes over my sister’s stupefied form. His pale hair surrounded his thin face like a halo, like a thistle cloud, like a wolf’s shaggy mane, silver and gold and colorless all at once. I could not tell what color his eyes were from where I stood, but they were likewise pale, and icy. The Goblin King tilted his head in a duelist’s nod and gave me a small smile, the tips of his teeth sharp and pointed. I clenched my fists. I knew that smile. I recognized it, and understood it as a challenge.

Come rescue her, my dear, the smile said. Come and rescue her . . . if you can.

Ooooooh don't you just get all the feels! Check out the rest of the stops on the tour and watch this space for our review:

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Thursday, 26 January 2017

A Cheeky Little Extract: Map of Bones by Francescia Haig

Today the PB of the fantastic and haunting Map of Bones by Francescia Haig is released, with its oh so BEAUTiful cover.... If you haven't yet read the book (because you were waiting for the PB or live under a rock) now you get to check out an exclusive (though not so much anymore) sneak peak ( and its a great refresher is you've read it whilst we wait eagerly for book three and which I've been assured certain things!)... I love the dynamic in this extract...for reasons..well reasons which you'll be able to find out when you read the book (and thus possibly already know about)! If you've read it let us know what you think ...but for now, I leave you with: 

I woke from flames, a scream bursting from me into the darkening air. When I reached out for Kip, I found only the blanket, chalky with ash. Each day that I tried to adjust to his absence, I’d wake to find my forgetful body rolling towards his warmth.

I lay back in the echo of my own scream. I dreamed of the blast more often now. It came to me in sleep, and sometimes when I was awake. I understood more than ever why so many seers went mad. Being a seer was like walking on a frozen lake: each vision was a crack in the ice underfoot. There were many days when I felt sure I would plunge through the brittle surface of my own sanity.
‘You’re sweating,’ said Piper.
My breath was fast and loud, and refused to be slowed.
‘It’s not hot. Do you feel feverish?’
‘She can’t talk yet,’ said Zoe from the other side of the fire. ‘She’ll stop carrying on in a minute.’
‘She’s running a fever,’ Piper said, his hand on my forehead.
He reacted like this whenever I had a vision. At my side quickly, crowding me with his questions before the visions had even had a chance to dissipate.
‘I’m not sick.’ I sat up, brushing his hand away, and wiped my face. ‘It’s just the blast again.’
No matter how many times I’d endured the vision, there was no preparing for it, and no lessening its impact. It made my senses bleed into one another. The sound of it was absolute blackness; the colour a white that shrieked in my ears. The heat went beyond pain: it was total. The size of the flames was beyond any measure: the horizon was consumed, the world snatched away in an instant of flame that lasted forever.
Zoe stood and stepped over the crumbs of the fire to pass me the water flask.
‘It’s happening more often, isn’t it,’ Piper said.
I took the flask from Zoe. ‘Have you been counting?’ I said to Piper. He didn’t reply, but kept watching me as I drank.

Until that night, I knew I hadn’t screamed for weeks. I’d worked so hard at it. Avoiding sleep; taming my convulsive breath when a vision came; clenching my jaw until my teeth felt as though they would grind each other down to dust.

But Piper had noticed anyway.
‘You’ve been watching me?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, not flinching from my stare. ‘I do what I have to do, for the resistance. It’s your job to endure the visions. And it’s mine to decide how we can use them.’

It was me who broke the gaze, rolling away from him.

For weeks our world had been made of ash. Even after we’d left the deadlands, the wind still blew from the east, loading the sky with a burden of black dust. When I rode behind Piper or Zoe, I saw how it settled even in the elaborate contours of their ears.
If I’d cried, my tears would have run black. But I had no time for tears. And who would I cry for? Kip? The dead of the island? All who were trapped in New Hobart? Those still suspended, out of time, in the tanks? There were too many, and my tears were no good to them.

I learned that the past is barbed. Memories snagged at my skin, relentless as the thorn bushes that grew by the deadlands’ black river. Even when I tried to recall a happy time – sitting with Kip on the windowsill, on the island, or laughing with Elsa and Nina in the kitchen at New Hobart – my mind would end up at the same point: the silo floor.

Those final minutes: The Confessor, and what she had revealed about Kip’s past; Kip’s jump, and his body on the concrete below me.

I found myself envying Kip’s amnesia. So I taught myself not to remember. I clung to the present, the horse beneath me, its solidity and warmth. Leaning with Piper over a map sketched in the dust, to calculate our next destination. The indecipherable messages left in the ash by the lizards that dragged their bellies across the ruined earth.

When I was thirteen and freshly branded, I’d stared at the healing wound in the mirror and said to myself: This is what I am. Now I did the same with this new life. I tried to learn to occupy it, as I’d learned to inhabit my branded body. This is my life, I said to myself, each morning, when Zoe shook my shoulder to wake me for my shift as lookout, or when Piper kicked dirt over the fire and said it was time to move again. This is my life now.
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