Brian Lumley is the man.

The Necroscope series, apart from being one of the few series that I have read in reverse order is also one of the non-Stephen King horror books that have been white-heat reads. The good thing was that, inspite of knowing nothing at all about what happened in books one and two, I was able to enjoy Book three ( Necroscope: The Source, found in the streets of Chennai in January 2000) and likewise, I read Book two ( Necroscope: Wamphyri, Best Book Centre, circa 2002) and loved all of it, though I knew how it would end. Book 1 ( Necroscope, MR Book Stall, May 2004) was like reading a prequel, and I love prequels. Well-written ones, especially.

The Cold War. The Russian E-Branch, a highly classified section devoted to ESPionage, spying through people who possess paranormal powers, possess a necromancer named Boris Dragosani, a man who sucks brains and pulls organs out from corpses to demand the secrets of the Dead. But Dragosani has learnt of the art of necromancy from a Vampire who languishes deep in a grave in the mountains of Romania, a vampire who claims to be his father, and, predictably enough, he wants more.

The only man who can save the day is a young man ( yes, there is always a young man around to save the day, and more often than not, he wears specs ) named Harry Keogh. Harry Keogh lost his mother at a very early age. He was bullied in school. His studies suffered. Very often, he would daydream in class. Only thing is, they were not dreams.

If you see Haley Joel Osment right now, whispering – “I can see dead people.”, do tell him to go get a life. Because Brian Lumley wrote it first!!!! A boy who can talk to the dead. In fact, he not only talks to them, he also learns from them. He learns self-defence from a dead Sergeant who was his ex-gym instructor, he gives his Mathematics teacher a chilling stare when asked why he’s not using the prescribed formulae – “Formulae? I can show you formulae you have never dreamed of.”, he says, in a voice that reminds Mr Hannant of his late father, ex-Principal of the school, and a brilliant teacher of his generation. From the tales told to him by a seventeenth century nobleman, Harry writes a novel called “The Diary of a Seventeenth Century Rake”.

And from August Ferdinand Möbius, the nineteenth century German mathematician and astronomer, Harry Keogh learns the secret of the Mobius Strip, by which he can literally open doors and teleport himself through space and time. What better a man to save the world than Harry Keogh?

But as is wont, Bad Things happen. Things get slightly better at the end of the second book, but the shit hits the air conditioner in Book Three. Everything is not as it seems. Which is effectively me telling everyone to please go and find the books and read them.

As much as I loathe Hollywood butchering popular literature, I strongly feel that the first three Necroscope books have very high Box Office potential. A proper horror story, with much scope for SFX-oriented sequences – Lumley’s off-beat depiction of vampires; the cinematic potential of watching a necromancer ripping out a heart and absorbing a corpse’s essence; sex, revenge, melodrama ( dead mother talking to still-alive son) – man, someone pass this book to Peter Jackson.

Me? I am on the lookout for Books Four to Ten in the saga. I have Book five with me, but am not reading it out of sequence this time. I know, very vaguely, that the next arc involves Harry’s son, and an unholy pact between the Wamphyri and the kid, and I am dying ( pun! pun! ) to go read it.

Meanwhile, there is a sale on at YMCA Secunderabad, organised by Best Book Centre. I am doomed.