Review of Deadfall Lane by Israel Finn




In a rage, Pete Denning commits an unspeakable act while in a desperate attempt to keep that which he loves –his son. But eliminating his problem doesn’t solve anything. It only breeds and nurtures his worst nightmare.

I’ve read Deadfall Lane twice and yes, it is that good.   It is a very short story that took me only about twenty minutes to read.

Finn weaves a chilling and gripping tale that left me thinking about it long after I finished reading it. This story has it all: love, hate, rejection, betrayal, murder and a deep, heavy creep factor to hold it all together.

Finn is an excellent author and I’ve read a few of his other stories, such as No Such Thing as Monsters and Stones. All are beautifully written and I recommend any one of Israel Finn stories.  If you have a few spare moments and want to fill them with something great to read, grab one.

Deadfall Lane gets 5 stars.

You can find all of Israel Finn books on his author page at Amazon.

Learn more about Israel Finn by following his website Israel and follow him on twitter @Israel_Finn

Israel Finn

Israel Finn  is a horror, dark fantasy, and speculative fiction writer, and a winner of the 80th Annual Writer’s Digest Short Story Competition. He’s had a life-long love affair with books, and was weaned on authors like Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, Richard Matheson, Arthur C. Clarke and H.G. Wells. Books were always strewn everywhere about the big white house in Indiana where he grew up. He loves literary works (Dickens and Twain, for instance), but his main fascination lies in the fantastic and the macabre, probably because he was so heavily exposed to it early on.

Later he discovered Robert McCammon, Dean Koontz, F. Paul Wilson, Dan Simmons, Ramsey Campbell, and (God help us, everyone) Stephen Edwin King, as well as several others, and the die was indelibly cast.

Right now he lives with his wife in southern California.





Evil descends, dealing death beneath my protection; spitting crimson onto cobblestones, staining their age worn surface.

Thunderheads swell in the thick midnight sky; belching anger from their gullets, cleansing the time-honored ritual.

Pulsing beneath the damp stone surface, latent life resides, drinking the remnants of death, gathering and spreading strength.

A telltale flicker, a street lamp breathes.  Flushing rust from its cast iron skin, it blackens, splashing healing light across the wasting stones, pushing youth into their haggard grey pores.


Shadows scatter across a building’s façade, fleeing over decayed trim, darting between shards of shattered reflections.

High above the pursuing light, they seek sanctuary.  Spilling through the aperture’s void, his mass reforms; rising from scraps of blackened mist, driving light from his core.

Satisfied, he lingers only for a moment.

His offering accepted; he drops into darkness.


Blood is Blood



Her stomach brushes the new fallen snow.  Translucent breaths roll in bursts across the forest floor.  The cool night air brings the odor of prey, and with it, a gnawing hunger.  Nostrils pull the scent to her tongue.  Tasting her meal on the cusp of the wind, her mouth waters—but there is something more.

Sharp yellow eyes scour the night.  Shadows blacken her sleek tawny coat, her agile form obscured, motionless.  Her deep growl swallowed by the crisp winter wind, she remains hidden.

She senses him.

Across the clearing, the trail turns cold.  He pulls his nose from the ice packed earth; luminous black, it tests the sterile night air.

His prey lost; the hunt ended.

Weighting the ends of his dusty grey coat, beads of iridescent ice glow between slices of tenuous moonlight. He raises his muzzle, calling to his brothers.  In the distance, an eerie lonesome song returns.

Unaware, he steps into the clearing; paws crunching, drifts of snow slowing his movements.

Crouching lower, she prepares to strike.

Her prey lost; she still hungers.

Blood is blood.

It all tastes the same.


-K. R. Rowe