This is a helluva honky-tonkin’ root’n toot’n space opera wrapped up in a coat of noir and thrust into a cold and hostile Lovecraftian universe. But then again, Crescent Station has kind of always been there, a last, cramped, barely functioning outpost on the extreme edge of human-settled space: imagine Babylon 5 if the dockworkers’ strike had never ended AND a band of shogguths took up residence in the neglected cisterns (but no friendly anthropomorphic aliens to provide comic relief or comprehensible drama).

But as is often the case these days, the actual book isn’t the whole of it. CRESCENT started out as a podcast novel and a series of audio vignettes, read with disturbingly sexy intimacy by the author himself, Phil Rossi, whose Virginia drawl heightens the tension unbearably; indeed it’s almost a relief to see these words put in their place without this diverting and inviting distraction; I’ve already found details I’d clean missed when this was a story I could only listen to—so while I cannot recommend the original podiobook highly enough, it’s no substitute, ultimately, for being able to take in this intricate and creepy tale at its own pace.

And once you’ve bought this book for yourself - you’re clicking now, aren’t you? Go ahead. I’ll wait - take a look at the inside back cover, where you will find a code that will allow you to acquire the CRESCENT soundtrack. That’s right: soundtrack. Rossi, renaissance man that he is, is also a musician and composed a truly kickass score to go with the story; on the podiobook it’s mixed in and serves merely as moodsetter as scores do, but I’m thinking it stands up rather brilliantly on its own.

A final word: if nyctophobia is a serious problem for you, read in full sunlight. I’m a bit more afraid of the dark than I used to be (JC Hutchins’ fans know why) but I still like the thrill, curled up in a shadowy nighttime nook with an itty bitty book light clipped to the binding, titilated and scared.