Urn and Willow by Scott Thomas (Dark Regions Press) is a collection of short supernatural tales. The quiet, reserved style stands in dramatic contrast to the high intensity characteristic of much recent horror fiction. Urn and Willow has the feel and the scent of the worn and tattered volumes the reader discovers on a grandparent’s dusty bookshelf in childhood, strongly historical in orientation, and old-fashioned in both tone and setting. Pick up this book and read a few stories without first checking the publication date, and you might reasonably guess it had been published 75 years ago. The nostalgic quality of this collection arises not only from the date settings, but from the style of language and the very sensibility of the depicted worlds. By the end, there’s no doubt: Scott Thomas is obsessed with a given era and locale.

These simple little stories are almost delicate in their restraint and subtlety. This antique or old-fashioned quality is not mere backdrop. Supernatural things happen — ghosts appear, the dead walk, unexplained events manifest — yet much of the book’s purpose seems to be the careful rendering of rural New England, mostly in the early 19th century. Much as the stories focus on hauntings and supernatural mysteries, they’re equally about the loving depiction of an earlier place and time. Close attention is given to details of nature, home and land. We observe interactions and customs in tiny villages and get a sense of a simple, almost puritan approach to daily living.

A few of the longer stories stood out as more modern in approach, despite settings similar to the rest. In “The Bronze-Colored Horse,” one neighbor after another is victimized overnight by a terrible affliction. Investigation leads to the discovery of creatures from a surreal and terrifying dream. “The Seed of Increase Severance” likewise utilizes disturbing nightmarish imagery to tell a story that crosses multiple generations. “Miss Smallwood’s Student” tells of a tutor’s attempt to teach a very unusual young girl. In “The Company of Others,” an occultist hires an artist to paint a landscape mural in his home, and by occult ritual summons odd creatures who then share his home. These more ambitious stories, modern in approach if not setting, hint at Thomas’s ability to satisfy in a more adventurous, less conservative mode when so inclined.

The rest of the stories are unified by simplicity, brevity (most only 4-8 pages) and a throwback approach to depicting the supernatural. In these cases, the mere revelation of a disturbing event is enough. There is no twist, no gut-punch. To some readers, this is comfort food, difficult to come by these days. Scott Thomas is one of the few present-day writers serving up this sort of fare, and he does it with a deft, assured touch. This is a supernatural horror of chill and disquiet, not violence or extremity. Readers seeking the cutting-edge may find Thomas’s work too subdued, but those who enjoy the restrained approach of yesteryear will find much to appreciate. The book is redolent of a slower, simpler world. With Thomas’s polished and confident style, Urn and Willow vividly evokes another time and place.

This is one of the most significant multi-author anthologies of recent years. A wonderful, concentrated batch of intoxicating goodness, sure to please readers of weird fiction and horror.

Every anthology includes pieces that don’t work for all readers. All too often, the reader must be satisfied with just a few strong stories in the mix. In this case, the intelligent and provocative bullseyes greatly outnumber the few misses. Some of the highlights come from reliable writers such as Laird Barron and John Langan, who lately seem never to miss the mark. Both use the “King in Yellow” theme as an excuse to try something a little different, to veer off the path of their usual focuses and themes. Barron does something that feels much like veiled biography, in which a Carcosan entity visits an author who seems clearly inspired by Karl Edward Wagner. Langan’s tale has the feel of nightmare, and follows an actress as she stumbles through an extraordinary soundstage during the filming of a project seemingly attuned to a world other than our own.

The greatest anthologies are important because they do more than just parade one famous author after another; they bring to the reader’s attention work by less familiar names. I’d never read anything by Gary McMahon before, but his Bukowski-inflected noir, “it sees me when I’m not looking,” was a wonderful surprise. Edward Morris comes up with a surreal and disturbing tour de force, “The Theater and its Double.” This complex and ambitious piece blends poetry, screenplay, and stream of consciousness.

Favorites here include Allyson Byrd’s “The Beat Hotel,” an atmospheric, art-flavored 60s-in-Paris wonder that hit this reader’s sweet spot, and Cody Goodfellow’s extravaganza of mental illness, drugs, dark ritual and mind control, all with a children’s television backdrop, “Golden Class.” Other standouts included stories by Daniel Mills, Pulver, Strantzas, Richard Lupoff and Joel Lane. As often happens in tribute anthologies, the most successful stories went beyond mere emulation and instead used an author or story’s themes to do something in the writer’s own style.

Themed short fiction anthologies roll out into the marketplace too quickly for any reader to keep up. In any given year, there are a few standouts worth every genre reader’s time. A Season in Carcosa is one of those special few deserving of wider attention.

On a single day at the beginning of Will McIntosh’s Hitchers (Night Shade Books), cartoonist Finn Darby loses both his wife Lorena and his elderly grandfather, who 40 years earlier created the successful comic strip Toy Shop. The grandfather previously made clear his refusal to allow Finn to take over the strip after his own death, but as it turns out, Finn easily convinces his grandmother that continuing the strip will benefit them both. Finn keeps “Top Shop” running, introduces new characters, and signs licensing deals, and these changes bring popularity, fame and wealth.

When a major terrorist attack strikes Finn’s home city of Atlanta, the half-million sudden deaths bring about the novel’s premise: Spirits of the recent dead take over the bodies of the living. These “hitchers” appear first through verbalization, then gradually control the bodies of their living hosts. The novel’s emotional impact is strongly front-loaded. Events pile up fast in the first few chapters. Along with a few characters entangled with him, Finn seeks to understand what’s happening, then manage the interference of these “hitchers” as the influence they exert over the living increases. Finn partners with Mick Mercury, washed-up 80s rock star, and waitress Summer Locker, who Finn and his wife encountered just before Lorena died.

McIntosh presses the story relentlessly forward, in a straightforward, unadorned style, with brief scenes and chapters. Characters move briskly from place to place, event to event. The overall tone remains breezy, despite a brief serious turn in the early going as characters adjust to the loss of loved ones, and greater Atlanta copes with mass death. These scenes are affecting, and come across as “real” in a human way. McIntosh conveys Finn’s conflict between a selfish desire to control “Toy Shop” and an impulse to respect his grandfather’s wishes.

As events progress, the story unfolds at double-speed so that the last half of the book seems compressed. The reader glides along the surface at an increasingly superficial level. Significant story milestones fly past, and the plot jumps forward, more synopsis than narrative. A long-developed romantic triangle is resolved in just a sentence or two. A character’s mindset suddenly jumps from problem-solving to giving up all hope, without much in the way of transition. These plot turns feel less true, less emotionally justified than what came before.

Just when the plot seems to be on a rail headed toward inevitability, McIntosh pulls out some rewarding surprises and nicely resolves the ending. Hitchers offers an interesting setup and likable characters whose conflicts and drives compel the reader. Despite pacing issues in the second half, it’s an enjoyable and entertaining read.

This short debut novel quickly establishes that newcomer Ennis Drake can really write. The narrative voice is strong, rich with nuance and flavor. Scene after scene exhibits Drake’s competence at playing out a narrative thread. The book is clearly in the horror category but also has a noir genre feel to it, including the common noir element of the emotionally or psychologically damaged law enforcement officer for a main character.

The whole story, every character interaction, is a pool of hard, bitter emotions. Everybody in the book seems hurt and wanting, stuck in an agonizing pattern of self-defeat and dysfunction. Characters seem realistically flawed, emotionally alive. It’s clear what they want and what’s keeping them from getting it. Drake’s strength as a writer is in clearly rendering these people (particularly Riley, the protagonist) so they seem believable and familiar to the reader. Throughout this book, I felt what the characters felt. The ability to give the reader this experience is arguably the most important determinant of whether a book succeeds or fails. On this test, I say Drake easily passes. The novel is quite strong in terms of execution, of conveying believable characters with a strong narrative voice.

An aspect I consider less successful is the central conceit of the possessed or demonic power saw. Much of Stephen King’s very popular oeuvre has been built on similar concepts — such possessed/demonic objects as a hotel, laundry press, lawnmower, classic car, eighteen-wheeler, even a St. Bernard. Despite King’s success with this approach, I’d argue a stronger, more interesting antagonist or threat could be created by not merely applying demonic or malignant qualities to a mundane object. I’d love to see Drake’s skill for storytelling, and the creation of realistic characters, applied to a stronger, more complex basic concept.

The only other shortcoming is in those sections of written or recorded testimonies of characters in their own voices, which sound not like a real person telling their story, but more formal, like a novel’s narrator. Through these segments important backstory is revealed, so these passages are necessary, yet the tone is slightly off. This problem does not exist with the novel’s spoken dialog, which is both naturalistic and believable, so it’s clear Drake knows how to convey the way people really speak. This minor quibble applied only to the sections of Jodi’s diary and Strom’s recorded testimony, and really didn’t detract much from my enjoyment of the book.

These reservations were certainly outweighed by the confident, fluent prose and believable characterization. Overall, Twenty-Eight Teeth of Rage is a compelling, passionately-told drama, and a successful piece of writing. From the first page I was impressed with Drake’s ability to draw the reader into an intense, vividly emotional scene. Flaws may be present, but not many for a first novel. I’m eager to see how Ennis Drake applies his obvious authorial talents to different story concepts in the future.