Movies & TV Andor Andor Questions Every Loyalty in Three New Episodes How do we fight and remain ourselves? By Emmet Asher-Perrin | Published on April 30, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share As a person with a terrible fear of spiders… those spiders are cute. “Ever Been to Ghorman?” Image: Lucasfilm It is one year later (three years before the Battle of Yavin). Bix wakes in a safehouse apartment on Coruscant to a nightmare once again featuring Doctor Gorst (Joshua James). Cassian takes the blaster from her sleepwalking hands and tries to get her to talk about it, but she won’t. On Ghorman, Syril Karn has been working for the Bureau of Standards much to the dismay of his mother. He keeps his door rigged to know if anyone is breaking in and has allowed his office to be tapped by the Ghorman Front so they can hear him claim that the Empire is using propaganda against the planet and its people. The Front decides to attempt his recruitment to their cause, and he’s given a trinket from a street salesman named Samm (Abraham Wapler) with information about a meeting. Cassian and Bix are making dinner, and she wants to know what he’s going to tell Luthen about the soldier Cassian killed because he saw Bix’s face. Cassian insists that he’s right to protect Bix, but she points out that in a war, they don’t get a say in whether they’re safe. They have to give everything if they want to win. Syril calls Dedra securely to let her know he’s been contacted; she encourages him to get more information. At the next ISB meeting, Supervisor Lonni Jung (Robert Emms) voices the opinion during a tense moment that they’re arresting too many people. Dedra prods Supervisor Heert (Jacob James Beswick) about letting her in on the Axis project despite it being taken off her desk. Mon Mothma is going around asking people to vote with her to end P.O.R.D., including the rep from Ghorman, Dasi Oran (Raphael Roger Levy). No one is willing to go against he Emperor in this moment, despite her efforts. Lonni contacts Luthen to let him know that Dedra is in charge of Ghorman now, not Axis, and that it’s been hidden from everyone, framed as her quiet demotion. He doesn’t know why she’s on the project, and Luthen presses that he needs the endgame, and Lonni needs to be in contact more often now. Syril goes to the meeting on Ghorman, which is largely locals decrying Imperial overreach in their native language, Ghor. The man who invited him translates; everyone knows the Empire is building an armory in Palmo, but they only have rumor to substantiate. They introduce Syril to Elector Carro Rylanz (Richard Sammel), who encourages Syril to give them information that comes through his office and to perhaps poke around for more intel that might help them. Luthen calls Cassian despite the fact that he hasn’t been back long, and asks him to do a covert mission where he assesses the Ghorman Front to see if they are worth aiding. On D’Qar, Wilmon is offering a device to Saw Gerrera (Forest Whitaker) that will allow his group to tap into any rhydonium line and get fuel wherever they need it; they only need to learn the device’s variations to use it correctly. Rhydonium itself is highly explosive and dangerous to the body, and Saw tells Wilmon that Pluti (Marc Rissmann) will learn the variations from him, and that he will be there teaching him longer than the single day he expected. Cassian and Bix say goodbye, and Bix takes a drug to help her with nightmares. “I Have Friends Everywhere” Kleya picks up a transmission from a mic they planted in Davo Sculdun’s private art collection, learning that one piece in his collection is a forgery, resulting in his desire to check the entire collection—a problem for their plant. Cassian picks up his ticket and kit to Ghorman: His cover identity is a man named Varian Skye, an up and coming fashion designer who wants to make contacts with the textile makers there. Syril tells his mother that he’s planning to visit home right as the ISB raids his office to find bugs. Syril makes a big stink about it, feigning upset as they clear the place. The Front finds Syril’s file, which has been doctored to omit any recent connections, only noting that he was fired by the ISB from his Pre-Mor work. Rylanz and his daughter Enza (Alaïs Lawson) contact Syril again to find out what the raid was about and ask him if he could find out what certain Imperial transports are carrying on Ghorman. Luthen pays Bix a visit, and she realizes that he was planning to offer her a job and changed his mind. He tells her they need her healthy, and warns her against the drug she’s using: It helps with sleep, but makes the dreams worse when you stop taking it. Syril passes intel to the Front before leaving for Coruscant, giving them all the transport schedules. Cassian arrives on Ghorman and asks his bellhop about the monument they erected in the city square to commemorate the massacre caused by Moff Tarkin. The bellhop was a child when it happened—his father shielded him from it. Syril arrives on Coruscant and tells Dedra he was careful; she knows because she had him followed. Enza confronts Cassian ahead of schedule at a cafe in Palmo, and he warns her against rushing, telling her that he’ll meet her father tomorrow as planned. Cassian goes to the twillery and meets Rylanz, who insists that they have an opportunity because of their source on the inside (meaning Syril). Cassian points out that the Empire is good at feeding false intel, but the group wants proof of the armory that they can show their own people. Syril debriefs to Partagaz—he believes that their mission is using the insurgents on Ghorman to bait larger groups into assisting. He also believes that Partagaz is pleased with his work and tells Dedra that this is the best day of his life. On D’Qar, Pluti admits to Saw that he’d rather they kept Wilmon around, because his device is very hard to operate: There are too many variations. He asks Saw what station they’re hitting so he can focus on one variation. Saw gives him the intel, and tells Pluti they can keep Wilmon for now. Kleya tells Luthen that they need to go to Sculdun’s party before he has his collection reexamined to remove their microphone. They fight about it, but Kleya insists that they have no choice, and need to be prepared if it goes wrong. Saw kills Pluti in front of Wilmon, calling him a traitor, showing proof that he was transmitting their plans to Empire. Wilmon has to stay and do the job now. Rylanz asks Cassian what he’s going to tell his people, and Cassian admits that he has more questions than help to offer. Saw reminisces about being forced to work in the Onderon jungle as a boy when there was a rhydo leak, while Wil works his machine and collects it for them. Saw inhales the rhydo vapor, and Wilmon asks how he can do that; Saw claims it’s because he understands it. He encourages Wil to be here with him, and Wilmon takes off his mask, breathing it in too. Saw cheers him, saying they are like the rhydo itself, explosive. “What a Festive Evening” Cassian arrives at the flight connection with Luthen; he tells Luthen not to get involved with the Ghorman Front because they’re too impatient and rushing and not ready. Luthen calls him out for trying stop people who are willing join the fight, even if it goes up in flames. Cassian is displeased and says he wants to skip this one. Luthen advises Kleya to send someone else—she sends Vel to Ghorman. Cassian reunites with Bix and tells her about his mission, and she tells him about the mission that Luthen almost offered her. Cassian is furious because Luthen didn’t mention it to him and knows that they’d talk about this. Meanwhile, Perrin complains to Mon about how all the new senators are hosting banquets when it used to be custom to wait a few years. They have dozens of events to attend in the space of a few nights. Cassian goes to Luthen’s storefront, violating protocol to have it out with him. Luthen is unmoved, but Cassian insists that they’re humans, not droids, and that it’s easier for him to work when he’s alone. Luthen promises that he also wants Bix healthy, but tells Cassian that he’s disappointed with him lately and how cautious he’s being. Cassian tells Luthen that if he wants his blood, he needs to help him fix all this. At the ISB, Partagaz tells Heert and Lonni that Gorst’s interrogation techniques are about to be expanded throughout the Empire, and they’re in charge of aiding in that project. On Ghorman, Vel meets with Cinta, telling her that she only agreed to this mission if they were partnered on it. Cinta admits that she had an accident in the previous year, and had to rest up for a long while. She thought of Vel the whole time. Dedra talks to Partagaz about the Ghorman Front’s movements, and he reminds her that Syril must never know what her true mission is. Vel and Cinta hash out the plan to hit an Imperial transport with the Ghorman Front, letting the group know know that they cannot do this mission if they’re not willing to follow any order they’re given. They get some resistance, but everyone ultimately agrees, and the plan is set for tomorrow night. A new mission comes up for Cassian and he insists that Bix will pull it with him. Vel and Cinta talk; Cinta apologizes for hurting Vel, and Vel tells her that Luthen should have told her when she got hurt. Cinta knows they’re more valuable to Luthen separate than together, and Vel recommends that have a talk with him about that before they kiss. At the Senate, Mon and the room swear their oaths to the Empire. She leave in a furious rush and runs into Bail Organa (Benjamin Bratt) as she and Perrin arrive at Sculdun’s party. Syril is back on Ghorman, observing the Front’s operation. Luthen runs into Mon at the party and she asks after her cousin. He wants to know what is so important to tell her; Mon says what’s important is that she cares about her.  The two are called to the gallery room; Director Krennic is there to view the collection as well. Kleya finds Lonni at the party; he and Heert were given Partagaz’s invite. She tells him that he has to help her, and brings him to the gallery room too. She works to get their mic out of the piece they sold Sculdun—it’s a Tinian Codex that you read with your hands, from a world where blindness was considered a gift—while the group is distracted getting lectures about the other works in the gallery. While this occurs, Mon and Krennic argue about the history of a particular piece from the Battle of Carmeen; Mon believes the event they are discussing was an execution, while Krennic insists that those people were criminals who spun the story so they didn’t sound as though they died of ineptitude. The Front crew are nearly done with their job taking the Imperial transport when a local comes across the crew, and Samm stops him. Samm is carrying a blaster when he isn’t supposed to, and threatens the man, resulting in a struggle that gets Cinta killed by friendly fire. The group at the gallery make it over to the codex and Lonni recites what Kleya told him about the piece. On Ghorman, Vel chews Samm out for crying about his actions. She tells him that Cinta was everything he wished he could be, and that he will carry her death with him for life, and work to make up for it forever. Kleya and Luthen leave Sculdun’s party; she got the mic, and Luthen jokes that they should have killed Krennic while they were up there, too. They leave laughing. At an imperial facility in the middle of the night, Gorst brings in some takeout. Bix is waiting for him and attaches him to his own torture device, leaving it on at full blast. She leaves, killing guards as she goes. Cassian sets off an explosive in the building once they’re away. Commentary Image: Lucasfilm The major theme that builds with every tense episode is the question of whether or not you can be a person and fight in an antifacist movement of any kind—or rather, if choosing to be a person while you do it can only hamstring your efforts. It’s clear that Luthen believes so, and Cassian doesn’t want to. It’s also clear that Cassian doesn’t recognize how dangerous it is to ask Luthen Rael to “fix things” for him with regard to Bix, particularly after saying outright that he works better alone. We’re watching Cassian continually foster these moments of connection everywhere he goes, a clear conflict in his nature as his commitment to the Rebellion deepens. His argument with Luthen here is a matter of instinct on his part; the more Cassian believes in this cause, the more he wants to truly see the people in and around it. He wants to know the hotel worker’s story, even if it’s personal and painful, and not just because he’s gathering intel about this planet and the people on it. He’s learned that only feeling anger didn’t work, but now come the complexities of trying to find emotional balance. Luthen wants him to think like a leader, but Cassian isn’t capable of that yet—he can only see the big picture when he has no distractions. Having said that, Luthen is reaching the end of his tether when it comes to his ability to manage the big picture; his fight with Kleya about their plant in Sculdun’s piece isn’t even a real fight—she knows that well enough. It’s Luthen knowing he’s lost an edge in all of this; their web is too big, and something’s going to give before long. They got lucky this time. Similarly to The Last Jedi, we’re coming up on the argument that thinking of resistance as heroism only gets people killed. And, look, am I furious that they finally gave Cinta and Vel time to be together as characters and people, only to immediately kill one of them? Yes—it’s just not great storytelling. But it’s still important how clear this setup was: Vel tells the group that their success is dependent on their ability to follow orders, which everyone in the Ghorman Front agrees to. Except Samm really wants to be a hero in all of this; he keeps showing his hand in small ways, never being as careful as his cohort (who, as Cassian points out, already aren’t being careful enough), the first to state that part of the goal in robbing the armory transport is to build an arsenal of their own. He equates this movement with a need for weaponry, but this show has been so exacting in its need to point out that resistance isn’t about firepower. Resources, certainly, but again, anything can be used to your advantage when you’re thinking. Cassian uses water to stage the breakout on Narkina 5, Mon uses connections and politicking to build networks and find allies, Bix uses Gorst’s own torture ensemble against him. There are endless ways to use what is at your disposal that don’t involve carrying weapons. But Samm wants to carry a blaster, so he brings one despite the fact that he’s told only Cinta and Vel are permitted them. And instead of calming the situation down between himself and a fellow citizen—one who, given his statements at the city meeting, would likely be on their side—he gets into a scuffle that kills another operative. One whose expertise and knowledge is far more valuable than his meager participation in this fight. And Vel is right; he will be making up for it forever. What destroys her life might be a boon for the Rebellion in the long run, and that hurts worst of all. Can you be part to a resistance and still be a person? The answer for Vel appears to be no now. And she can’t even blame Luthen for this, as Cinta’s presence was at her request. She can only blame him for the fact that he kept them apart for what little time they had. The desire to crush blame into a more manageable quadrant also fascinates me here. Carro tells Syril he thinks that the Emperor doesn’t know what’s being done on his behalf, that the ISB is running a “shadow government.” And it makes sense to believe such a thing because the alternative is incalculably worse; if the Emperor knows and condones these things, your fight is so much larger than one rogue government agency. The Empire encourages this by making ISB the “bad guy” frequently in these ops, all to stave ire off from the central source. I truly do not know what to do with Syril and Dedra’s Thing, or the fact that Syril is so blatantly turned on by praise from Partagaz and his girlfriend having him followed from the spaceport for professional reasons. (Also, the way that Partagaz is clearly maligning him during that meeting to Dedra and he just… misses it entirely.) And I’m deadly curious about whether this is the question of being a person reversed in the other direction: Can you be a true servant of fascism and be a person? A person who cares about people? This is assuming that Dedra truly does care about Syril and isn’t simply using him as a means to an end, which I imagine we’ll find out in due course. And there’s also the question of how Syril will react if/when he finds out that his mission is not the true mission Dedra is running. But I’m still fascinated about where this is heading and why it mattered for these two people, specifically, to find each other. Presumably, Wilmon is undergoing a transformation into one of Saw’s “true believers,” which is a thing I mentioned wanting to see back in season one—more of how Saw gets his followers so tied into his charisma and rhetoric. I’m glad we got into it, though I’m not sure how well this segment worked without explaining rhydonium more clearly. Saw’s story about working in the Onderon jungle when exposed to the stuff for the first time is evocative, but also incredibly vague. It feels purposeful, the same way his cadence coming across preacher-like also feels purposeful. It also might be an explanation for the voice Whitaker chose, which is very different from the original given in the animated shows? But that forces me to wonder when this jungle story would have taken place… That’s assuming it’s real at all. Which, I trust Saw’s stories like I trust a stormtrooper to shoot straight. Then we’re forced to deal with Krennic, who is taking time out of his busy schedule to “speak truth” to a galactic senator at a party full of rich people who have never felt the full extent of the Empire’s wrath. He’s got a lot of gems in this one, including “Criminals love to lie” and also “Words do still have meaning,” and damn if it isn’t every argument you’ve had with your least favorite uncle during some sad family holiday. But the use of the word “criminal” throughout these episodes is also quite telling. You begin to realize how often the word is thrown around to encompass anyone who doesn’t kowtow to authority. A word made to delegitimize, as we do with so many pointed words: Thug. Illegal. Riot. And Krennic is having a ball tweaking Mon with all this because none of it emotionally affects him in the slightest—but it affects her. And that’s always part of the game: The person who cares quivering and shaking with fury as they defend things they hold sacred, while someone who has never once considered other people laughs at how much it hurts them. Funny how that works. Bits and Asides Image: Lucasfilm Lowkey horrified at the idea that “Senate Investiture” week is talked about like a holiday on Coruscant? I’m sure none of the festivities touch anyone on the world who isn’t filthy rich, but yeesh. Ghor sounds a great deal like French, which is obviously an intentional parallel to draw, along with the propaganda zeroing in on “arrogance” and “snootiness” as cultural attributes. I’m curious about who built conlang and how—hopefully there will be more information on that coming out in behind-the-scenes footage? A rhydonium explosion is the reason why Gregor, one of the most colorful clone troopers, wound up with brain damage and changes to his vocal cords.  Uh, why is Benjamin Bratt paying Bail Organa now? What happened to Jimmy Smits? Sorry, that was a weird thing to just shove in there, y’all, is the recast permanent going forward? Kleya, get some ointment for your hand, did you leave blood all over Davo’s floor? Next week, and likely one year later… see you then.[end-mark] The post <i>Andor</i> Questions Every Loyalty in Three New Episodes appeared first on Reactor.

News Road House 2 Guy Ritchie Is Set to Direct Jake Gyllenhaal in Road House 2 No news yet if any books will be harmed in the sequel. By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on April 30, 2025 Credit: Amazon MGM Studios Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: Amazon MGM Studios The success of the 2024 Road House film starring Jake Gyllenhaal has spawned a sequel, and this movie will see Guy Ritchie in the director’s chair. The 2024 movie was a remake of the 1989 film starring Patrick Swayze. Gyllenhaal has taken on playing Swayze’s character, Dalton, a bouncer at the titular Road House who brings carnage when, in the 2024 version, he seeks revenge against an evil real estate developer who, with help from his henchmen, burns down his favorite used bookstore. (The ending also involves someone getting murdered by a taxidermized polar bear. Did I mention this film takes place in Florida?) We don’t have details yet on the plot for the sequel, though according to The Hollywood Reporter, Ritchie has taken over the helm from the first movie’s director, Doug Liman, after Liman got into a public argument with Amazon MGM Studios about his film not getting a theatrical release. Gyllenhaal and Ritchie have worked together previously, most recently on the war drama, Guy Ritchie’s The Covenant. No news on when the sequel will go into production, but if you want to see something new from Ritchie before then, you have the persuasively silly Fountain of Youth on Apple TV+ to look forward to.[end-mark] The post Guy Ritchie Is Set to Direct Jake Gyllenhaal in <i>Road House 2</i> appeared first on Reactor.

News The Rocky Horror Picture Show The Rocky Horror Picture Show: Check Out the Sweet Remaster! In 4K, in Theaters! Ha ha! By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on April 30, 2025 Screenshot: 20th Century Fox Comment 0 Share New Share Screenshot: 20th Century Fox Wanna feel old? The Rocky Horror Picture Show came out in theaters fifty (fifty!) years ago. How’s that for a Time Warp?! (I’ll see myself out.) To celebrate the occasion, Walt Disney Restoration is releasing a 4K Ultra remaster that will not only play in theaters later this year, but also be released on Blu-ray for you to enjoy from the comfort of your couch. “It’s a privilege to help preserve the legacy of a film that has meant so much to so many,” Restoration & Library Management director Kevin Schaeffer said in a statement to Variety. “Bringing The Rocky Horror Picture Show to life in 4K allows us to honor its bold, genre-defying spirit and ensure that audiences—both longtime fans and first-time viewers—can experience it as it was originally intended, with stunning picture and sound.” The original motion picture, which has since brought much joy through innumerable Midnight viewings, first came out in 1975 and was based on the musical play by Richard O’Brien. The film stars Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, and Susan Sarandon and Barry Bostwick as Janet and Brad, the young couple who end up in front of Dr. Frank-N-Nutter’s castle door when their car breaks down. Songs ensue…among other things. The film was produced by Lou Adler and Michael White, with a screenplay by O’Brien director Jim Sharman. Alder was involved in the current remastering. “When The Rocky Horror Picture Show was first released, no one thought it would be around very long, let alone… fifty years,” he told Variety. “What began as a small, rebellious project has become a global celebration of individuality, community, and creative freedom. This anniversary is a tribute to the fans who kept it alive and kicking all these years.” We don’t know the exact dates on when the remastered version will hit theaters and Blu-ray, other than it will happen sometime later this year. [end-mark] The post <i>The Rocky Horror Picture Show</i>: Check Out the Sweet Remaster! In 4K, in Theaters! appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From When Devils Sing by Xan Kaur Four unlikely allies in a small town investigate a local teen’s disappearance… By Xan Kaur | Published on April 30, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from When Devils Sing, a young adult horror novel by Xan Kaur, out from Henry Holt and Co. on May 27th. When Dawson Sumter goes missing, all he leaves behind is a smattering of blood in room 4 of the debt-ridden motel owned by Neera Singh’s family. Disappearances like this aren’t uncommon in the rural Georgia town of Carrion, especially every thirteen years when a periodical cicada brood returns from underground, shrieking their deafening screams.For Neera, Dawson is another reminder that in this corner of the South, the rich only get richer, and the poor—well, nothing good comes their way.Neera sets out to investigate Dawson’s whereabouts—if he even still lives—along with three other teens: Isaiah, son of a prominent judge and clandestine true crime podcaster; Reid, son of the wealthiest man in the region; and Sam, estranged daughter of the local hitman. As they find themselves entangled in a messy web of secrets and lies, they discover the riches of the adjacent Lake Clearwater community may have a terrifying source of power dating back to the town’s founding and an ancient urban legend about three devils, each more sinister than the next. How deep does the rot go, and can they find a way to escape its reach? It was only in the late hours of night when Neera Singh found time to play her guitar. The best time to practice was always, but the second-best time was when she was meant to be scrubbing blood off the walls in her grandparents’ motel. Neera sat on the cool tile floor in Room 11’s bathroom. The small space reeked of bleach and lemon, but she didn’t have the lux- ury of being picky. The acoustics of the room were just too damn good. She hit record on her phone and set a timer, giving herself thirty minutes before she had to continue cleaning. That’s all she had most days—those precious thirty minutes. The last of the Colonial Inn’s housekeepers were gone. All that remained was Neera and her mom, Kiran, to keep the place clean while her grandparents ran the front desk in shifts. Before long, the timer on Neera’s phone rang, signaling an end to her session. She played back the recording as she donned rubber gloves and dipped a sponge into a bucket of cleaning solution. Neera kept her mind on the music, listening intently, as she got to work on the blood-spattered bathtub. Red streaks covered the yellow-white tile, seeping into the cracks. It wasn’t often that there were bloodstains left over when guests checked out, but it was common enough that Neera knew better than to ask questions. She learned young that the motel, while a home for her, was merely a pit stop for others. Gone were the days when the Colonial housed bright-eyed snowbirds on the way to Florida. If the rooms were booked at all, occupants were often running from something, even if it was just themselves. Nothing surprised her anymore, but Room 11’s last occupant had given her pause. The man—well, boy, really—had checked into the Colonial in a frenzy, stumbling through the lobby’s door. He had looked about Neera’s age, with a shock of white-blond, tousled hair and blue eyes that had seen better days. As he lingered at the front desk, she noticed the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and the skin around them swollen pink and puffy. It had taken Neera a moment to recognize him. She knew Dawson Sumter from her second job, bussing tables up in Lake Clearwater on the weekends. Except the boy that had stood before her was a ghost of himself. While he usually ran with the Clearwater crowd, rich kids dripping of privilege and bravado, Neera could tell he was from Carrion. It was how he always took extra care with his pos- ture, the tidiness of his clothes, the clean parting of his hair. He had the peculiar look of a marionette doll moving through the world as someone else pulled the strings. Neera had asked, as she passed him Room 11’s key, “You okay?” “Yeah.” Dawson kept his eyes trained downward as he grabbed the key, and Neera swore there was dried blood on his pale hands. But he had merely said, “Relationship problems.” It was a lie, and they both knew it. Buy the Book When Devils Sing Xan Kaur Buy Book When Devils Sing Xan Kaur Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget It’d been a week now since Neera had last seen him, but his room was paid for through the day. She continued to scrub the walls, wondering just what Dawson had been running from. Neera didn’t know when exactly her grandparents’ motel became the last place people wanted to find themselves. Some- where between the last recession and the impending one. But all that mattered to Neera was getting the hell out of Carrion, for good. If she and her family could do that, they’d be all right. Without stopping her scrubbing, Neera glanced at her Yamaha guitar. Her ticket out—for all of them. Neera’s phone buzzed twice, yanking her from her thoughts. A text from her mom. Jason said yes. Tomorrow at 3 Jason managed the Tavern Bar & Restaurant in Lake Clearwater, where her mom tended bar and she bussed tables. He was also in charge of selecting musicians for the upcoming Cicada’s Song, an open-mic competition that happened during the Cicada Festival— though it wasn’t really an open mic. The contest was a special event, only held every thirteen years during the festival, and the Clearwater folks were highly selective of who they allowed onstage. There was a chance the winner of the Cicada’s Song could walk away with a record deal at Blue Mountain Records, run by Grant Langley himself—Lake Clearwater summer resident and king- maker of the Nashville music scene. Neera frowned at Kiran’s text. She hadn’t really expected her mom to pull through. Getting an audition was as likely as winning the lottery, especially for someone like her. But it didn’t help that Neera’s usual confidence vanished when performing in front of an audience. Her throat would get tight, her voice would warble and falter. She’d shrink away from the lights and the crowd until people started pulling out their phones, leaning across tables to chat with their friends. Neera wrote back: Any chance I could audition Tuesday instead? The reply came a moment later: No. This is it. Do you want it or not? Neera’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard for a second. Yes. Thank you. Neera leaned back on her heels and sighed. She sat there for a second, staring into space, then hit play on the song recording for the third time. It still wasn’t good enough. She gave the bathtub one last swipe with her sponge and tossed her supplies back in the bucket, grimacing at the dirtied water. On her way out of Room 11, she returned the rags and bucket to the cleaning cart, then scanned the room a final time to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Something glinted beneath the chair in the far corner, catching her eye. Neera crossed the room, digging beneath the dusty uphol- stery. Her fingers found something cool to the touch—a key ring with one key and a worn leather key chain embossed with a deer antler logo. Neera wouldn’t have given the design a second thought if it weren’t so strange looking. Around Georgia, deer antler iconogra- phy was as common as the cross, but this was different. This buck’s eyes were covered with a blindfold, while the antlers spread across the leather like sprawling, twisted tree branches. A unique design choice if she’d ever seen one. She slipped the key chain into her pocket, intending to return it to Dawson next time she saw him at the lake. With a final look, Neera stepped out into the night and shut Room 11’s door behind her. The distant smell of burning leaves hung in the warm night air, turning her throat scratchy. She checked her phone. It was after midnight, and there was still another room to clean. Yawning, she descended the short flight of stairs to the ground floor and made her way toward the laundry room. Passing by the glass windows of the motel lobby, Neera paused. Inside, Nanaji sat at the front desk, his enormous glasses sliding down his nose as he read the Punjab Times newspaper. An Amer- ican news channel droned from the old television in the corner. Harsh, fluorescent light shone down on him, casting his brown skin in a dull shade of gray. Looking in on her grandfather, Neera had one of those rare moments of sadness for him. There he was, a man far from his homeland, reading about Punjab in the run-down motel he had sold everything to own. As though he could feel her pity through the smudged glass, Nanaji looked up. His face immediately pinched into a frown at the sight of her, his heavy eyes sliding to the Yamaha resting across her back. Her tenderness for him evaporated at once. Neera couldn’t be heard practicing without upsetting her grand- parents, but being seen with the guitar was somehow worse. The instrument was a physical reminder of her uncle, Ajay—a memory best kept buried for them all. Nanaji waved her into the lobby like he would call for a dog. Reluctantly, Neera rested her guitar at the lobby’s door then walked inside. “All right, Neera?” Nanaji said by way of greeting, his voice low and accented. “Yeah.” Neera hung in the doorway, letting moths fly in. “I just have Room 6 to clean, then I’ll be done.” Nanaji nodded absently. “How are your studies?” It was a question he asked so often that it was almost funny. Neera’s lips thinned as she said, “I don’t start college until the fall, Nanaji. I don’t have anything to study right now.” He looked up from his newspaper. “Oh? There is always some- thing to learn.” Neera wanted to say that she was learning a new fingerpicking technique on guitar. That her recent cover of a Reverend Gary Davis song was pretty damn good. Her songs on SoundCloud were picking up in streams. But those were all useless things to him. Nanaji measured success by dollar signs and commas, despite his own struggling business. Fine. He was a simple man of a different time, a different place. She just wished he wasn’t such a dick about it. And then there was the other issue—Neera didn’t intend to go to college at all. She hadn’t told anyone that yet, though, not even her mom. Neera opened her mouth to remind him that for all his talk of education and success, his granddaughter spent her summer nights cleaning blood off the motel’s walls. But her grandfather’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, his graying eyebrows fur- rowing, and rose from the desk to take the call in the back office. The door shut behind him with a dull thud. Neera stood awkwardly in the motel lobby. This time of night, it had to be a relative from India or England calling. Nanaji could be on the phone for an hour or more. The right thing to do would be to watch the desk until he got back. Neera didn’t often do the right thing. She turned on her heel and walked out into the balmy Geor- gia night. Lightning bugs blinked in and out of sight along the tree line surrounding the motel. A symphony of katydids and tree frogs reverberated around her. The parking lot light flickered occa- sionally, casting the concrete in stilted shades of dark. A television blared from one of the rooms. Guitar slung over her back once more, Neera made her way to Room 6. It faced the back of the motel, overlooking a weathered swimming pool and the broken fence that surrounded it. Beyond the pool were longleaf pines, towering and swaying with the night breeze. When the wind hit the trees in just the right way, Neera swore she could hear a song. Summers in Carrion were wondrous like that if nothing else. By the time Neera finished cleaning Room 6, it was two in the morning. As she trudged toward her room, the sound of shouting made her slow, then pause. There was her grandfather’s voice, taut and angry—and he was shouting in English. It wasn’t uncommon for Nanaji to get into vicious phone arguments with his brother, but it was always in Punjabi, his preferred language for anger. Neera took a few cautious steps forward and peered through the smudged glass of the lobby window. A burly man stood across from her grandfather at the front desk, hands resting casually in his worn, stained blue jeans. His face was turned away from Neera, but she recognized him by his shaved head, the dozens of raised scars that ran down his forearms, and the dented toolbox that sat on the counter. Wiley was the motel’s handyman, but he was rarely helpful. Each time he showed, her grandparents were visibly on edge. “I will pay it back soon,” Nanaji insisted. His voice carried through the lobby’s propped-open door. “I need you to be more specific.” Wiley stepped forward, resting his hands on the counter. His skin was pale and muted, but his scar tissue shimmered beneath the harsh fluorescent lobby lights. “As I’m sure you know, my boss ain’t a forgiving man.” “Soon,” Nanaji huffed, his expression indignant. “A few months. I will have it all by then.” “Months?” Wiley snorted. “Way I see it, you got a week. Until the Fourth of July.” He stepped away from the desk, taking in the dingy lobby. His beady eyes darted quickly, then met Neera’s through the window. “Otherwise, you and your family may end up just like that son of yours.” The threat was a simple thing. Quiet, and unassuming. It hung in the air for only a breath, swallowed up by the buzzing of the tiny front desk fan and the drone of the newscaster on the old TV. Nanaji blinked, then slammed his hands down on the desk, rat- tling the tools in the toolbox. “Get out!” “July Fourth, Mr. Singh,” Wiley said casually. He grabbed his toolbox with ease, giving Neera a quick, impersonal nod as he stepped out the lobby door and disappeared into the night. His Chevy pickup peeled out of the parking lot and onto the dark, two- lane highway the Colonial sat on. Neera lingered in the doorway once again, fear twisting in her gut, while Nanaji slumped in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Shame crept across his face. Neera didn’t know what to do. Ever since Ajay died, her grand- father had a weak heart, at a high risk for heart attacks. Fighting with the handyman in the middle of the night was the last thing he needed. But her grandfather was stubborn to a fault—the type of man who would refuse water in a drought if it was given and not earned. “Are you . . . okay?” Neera asked finally. She resented the question, wanting, instead, for Nanaji to ask that of her. To comfort her—to offer her the illusion of safety, if only for a moment. Nanaji wouldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze trained on the front desk, absently shuffling pages of the open newspaper. “I am fine,” he said flatly. But even from the doorway, Neera could see his trembling hands. Seconds gave way to minutes, but Nanaji refused to say anything more. He was content to leave Neera with unanswered questions and Wiley’s threat echoing in her head. With one last look at her grandfather’s slumped form, Neera slipped away from the lobby and continued to her room. Neera shared Room 4 with her mom. She unlocked the door to the sight of two twin-size beds, a tattered dresser missing one of the drawers, and a TV that was older than she was. All the belongings to their name sat in trash bags along the wall. A handful of boxes stacked in the corner. It was the most stable home Neera had ever had in her life. The Singh women had a knack for leaving, which meant they also had a knack for returning. Whenever Kiran broke up with a new boyfriend or was in between jobs, they’d always return to Room 4 at the Colonial until her mom was on her feet again. They’d been back at the motel for about a month now. With Neera recently graduated from high school, and her mom’s newest ex out of the picture, they no longer had any ties elsewhere. The pair could stay for as long as it took to move forward again. Or so they thought. The night’s events proved that the motel’s stability was clearly barreling toward an end. It was no secret the Colonial was in the red, but Nanaji owing money to a mysterious person was a surprise. He was meant to owe money to the bank, just a few small business loans to keep them afloat until business picked up for the Cicada Festival. But to be threatened in the dead of night—owing money to someone’s boss—none of it seemed normal, much less legal. What exactly had Nanaji done to keep the motel afloat? Was it worth their safety—their lives? But where else is there for us to go? The thought sent an uneasy tremor through Neera’s gut. She collapsed onto her bed fully clothed and shut her stinging eyes. She had no answers. No solu- tions for her family’s mounting problems as they grew suffocating like the humid, summer air. * * * “Neera,” a voice said. “Wake up.” Neera’s eyes opened. Her mom was standing over her, still in her bartending uniform from her shift at the Tavern. Kiran’s face was exhausted and stricken. “What’s going on?” Neera struggled to sit up. She’d fallen asleep in her grimy housekeeping clothes again, shoes and all. “We gotta go.” Kiran pulled Neera from the bed. “There’s a fire.” Her mom’s words cleared away the last haze of sleep, then Neera smelled smoke. She stumbled out of bed and followed Kiran out the door. The sharp tang of smoke and gasoline hung heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance, the roaring siren of a fire truck. 2A bolt of fear hit her, and Neera stopped walking at once. “My guitar!” She spun on her heel. Kiran grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “The motel’s fine. Come on.” She dragged Neera to the front of the Colonial. In the motel’s parking lot, a car was on fire. The flames rose high in the sky, billowing black clouds of smoke into the air. The few guests staying at the Colonial stood outside their rooms, bleary-eyed and curious. A couple of them recorded the inferno with their phones. Neera’s eyes darted around the scene, searching, until she spotted her grandparents standing in the lobby. They stared at the flames with open mouths. Kiran dragged Neera across the lot and into the lobby, where she finally let go of her arm. “The fire department is on the way.” Nanaji responded in Punjabi, and the adults continued the conversation that way. Neera was never taught Punjabi, save for a few words like hello, yes, and no. Useless in a moment like this. But Nanaji wouldn’t look Neera in the eyes. He kept his gaze trained away from her, as if she wasn’t there at all. Neera moved to stand next to her grandmother, wrapping her arms around her small frame. Nani patted Neera’s face, smiling sadly. Tears fell from her eyes. Neera didn’t understand why her grandmother was crying. In the Singh household, the only emotion that ever got out was anger and the repression of it. Sadness was reserved for the places behind closed doors. But then she looked again at the flaming car. It wasn’t just any car on fire, it was her grandfather’s car. His ’87 Cadillac Fleetwood. Camel colored, with tanned leather interior. The car itself wasn’t worth much, but it was one of the few things her grandfather treasured. His gift to himself when he immigrated to America. Neera’s vision blurred as she stared into the flames. The car’s engine exploded, lashing orange flames into the air. Glass shattered across the lot as the windshield gave out. Onlookers screamed and moved away, back to the safety of their rooms. Neera could only stare as the Cadillac burned into a blackened heap of metal. Excerpted from When Devils Sing, copyright © 2025 by Xan Kaur. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>When Devils Sing</i> by Xan Kaur appeared first on Reactor.

Books Reading the Weird Googling Up the Wrong Tree: Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest (Part 1) By Ruthanna Emrys, Anne M. Pillsworth | Published on April 30, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share Welcome back to Reading the Weird, in which we get girl cooties all over weird fiction, cosmic horror, and Lovecraftiana—from its historical roots through its most recent branches. This week, we’re reading Chapters 1-7 of Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest. The English version, translated by Mary Robinette Kowal, was first published in 2024; the original was published in 2021. Spoilers ahead! Reykjavik resident Iðunn has replaced the “old, gray-haired prick” of a doctor assigned by her health center with a woman ten years younger than herself. Asdis is still a resident, but very thorough—unlike the prick, she won’t let some horrific rare ailment slip by her. Iðunn has been combing the internet for information on every disease that could be causing her extreme and lingering exhaustion. She wakes up every morning feeling as if she was on a rampage the night before. Every part of her is tired, sore. Even her jaw. Asdis asks the usual questions. Has the tiredness been going on a while? (Yes.) Has Iðunn recently had a cold or flu? (No.) Has she been under stress lately? (Well, Stefan hissed that she was a bitch before slamming the door in her face. But blaming him for her malaise would give him too much credit.) What are Iðunn’s concerns? (That she has myasthenia gravis, or ALS.) Or maybe leukemia—look at this bruise that showed up overnight. Asdis looks. She doubts Iðunn has leukemia or any other serious condition, but she’ll add a white blood cell count to Iðunn’s lab order. Asdis is going to be a wonderful doctor. Absurdly, Iðunn feels a mother’s pride. The blood tests come out normal. The news brings tears to Iðunn’s eyes, and she retreats to her workplace restroom. It isn’t that she wants a horrible disease. But there’s nothing worse with having unexplained symptoms that can’t be pinned down, so that doctors think the problem’s all in your head. Iðunn tells her reflection that she should be happy, and is surprised by the reflection’s malicious grin. Over drinks, Iðunn’s friends recommend exercise, yoga, getting off her vegetarian diet, walking more. One notices a bruise on Iðunn’s chest; another asks if Stefan made it. No, Iðunn answers with a laugh. As happy hour draws to a close, Iðunn notices a well-dressed man staring at her “like he’s seen a ghost.” Before she can figure out whether to smile or ignore him, he joins a group of similarly well-dressed men. Iðunn buys an expensive watch with “the most accurate pedometer on the market,” plus GPS. She asks if the watch would be easy for someone to hack. The clerk assures her that she can set up the watch however she sees fit. When she gets home, Iðunn turns off all the watch’s features except the pedometer and sets it on her bedside table. Iðunn wakes up not only tired, but with joints that feel as stiff as if stuffed with sand. It isn’t pain she feels but something in between pain and non-pain. Sometimes she takes painkillers, but they don’t work. It seems unfair that she’s not one of the lucky people who experience the placebo effect, just as it’s unfair that she loves cats but is allergic to them. Drinking coffee doesn’t work. Giving up caffeine doesn’t work. Her daily walk to work and back is 9568 steps. A coworker tells her she could use her phone as a pedometer, but the phone count comes in about a hundred steps less than the watch count. To justify what she spent on it, Iðunn decides to use the watch pedometer. Another morning, and she wakes up with the taste of blood in her mouth. The mirror reveals a red spot on her chin, but she can’t find any sores on lips, tongue or gums. Her jaw aches like she chomped on something all night, the pain stretching from her jaw to her cheekbones to the back of her skull “like a giant claw.” A week passes, during which she walks 10,000 steps a day. According to the walk-recommending friend, she should be bursting with energy. Instead she’s more tired than ever. She books another appointment with Asdis. The Degenerate Dutch: Iðunn’s first doctor, she suspects, attributes women’s unexplained symptoms to the old catchall of hysteria. She’s well aware of the dearth of research on the female body. Madness Takes Its Toll: If you can’t diagnose the problem, it must be all in your head. Ruthanna’s Commentary Chronic fatigue is more than sufficient horror, isn’t it? One hardly needs to add in unsympathetic doctors, let alone mysterious bloodstains. For the first seven chapters, The Night Guest might easily be mimetic fiction. At the same time, as anyone who deals with it can tell you, undiagnosed chronic illness already sits outside the bounds of reality that many people prefer to acknowledge. Surely modern medicine has all the answers—or if not, there’s a secret solution that doctors don’t want you to know. Little known fact: the Necronomicon is actually a yoga manual. Iðunn spends a lot of time navigating those blurry boundaries of what to believe. She’s in the awkward position of having both legitimate and illegitimate paranoias. There really are many doctors who would rather dismiss a hard-to-solve complaint than admit they don’t know everything, who are arrogant and sexist. And it really is easy to come to the most terrifying conclusions about what symptoms might mean, even without random websearches. But her narration is also full of “someone told me” and “I read somewhere” and a lack of either resources or critical thinking skills to follow up. How would she tell the difference between claims that medical research is biased toward the male body (true and well-documented), and claims that electronic ID numbers are “just a plot to force all Icelanders into a monopoly with a cousin of” some higher-up in… well, she can’t remember which party, but it sounds plausible, right? Her phone suffers from spyware, like everyone’s, but she has no sense of how to set and maintain risk levels. The pharmacist recommends spirulina, so she buys it, but the internet says it’s full of heavy metals, so she throws it out. And her friends are no help—I’m reminded of the Ladies Who Lunch from Company, all shallow relationships and shallow advice, at least in the protagonist’s not-always-reliable head. Exercise, yoga, essential oils. Cut caffeine, add meat. Any off-script statement gets an embarrassed look and dismissal (at least in the protagonist’s not-always-reliable head). What’s actually going on, under this tumultuous and exhausting surface? Anne recommended this one; I’m coming to it fresh and sans spoilers. A “night guest” could be a literal supernatural intruder, or some possessing entity, or a secret aspect of Narrator’s own body. I’m leaning toward the latter. Visiting vampires leave stains on your neck or chest, not your chin. And incubi can tire you out for sure, but leave stains… elsewhere. (We haven’t reviewed the relevant Kyle Murchison Booth story, but that’s what I’m thinking of here.) But her jaws ache, and she tells her friends so firmly that humans don’t have canines—wouldn’t spending fugue states on the hunt be ironic for a vegetarian? Shapeshifting must strain your bones and muscles. Especially your jaw muscles. Chomping on what, exactly, all night? If she forgets to take that watch off some evening, I’m betting it’ll show some interesting numbers in the morning. Anne’s Commentary Knútsdóttir lured me irresistibly to her novel with its title. In the lore and fiction of the weird, creatures who visit by night are seldom without questionable motives—otherwise, they’d come around by the light of day, when their hosts weren’t visually compromised or, worse, defenseless in sleep. Wondering whether there were any particular “night guests” in Icelandic legend, I emulated her protagonist Iðunn and “googled” the question. The overall top results concerned “the Yule Lads,” thirteen spirits who visit human homes during the thirteen nights before Christmas. Each has his favorite way of causing trouble, for which he’s named. There’s Sheepcote Clod, who sucks the milk from sheep, and Gully Gawk, who goes after cow’s milk when he’s not lurking in ravines. Then there are such self-explanatory imps as Pot Scraper, Door Slammer, Window Peeper, Sausage Swiper, and Skyr (yogurt) Gobbler. Over time, the Lads have taken to just leaving little presents in good children’s shoes, or coal or rotten potatoes in the bad kids’ Keds. I hunted in vain for a Yule Lad who siphons the energy out of sleeping damsels, or who inflicts on them bruising blows and morning soreness. The Lads’ mom, the troll or ogress Gryla, is a much scarier night visitor who roams around stuffing naughty kids in a giant sack, to be processed back at her cave into naughty-kid stew. But at a decade or so older than her new doctor, Iðunn doesn’t qualify as Gryla-fodder, nor is ex Stefan’s parting evaluation of her as a “bitch” proof she’s naughty. Other night visitors or guests in Icelandic folklore are the usual suspects: the Huldufolk or Hidden People (fairies, elves), nature spirits, ghosts, zombies, poltergeists. Iðunn’s “night guest” doesn’t need to be any of these. It could be sleep apnea, for all we or Dr. Asdis know. Or Iðunn could be sleep-walking herself to exhaustion. As for her other prominent symptom, the sore jaw, that could be caused by nocturnal teeth grinding, or a sleep-related eating disorder (SRED.) Because, yes, you can binge while asleep and wake up not remembering how that well-gnawed chicken skeleton got into bed with you, along with the rotisserie clamshell, let’s hope, and not a mess of bloody feathers… The first seven chapters of Night Guest give scant background information about Iðunn, which is to be expected given Knútsdóttir’s decision to drop us readers into the protagonist’s head very much in media res; her use of the present tense emphasizes this immediacy of connection. Suffice it for us to know what Iðunn’s problem is.  She’s seeking a second opinion on her chronic exhaustion because the first doctor (male, old) dismissed her to “take it easy” like a good hysterical woman/hypochondriac subtype. Excuse her, but Iðunn is a perfectly sane product of the Age of Information-slash-Anxiety. Who can help being concerned—even, okay, anxious—about one’s symptoms when the internet dishes up so many possible diagnoses for each one? And so many dire prognoses. Iðunn has also learned enough to worry about whether her new watch can be hacked, but not enough to realize she can use her phone just as readily. She’s accumulated enough odd bits of justification for vegetarianism to confound her friends with sudden pronouncements like the fact that humans don’t have true canines. Because, you know, carnivores all have canines. As someone who’s also given to blurting out fascinating tidbits over which her audience falls silent, I identify here with Iðunn. I prefer, however, to think it’s the others in the group who are the aliens, not me. To firmly believe that, for example, everyone should want to know about varanid phylogeny with reference to Zumba, that’s the way to avoid social anxieties like Iðunn’s. Maybe she should come to happy hour with me. Next week, we belatedly wrap up our National Poetry Month celebration with three odes to haunted ecosystems: Sonya Taaffe’s “Amitruq Nekya” Lora Gray’s “How To Haunt a Northern Lake” Portia Yu’s “Little Haunted House” [end-mark] The post Googling Up the Wrong Tree: Hildur Knútsdóttir’s <i>The Night Guest</i> (Part 1) appeared first on Reactor.