Books cover reveals Revealing Your Beloved Remains by Quinn Connor A creative collaboration spirals into a twisted obsession… By Reactor | Published on January 22, 2026 Photo credit: Frank William Walsh Comment 0 Share New Share Photo credit: Frank William Walsh As fascination turns to obsession, two women drag each other into an academic horror of forgery, murder, and rage… We’re thrilled to share the cover of Your Beloved Remains by Quinn Connor—available October 6, 2026 from Pine & Cedar Books. Archivist Celia Kiel has spent her life on the remote campus of Basin College in the Southern Ozarks. Once a jewel of women’s higher education in the South, the school now molders on its mountaintop, its endowment thinly supported by the bequeathed estate of 19th century writer, Beatrice Donahue. Celia guards the legacy of this venerated, yet scandalous author, who has been the object of her illicit desire since childhood.When the administration announces the college’s imminent closure, Celia discovers a manuscript pickled in formaldehyde, and with it, a chance to save the only home she’s ever known. She will forge Beatrice’s infamous lost work, a spellbinding horror written toward her life’s tumultuous end. To do it, she is forced to recruit her professional rival, literature postdoc Joan Harriot, who has both an astounding talent for mimicry and a dark secret of her own. As their world closes in and the ghosts of the Victorian past encroach, their creative collaboration spirals into an obsession more twisted than even their beloved Beatrice could have penned. Stock photos by Jessica Truscott from Trevillion Images stock agency; Cover design by Claire Sullivan Buy the Book Your Beloved Remains Quinn Connor Buy Book Your Beloved Remains Quinn Connor Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Quinn Connor is one pen in two hands: Robyn Barrow and Alex Cronin. Both writers from a young age, Robyn and Alex met at Rhodes College in Memphis and together developed their unique co-writing voice. They are also the authors of Cicadas Sing of Summer Graves and The Pecan Children. The post Revealing <i>Your Beloved Remains</i> by Quinn Connor appeared first on Reactor.

Books Horror Five Horror Books Set in Inescapable Towns Like it or not, you’re not going anywhere… By Lorna Wallace | Published on January 22, 2026 Kurouzucho village, depicted in Junji Ito’s Uzumaki Comment 0 Share New Share Kurouzucho village, depicted in Junji Ito’s Uzumaki Inescapable settings in horror books are often on the smaller scale. For instance, a family are trapped in their bathroom in We Need to Do Something (2020), four friends are trapped on a hilltop in The Ruins (2006), and a group of Boy Scouts are trapped on a small island in The Troop (2014). But some authors have chosen to widen the scope a bit, trapping their characters within the confines of a seemingly normal town. Here are five books that come up with creative ways to make whole towns eerily inescapable, running the gamut from a witch’s curse to the threat of toxic air. Uzumaki by Junji Ito (1998-1999) I don’t read all that much manga, but when I heard the premise of Uzumaki I knew I had to give it a go, and I’m so glad I did. Kurôzu-cho is a normal little town in Japan… that is, until an obsession with spirals slowly starts infecting the residents. Teenagers Kirie Goshima and Shuichi Saito are among the first to take note of the spiral plague, witnessing how plants, buildings, and even people are bending (literally!) to conform to the mesmerizing shape. When it becomes clear that the town is doomed, the few uninfected people remaining try to do what any sensible person would do: leave. But the supernatural spirals have ensured that that isn’t an option. I would have eaten up a story about malevolent spirals in any format, but Junji Ito’s art really brings the weirdness to life in a horrifying—yet captivating—way. It’s been a few years since I read Uzumaki, but some of the images are still burned into my brain. Dark Harvest by Norman Partridge (2006) Dark Harvest is set in 1963 in a small unnamed Midwestern town that is surrounded by miles of cornfields. For most of the year, this town seems just like any other. But each Halloween, instead of the streets being full of trick-or-treaters, all teenage boys between the ages of sixteen and nineteen are forced to participate in an odd ritual known as the Run. Their goal is to kill Sawtooth Jack—a pumpkin-headed scarecrow monster that comes to life every October 31st. The boy who manages to spill the creature’s candy innards is handsomely rewarded with cash and, best of all, a ticket out of town. That might not sound like much of a motivational prize, but for anyone with dreams of life beyond the cornfields, it’s the only way to leave. The reasons for this lockdown are a little hazy, but I won’t speculate here so as not to spoil anything. Although Dark Harvest left with me with a few questions regarding the lore of Sawtooth and the town’s rules, I enjoyed the ride nonetheless. If you can suspend your disbelief just a little more than usual, you’ll be treated to a chilling and fantastical Halloween tale. Wool by Hugh Howey (2012) Long before the plot of Wool kicks off, an unknown apocalyptic event occurred which resulted in the Earth’s atmosphere becoming toxic to humans. Before the planet’s surface became totally uninhabitable, a few thousand people managed to seek shelter in a vast purpose-built underground silo. Generations have passed since then, with the current residents of the unusual subterranean town having virtually no knowledge of life beyond the 144 levels of the silo. In the rare instance when someone expresses a desire to go outside, they aren’t actually forced to stay below. No, instead the door is opened for them and everyone watches—there are cameras to monitor conditions on the surface—as they succumb to the deadly air. Aside from being a fascinating setting, Wool is driven by a sense of mystery, with a few characters endeavoring to uncover the secrets of the silo. As a result, there are twists aplenty peppered throughout this gripping post-apocalyptic story. Pines by Blake Crouch (2012) Pines might seem like a regular mystery thriller for the bulk of the story, but there’s a sci-fi element lurking there, waiting to be revealed. Our main character is Secret Service agent Ethan Burke, but he doesn’t know that on page one when he wakes up in the small town of Wayward Pines, Idaho, with basically no memory of his life. Ethan soon recovers and remembers that he’s come to town in search of two missing colleagues, but he can’t shake the feeling that something is off with Wayward Pines, despite its seeming idyllic outward appearance. This feeling turns out to be justified when he tries to leave, only to find that the entire town is encircled by a tall electric fence. But Ethan isn’t easily daunted, and he quickly puts his detective skills to use. Pines isn’t the kind of book you savor; it’s the kind of book you devour. I found myself flipping the pages at lightning speed to uncover the secrets at the heart of Wayward Pines. HEX by Thomas Olde Heuvelt (2013) Back in 1664, the residents of Black Spring—a little town in the Hudson Valley—murdered Katherine van Wyler for being a witch. But their act of violence backfired. For more than 300 years, Katherine’s desiccated corpse has wandered the town silently and sightlessly (her mouth and eyes were sewn shut to stop her from casting further spells). Anyone who tries to leave is cursed with a brutal onslaught of suicidal feelings driving them to return, and as a result the residents are essentially chained to Black Spring. Modern technology has made dealing with the Black Rock Witch a lot easier. The townspeople can now track her movements on their phones, making it easier to not only avoid her, but also to hide her existence from visiting outsiders. But modern technology might also be the town’s downfall, thanks to a group of teens deciding to break the chains of their restricted lives by revealing the witch to the world over the internet. HEX is a book of contrasts, with old and new being blended to creepy effect. The idea of a seventeenth-century witch existing alongside phones and apps might not sound like it would work, but in Thomas Olde Heuvelt’s hands it absolutely does. There are, of course, other examples of inescapable towns in horror stories. Stephen King’s Under the Dome (2009) is surely a glaring absence on this list, but I’ve not gotten around to reading it yet. Please feel free to mention any other books I’ve missed in the comments below![end-mark] The post Five Horror Books Set in Inescapable Towns appeared first on Reactor.

News Murder She Wrote Jamie Lee Curtis to Star in Murder, She Wrote Movie Pitch Perfect filmmaker Jason Moore is set to direct By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on January 21, 2026 Screenshot: CBS Comment 0 Share New Share Screenshot: CBS Knock knock, Jessica Fletcher is calling. Today, we’ve got news that Murder She Wrote, the long-running television series from the ‘80s and ‘90s, is coming back as a feature film. We also got even better news that none other than Jamie Lee Curtis will be starring as Jessica Fletcher, the author originally played by Angela Lansbury who solves the disturbing number of murders that occur in her small town. According to Deadline, Jason Moore, whose previous credits include Pitch Perfect and Shotgun Wedding, is on board to direct. The project appears to be moving steadily ahead—there’s already a script from Lauren Schuker Blum and Rebecca Angelo, and Lord Miller (the production company of Phil Lord and Chris Miller) is producing through their deal with Universal Pictures. There’s no news yet on what the story will entail. Here are some plot points, however, that seem likely: Jessica (Curtis) will be living in the quaint fictional town of Cabot Cove, Maine; a murder will happen, and Jessica will ultimately solve it. The project is still in the pre-production phase—it’s not clear when it will go into production given Moore has other projects on his plate, including directing a revival of Avenue Q in the West End this April. We’ll continue sleuthing to find out. [end-mark] The post Jamie Lee Curtis to Star in <i>Murder, She Wrote</i> Movie appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts gothic fantasy Read an Excerpt From Weavingshaw by Heba Al-Wasity A young woman who can see the dead strikes a deal with the Saint of Silence, a dangerous purveyor of dark secrets, to save her brother’s life. By Heba Al-Wasity | Published on January 21, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Weavingshaw by Heba Al-Wasity, a debut gothic fantasy out from Del Rey on February 24. Three years ago, Leena Al-Sayer awoke with a terrible power.She can see the dead.Since then, she has hidden herself away from the world, knowing that if she ever reveals her curse she will be locked up in an asylum.When her beloved brother, Rami, falls fatally ill, Leena is faced with a terrible choice: Let him die or buy the expensive medicine that will save his life by bartering the only valuable thing she has—her secret.The Saint of Silence, a ruthless merchant who trades in confessions and is shrouded in unearthly rumors of cruelty and power, accepts her bargain, for a deadly price. Leena must find the ghost of Percival Avon, the last lord of Weavingshaw—or lose her freedom to the Saint forever.As Leena’s search takes her and the Saint to Weavingshaw, she finds the estate and the surrounding moors to be living things—hungry for blood and sacrifice. Fighting against Weavingshaw’s might, Leena must also fight her growing pull toward the enigmatic Saint himself, whose connection to Percival Avon remains a mystery.As the house begins to entomb them, time is running out on their desperate hunt for answers.For Leena has come to see that here in Weavingshaw, the dead are not hushed—and some secrets are better left buried with them. 1 The Saint of Silence “Tell me how to seek the Saint.” The old woman stared at the girl for a long moment, eyes narrowed, shriveled lips pursed. Without lowering her gaze, she inhaled a slow drag from her pipe. “Got a confession, Leena?” Leena shrank back, although the emaciated form of the old woman posed no threat to her. “Margery…” Leena began, then paused, her conviction dimming. “I only mean to seek him out.” Faster than she thought the old woman could move, Margery dug her yellowed nails into the soft flesh of Leena’s forearm. “No one—and I mean no one—goes to see the Saint without a reason,” Margery snarled. “Are you looking for a bit of coin, girlie? Some pretty baubles?” Her grip bruised. “Do not seek him.” Leena didn’t respond as, not for the first time, something else had caught her attention. Her gaze flickered to a point past Margery’s shoulder, and she stared at it for a second too long. When Margery turned to look, there was nothing there but peeling papered walls. “What are you staring at, girlie?” Margery demanded. Leena startled before shaking her head. Leena’s eyes roved the interior of Margery’s home, directly abutting her own. Each house was an exact replica of the other—squat and terraced with sparse windows and a barely functioning fireplace, their only source of water an outside pump. The old woman had lived here for as long as Leena could remember, the only resident in these clustered spaces of cramped houses who was not an Algaraan refugee. Unlike Leena, whose own parents had fled the Algaraan civil war more than twenty years ago before settling uneasily into Morland, Margery was salt-of-the-earth and Morish through and through. Leena did not think the old woman had ventured once out of Golborne, Morland’s capital city, or even farther than the limit of her own house these days, her fluid-swollen legs barely carrying her past her front step. Despite Margery’s lack of mobility, Leena never dared question how she seemed to procure a steady stream of Tar. Whenever Leena knocked on the old woman’s door, it was always the same picture: Margery hunched over a hookah, her eyes red from the cloying Tar smoke, her blue-veined hands shaking for the next addictive puff. “Rami is unwell. He is going to…” Leena trailed off. “I need to see the Saint.” “Your brother?” It took all of Leena’s strength to force her voice to remain steady, even as terror slithered down her body at the mere utterance of the illness. “He has Sweeper’s Cough.” Margery withdrew, leaving half-moon welts on Leena’s skin. “I had it once and barely survived it.” Buy the Book Weavingshaw Heba Al-Wasity Buy Book Weavingshaw Heba Al-Wasity Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Leena knew this, or else she would never have dared enter Margery’s house and invite the sickness into her home. Sweeper’s Cough could only be had once and never again—as long as one survived it. Baba had once said Leena had caught it as a young girl in the refugee camps, and she had been so unwell that the camp overseer had told her mother to start sewing a white burial shroud. “So, you see, my worry is justified.” Leena pulled at a stray thread unraveling from the hemline of her skirt. “I must go see the Saint of Silence.” “No—even that is not enough.” Margery swallowed harshly. “What secrets can a green girl like you have? The Saint of Silence does not accept schoolroom scandals.” Once again, Leena’s eyes flickered to the nothingness behind Margery’s shoulder. “Have you not heard the stories that swirl around the Saint?” Margery demanded again, and Leena stiffened. Of course she had heard the rumors; everyone had. He was the first of his kind to pay for secrets; the more shameful the divulgence, the higher the price. But even the most trivial of confessions, seemingly useless to anyone, received some coin. So at first, the rest of the cityfolk—Leena included—thought it was an act of charity: another so-called philanthropist who had made his wealth in the factories, or abroad in the wars, and decided to give back. A do-gooder who had arrived suddenly in this soot-ridden city eight years ago and would disappear just as abruptly. Although his name was St. Silas, he was often referred to as the Saint of Silence instead—a play on his surname, after the country’s oldest Saint, whose crumbled statues still littered the outside of cathedrals and cemeteries. A Saint who had once granted blessings in exchange for sins back when Golborne was a mere settlement, not a thriving metropolis built of smoke and greed. No one prayed to any of the Saints anymore. People wanted bread, not sacraments. But if this new Saint of Silence, like his former namesake, was willing to offer coins for a few measly secrets—the fool—why stop him? It soon became apparent that it was not charity. And that he was no fool. Rumors began to spring up. Those who confessed to him came back changed, as if despair and terror had carved a home between their eyes. Others—those St. Silas claimed had lied in their confessions—had their tongues cut out. Ribs cracked. A bloodied X sliced through their mouth, the vermilion border of the lips gouged and carved: the scar of the Saint. Some never came back at all. Leena knew all this, but her heart was already so engulfed with death and loss she could not bear burying a brother. She knew this—and she chose to seek the Saint of Silence anyway. Margery saw the change in her face: the subtle lift of her chin, the determination that drew her dark brows in. The old woman lowered her voice. “Do you remember what he did to Mr. Jamil?” Leena’s thoughts recoiled at the memory of the man who had once lived a couple of doors down from them. He had also been a refugee, escaping Algaraa at the same time as Leena’s parents did. She remembered Baba’s distrust of Mr. Jamil; it was widely known in their small district that Mr. Jamil had been an informant for the Malik’s police back home. Gossip swirled that he’d been the one to turn in his own nephew for hiding illegal pamphlets belonging to the Liberation Party. The nephew had been taken, then found a few weeks later, tortured into madness. Leena had heard that the Malik had sent Mr. Jamil a slaughtered sheep for his acts of loyalty—a rarity as hunger swept through the country. When the war broke out in Algaraa and the Liberation Party rose, Mr. Jamil had fled to Morland in fear of being captured and punished by the rebels for his terrible acts of service to the Malik. Baba, ever the revolutionist, had warned Leena and Rami to stay away from Mr. Jamil, stating that those who turned on their countrymen on their own soil would not think twice of doing so in a foreign land. Baba was not wrong. Leena never forgot the way Mr. Jamil had looked after visiting the Saint of Silence nearly four years ago. They had found him in the morning, a crumpled mess on the stoop. The intersecting X on his mouth shone with blood, his broken body racked with shudders. I didn’t lie, he sobbed as Baba and a few other men carried him into his house. I swear I didn’t lie to the Saint. He took to the bottle not long afterward. Hard drink. In one of his drunken stupors, he admitted to Baba that he’d thought no harm would come from telling the Saint of Silence small falsehoods about the neighbors to fill his gnawing hunger. By that point, the alcohol had made Mr. Jamil’s belly protrude and the whites of his eyes turn a deep yellow. He was dead by the spring. “I do,” Leena said steadily, but her head throbbed. “Have you ever sought the Saint of Silence?” Margery toyed with the pipe between her fingers. Finally, she nodded. “It wasn’t an act of release for me, though; it was reckoning. It felt like death…” She trailed off, a vague look in her rheumy eyes. “The nightmares that came afterward—he never even touched me—but the very act of confession… like being gutted… left to rot…” The old woman took a long, desperate drag on the pipe, her eyelids fluttering from the effect of the drug. “Some say his mother’s a demon.” “Demon? ” Leena lifted her brows. Spirituality had faded in Morland with the first cropping of factories, leaving sparsely filled church pews in its staid and ghostly cathedrals, but some still clung firmly to their belief in Saints, demons, and curses. Algaraans feared evil under a different name. Leena had grown up with stories of jinns, and even now her bedroom was filled with old charms shaped like eyes to ward them away. There was not a lot of time in Leena’s life to debate the existence of jinns, demons, or even Saints, but all she knew was that none of them had helped her survive. A faint humorous glint crossed Leena’s eyes. “Is he a Saint or a demon? He cannot be both.” Margery’s lips thinned. “Do not make a mockery of things you do not understand.” With shaky hands, she pulled an idol necklace from her bodice, her lips muttering a whispered prayer to cast off wickedness. Leena peeked at the small wooden figurine of a woman holding an olive branch. She could not remember which Saint the imagery corresponded with, but the way Margery gripped the effigy made it clear that it brought her some measure of comfort. Leena never assumed Margery was religious; fewer people nowadays believed in the old relics. Still, she bowed her head, apologizing for causing the old woman offense. “Do. Not. Seek. Him,” Margery rasped again, interrupting her apologies. “I don’t have a choice—” “You always have a choice. Do not choose wrong.” This time it was Leena who grabbed the old woman’s arm, the papery skin fragile in her grip. “I will find him, with or without your help. So spare me and give me some guidance. I cannot waste any more time.” Margery regarded Leena for a long moment: the brown Algaraan features, the firm eyebrows, the gaunt cheeks, the dark eyes that could not conceal a single emotion. “Your face reveals too much,” Margery whispered, almost to herself. “A lie would look foreign on you. Do not attempt it.” “I won’t.” The old woman brought a trembling hand to her forehead. “He’s in the Northern Quarters…” Her thin chest rattled with emotion as she detailed the exact directions. She huffed another puff of smoke, a tinge of pink appearing on her wrinkled cheeks, before she continued in a hazy voice. “What isn’t learned in the cradle…” “… will be learned too late. Thank you.” Leena rose to leave, but the old woman’s voice stopped her. “Do not lie to him, Leena,” Margery warned again. Once more, Leena’s gaze focused on the corner of the room. Once more, Margery turned to look. Nothing. “Mrs. Khalid next door tells me that you’re mad, girlie,” Margery said, peering closely at her. “You have already lost one promising employment due to your… eccentricities. How much further will you allow yourself to fall?” Leena had been a lady’s companion, back when her future still had promise. She had fled that life when her circumstances changed and she realized she could not swallow her new oddities. If the aristos had noticed her strange behavior, they might lock her in the asylum. Now, rather than an esteemed lady’s companion, she was the gossip of old crones, the shame of their street, a warning to all immigrant parents about the dangers of overeducating a girl. Leena’s eyes blazed. “Until there is no distance left to fall.” Excerpted from Weavingshaw by Heba Al-Wasity. Copyright © 2026 by Heba Al-Wasity. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Weavingshaw</i> by Heba Al-Wasity appeared first on Reactor.

Books Short Fiction Spotlight Must Read Short Speculative Fiction: December 2025 Ten excellent works of short fiction you may have missed in 2025 By Alex Brown | Published on January 21, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share It may be 2026, but I’m not done with last year yet. While doing all my short fiction reading from December, I didn’t intend to but ended up picking ten science fiction, fantasy, and horror stories that mostly include authors I’ve never featured in this spotlight before. There are a couple repeat guests, but it’s been a few years at least since I last had them on. I hope you’re as excited to meet (or re-meet) these authors as I was. “Drink Poetry, Devour the Sun” by Jonathan Helland Written in the form of electronic messages between two people, this piece ends up in a surprising place. Andy is on sabbatical and raising his preschool-age daughter. She keeps saying strange things while playing with her toys or at daycare, things that are impossible for her to know. The longer this goes on, the more disconcerting her statements become. Andy reaches out to Carol, who gives him a clue as to what the claims might mean. The truth is even worse. If you’re a mythology nerd like I am, you will probably be able to guess where this story is going, but trust me, it’s worth the ride. (Trollbreath Magazine—Winter 2025; issue 6) “Mbali and the Lantern Men” by K.A. Mulenga “The first time Mbali swallowed a star, she was five years old. It shimmered above her, small and flickering like an ember dropped from the sky. She thought it was candy. When she opened her mouth, it tumbled down her throat, leaving a trail of silver in its wake.” Mbali drinks the stars in the sky, but this isn’t a horror story. Ultimately, it’s about finding the best in yourself and not letting anyone dim or smother that. I love how this story is written, too. It feels like a folktale. (F(r)iction—Winter 2025; issue 25) “One Hand Washes the Other” by Karl El-Koura Pietr thinks he’s being held hostage by his two crewmates who have been turned into pod people by an alien hivemind. But what if he’s wrong? Or worse, what if he’s right? El-Koura stages a sci-fi drama that puts trust at the forefront. It’s a fun slice of space opera that feels like an excerpt from a novel. Sadly, this the last ever issue of On Spec. The Canadian magazine was founded in 1989 and has been publishing incredible speculative fiction ever since. It’s won numerous awards over the years, and on a personal note, it is one of those titles I always get really excited to see in my inbox. Fare thee well, On Spec. (On Spec—issue 134) “ReproTech RealWomb User Manual” by Xauri’EL Zwaan This is a very weird story, both in content and in structure, so I’m not going to tell you anything except go read it. And kinda disconcerting. It’s a little cyberpunk, a little satire, and a whole lot great. (Baffling—December 2025; issue 22) “Tapetum Lucidum” by U.M. Agoawike What a gorgeously written story. I also don’t want to tell you too much about this piece since it’s so short and the twist in the plot is a gut punch. It’s about children who play in the Darkwood by a cottage and the awful thing that happens to them out there. It’s written from the perspective of one of those children after it happens. It flows like a nightmare or a particularly dark fairy tale, one of those that the Grimm Brothers might have found too unsettling to include. (Augur—#8.3) “The Matriarch” by Malena Salazar Maciá “He told you he didn’t like your hair.” In our narrator’s culture, hair is how memories and traditions are passed down the generations. Not that her husband cares. He is from the capital where, from his perspective, they are civilized and don’t have all that wild, untamed hair. She gives into his demands, and it still isn’t enough for him. After reading this story, I thought about the comments white people used to make to me as a child about how my hair was “crazy,” as well as how during slavery Black people would weave patterns and seeds into their hair to guide them when they escaped. I thought about “Kill the Indian, save the man” campaigns meant to forcibly assimilate Indigenous people out of their “savage” ways, and how one of those weapons was cutting off their hair at the boarding schools. And yet, despite all that, our people are still here, still resisting, still holding onto our cultures. (Fantasy Magazine—Winter 2025; issue 99) “The North” by Subodhana Wijeyeratne Our narrator is from a land that was terrorized by Northern raiders generations ago. Their culture still tells the stories of those years as if they survived the worst humanity had to offer. Now our narrator is joining a sailing party headed North in search of a passage to the other side of the world, as well as sea creatures they plan to hunt and sell. They find the creatures and the Northerners, but things don’t go the way our narrator expects. Wijeyeratne weaves in commentary on capitalism, resource exploitation, and dehumanization. It’s a world that feels just close enough to ours to make the analogy hit hard. (khōréō—volume 5, issue 4) “The Red River Summers” by Inda Lauryn Madear escapes slavery and makes it as far north as the Territory of Wisconsin. There she gets a little revenge on some white people before she settles into their cabin and builds herself a life. Most people leave her alone, what with the threat of her witchcraft, but not the Indigenous people of the region. The story takes place around the time of Mahkatêwe-meshi-kêhkêhkwa, aka Black Hawk, the Sauk warrior who led a war against the United States in 1832. Lauryn blends real history and fantasy in compelling ways. The characters don’t get a happy ending—if you know anything about this historical era, then Black Hawk’s fate won’t surprise you—but the journey is powerful. (Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction—Summer 2025) “The Short History of a Long-Forgotten, Ill-Fated Telenovela” by Dante Luiz The cast and crew of the telenovela Senhora must be cursed. It ran only for a season in the early 1970s, but had an outsized impact on the television industry. It’s the only thing that explains why they all keep dying in painful ways. We follow a few of these victims through their involvement in the production of Senhora and after, peeking into their lives and the cruelties they meted out to others before their bill came due. It’s a creepy story with a lot of smart things to say about fame. (Nightmare—December 2025; issue 159) “Who Are You Wearing?” by Russell Nichols The gig economy gets dark. Well, darker. You are a divorced parent trying to do your best for your 9-year-old daughter. You work random jobs wearing an exo suit called a Hardiman, anything from a courier to a raccoon evictor to hauling heavy objects. The work sucks, but you put up with it because what other choice do you have? A sharp story that isn’t all that far-fetched, exo aside. (Uncanny—December 2025; issue 67)[end-mark] The post Must Read Short Speculative Fiction: December 2025 appeared first on Reactor.