S.A. Barnes—real name Stacey, but let’s not ruin the mystique—has carved out a bloody niche in the sci-fi horror game like a badass with a plasma cutter. She’s not some overnight sensation who stumbled into writing after a bender; she’s a seasoned scribbler with a day job as an educator, which makes her ability to churn out nightmare fuel all the more impressive. Her debut, Dead Silence (2022), was a goddamn revelation—a claustrophobic, ghost-ship horror that dragged readers kicking and screaming into her orbit. Ghost Station (2024) followed, proving she wasn’t a one-hit wonder, even if it didn’t quite hit the same fever pitch. Now, with Cold Eternity, Barnes is swinging for the fences again, cementing her rep as the go-to gal for space horror that makes you want to sleep with a shotgun under your pillow.

Halley Zwick, a whistleblower with a political scandal up her ass, is on the run from some seriously pissed-off power brokers. She’s not your typical badass heroine—she’s flawed, a bit naive, and just trying to survive the shitstorm she’s unleashed. Desperate, she takes a shady gig on the Elysian Fields, a derelict space barge that’s basically a floating mausoleum for rich assholes who thought cryogenic freezing was their ticket to cheating death. Her job? Push a button every three hours to prove the ship’s still kicking and make rounds among the frosty stiffs. Sounds boring as hell, right? Wrong. Shit gets weird fast. Strange noises echo through the corridors, shadows slink around like they’ve got a mind of their own, and Halley starts seeing things that make her question whether she’s losing her marbles or if something truly fucked-up is lurking on board. Throw in a secretive mechanic named Karl, a glitchy AI hologram with a creepy streak, and a backstory that ties Halley to this cosmic crypt, and you’ve got a recipe for a horror stew.

Barnes doesn’t just toss jump scares at you like a cheap haunted house; she’s got some brains behind the blood. Cold Eternity digs into heavy shit like greed and the human obsession with immortality. The Elysian Fields is a monument to hubris—built by a tech mogul named Zale Winfield who thought he could buy eternity for himself and his elite buddies. The cryogenically frozen “residents” are a grotesque symbol of wealth’s futility, their bodies preserved in a decaying tin can while the universe moves on without them. It’s a middle finger to capitalism’s promise that enough money can solve anything, even death. Isolation is another biggie—Halley’s stuck in the ass-end of space with no one to trust, and that loneliness amps up the dread like a motherfucker. The button-pushing gig, with its sleep-depriving rhythm, mirrors the relentless grind of survival, turning her into a paranoid wreck. And then there’s the AI hologram—let’s call it Aleyck for kicks—which blurs the line between tech and humanity, hinting at questions about what makes us alive. Is it consciousness? A body? Or just the will to keep going when everything’s gone to shit? Barnes doesn’t spoon-feed answers, but she sure as hell makes you think while you’re shitting your pants.

If there’s a sermon in Cold Eternity, it’s this: humans are their own worst fucking enemies. The political scandal chasing Halley reeks of corruption—dystopian backroom deals and power plays that’d make today’s headlines blush. Her idealism gets her burned, and the ship’s a literal graveyard of greed gone wrong. Barnes isn’t subtle about it—capitalism’s a monster, and we’re all complicit, whether we’re freezing our asses off for a second chance or screwing over the little guy to get ahead. There’s a life lesson tucked in the gore: you can’t cheat death, and trying just makes the inevitable messier. It’s bleak, sure, but it’s got a raw honesty that hits like a sledgehammer.

Barnes writes like she’s painting a nightmare with a rusty nail—vivid, gritty, and unapologetic. Her prose is lean but loaded, piling on sensory details that make the Elysian Fields feel like a character itself. The ship’s creaks, the oppressive stink of decay, the flicker of a malfunctioning hologram—it’s all so real you’ll want to shower after reading. She’s a master of slow-burn tension, letting the dread simmer until it boils over into full-on holy-shit moments. Halley’s first-person narration is a rollercoaster—snarky, vulnerable, and just unhinged enough to keep you guessing whether she’s cracking up or onto something. The pacing is intentional, but once the horror kicks in, it’s a sprint to the finish line. Barnes isn’t afraid to get gory but she leans harder on psychological fuckery, which is where she shines brightest.

Let’s get real: Cold Eternity is creepy as fuck. The atmosphere’s a knockout—imagine being trapped in a morgue that’s floating through space, and something’s tapping on the walls. Barnes nails the isolation vibe, making every shadow a threat and every sound a potential death sentence. Halley’s a solid protagonist—flawed, relatable, and scrappy in a way that doesn’t feel forced. The twists are a goddamn delight; just when you think you’ve got it figured out, Barnes yanks the rug out and leaves you gasping. The cryogenic concept’s a fresh spin on space horror—no xenomorphs here, just the unsettling idea of the not-quite-dead watching you sleep. And that AI hologram? It’s a stroke of genius, adding a layer of existential dread that lingers like a bad dream.

Alright, time to bitch a little. The political backstory is a slog—too convoluted and in-your-face with its parallels to today’s clusterfuck of a world. It’s like Barnes wanted to say something profound but got lost in the weeds, and it drags the momentum down. Halley’s secrecy about her past feels contrived—like, why build it up so much if the reveal’s just gonna be a shrug? The ending’s another sore spot; after all that buildup, it wraps up too neat and quick, like a sitcom finale. And the romantic subplot with the hologram? What the fuck was that? It’s half-baked and awkward, like a drunk flirt at a funeral. Could’ve ditched it entirely and no one would’ve missed it. The middle sags a bit too—less action, more moping—which might make you wanna skim until the good shit hits.

So, where does Cold Eternity land on the horror scale? It’s not perfect—those pacing hiccups and backstory bloat keep it from greatness—but it’s a damn fine ride. Compared to the vast swamp of horror lit, it’s above the curve. Barnes delivers chills and thrills with a brain, and that’s rare as hell. It’s not Dead Silence’s raw terror or Alien’s iconic perfection (what is?), but it’s a quality space horror that’ll make you double-check your closet for cryogenic corpses. For fans of the genre, it’s definitely recommendedd—just don’t expect it to reinvent the wheel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go hug my blanket and pray nothing’s skittering in my vents.

Tor Nightfire
Published April 8, 2025