Something Wicked This Way Comes (Green Town, #2)

ISBN: 0380729407
ISBN 13: 9780380729401
By: Ray Bradbury

Check Price Now


Classic Classics Fantasy Favorites Fiction Horror Sci Fi Science Fiction To Read Young Adult

About this book

A masterpiece of modern Gothic literature, Something Wicked This Way Comes is the memorable story of two boys, James Nightshade and William Halloway, and the evil that grips their small Midwestern town with the arrival of a “dark carnival” one Autumn midnight. How these two innocents, both age 13, save the souls of the town (as well as their own), makes for compelling reading on timeless themes. What would you do if your secret wishes could be granted by the mysterious ringmaster Mr. Dark? Bradbury excels in revealing the dark side that exists in us all, teaching us ultimately to celebrate the shadows rather than fear them. In many ways, this is a companion piece to his joyful, nostalgia-drenched Dandelion Wine, in which Bradbury presented us with one perfect summer as seen through the eyes of a 12-year-old. In Something Wicked This Way Comes, he deftly explores the fearsome delights of one perfectly terrifying, unforgettable autumn.

Reader's Thoughts


I must have missed something -- this book did not disturb or horrify me at all. It reads as something written by a pretentious snob. I managed to finish it, begrudgingly. I just didn't understand half of it. The metaphors were just over the top and unnecessary. I do not see how this is considered something worth reading, let alone one of the best 100 novels of all time.

Richard Wright

You know when you're reading a book and an unexpected turn of phrase, something resonant and powerful that lifts your imagination, jumps out at you. You might usually remember such a phrase, and recount it while trying to get your friends to pick up the book. Unfortunately, you have no hope of being able to do this with Bradbury's masterpiece, because every paragraph has one. Almost every sentence is one. The greatest, most disturbing, most uplifting novel ever to wheel out the freakshow for your entertainment (and never has the carnival been more poetically sinister than here), is also the most lyrical and haunting thing I've read in years. Initially, this very lyricism, lying so thick across the page, makes the book slow going when you're used to the modern idiom, but after a few chapters it makes your pulse race a little faster and sweeter. There might be better, more beautiful stories out there of boys coming of age, running headlong into the challenges of adulthood, but I've yet to find them.


I had an incredibly hard time reading this book, especially considering it's a 300-page linear story about an evil circus coming to a small town. I think it's because -- unlike Fahrenheit 451 -- Bradbury overwrote this book to the point of it being dense poetry rather than prose. The dialogue is sparse and stilted, and the descriptions are never-ending, and hard to follow.Reading the opening chapter, the language excited me. I falsely assumed it was just being used to set the mood and would taper off in due course, but it never ended. I wanted to scream at the book: "I get it -- the story is dark, macabre, spooky, and ethereal. Enough! Let the story through!"An example:It was indeed a time between, one second their thoughts all brambled airedale, the next all silken slumbering cat. It was a time to go to bed, yet still they lingered reluctant as boys to give over and wander in wide circles to pillow and night thoughts. It was a time to say much but not all. It was a time after first discoveries but not last ones. It was wanting to know everything and wanting to know nothing. It was the new sweetness of men starting to talk as they must talk. It was the possible bitterness of revelation.And another example, this one during an action sequence:Then the arrow, a long hour it seemed in flight, razored a small vent in the balloon. Rapidly the shaft sank as if cutting a vast green cheese. The surface slit itself further in a wide ripping smile across the entire surface of the gigantic pear, as the blind Witch gabbled, moaned, blistered her lips, shrieked in protest, and Will hung fast, hands gripped to wicker, kicking legs, as the balloon wailed whiffled, guzzled, mourned its own swift gaseous death, as dungeon air raved out, as dragon breath gushed forth and the bag, thus driven, retreated up.By the final third of the book, I was skimming entire paragraphs just to get through the book. Sadly, an interesting premise is lost somewhere in this mess. I am looking forward to reading the graphic novel adaptation, to see if a medium shift can cure the problem created by the bloated prose.


---EDIT---I realized how completely incomprehensive my first review was, so this is a complete rewrite. *Ahem*I'm the kind of person that gets into the "spirit" of things. So for October, I decided to read three horror stories: Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde (a classic), The Strain (a complete flop for me) and Something Wicked This Way Comes. This book wasn't easy to find. I had to scour around in at least 6 bookstores in the city to find this book. When I finally had it, tucked away in the bottom of my uber-stylish, eco-friendly canvas bag, I was ecstatic. I have read so many positive reviews about this book. It came highly recommended on dozens of horror book lists, and there was just so much hype about Bradbury's evil carnival. I actually had a mini-ceremony for reading this book: I lit one of my candles, threw two of my favourite bath products into my bathtub and just *gasps* immersed myself (in the tub, and in the book). The book starts off strong: Bradbury writes about his two main protagonists, Jim and Will. He does a good job of contrasting the two boys, setting the sinister, eerie mood for the story, and introducing us to Mr. Dark, or the Illustrated Man. The carnival sets up its huge, welcoming tents in the the town, and the boys slowly start uncovering the evils within the carnival, but at this point, the book just starts to fizzle. The book was well-written, and there were some genuinely COOL monstrosities at this carnival, such as a carousel that can make you older and younger. However, the story just failed to engage me all the way through, and at a certain point, I just stopped caring about what happened in the book. The ending was just too reminiscent of a Care bears episode (spoiler!):"Okay Braveheart, let's destroy No-heart's evil carnival by singing, and dancing, and sending out love vibes". End spoiler. And this is, essentially, how the book plays out.


This is one of the worst books I've ever read. The prose is so desperate to be arty that I wanted to punch myself. I'm amazed I finished this thing. What a chore.


OH MY GOD SO TEDIOUS!!! I can't.So, here's the thing. I have the audiobook, and it turns out that I really dislike the narrator. He's got, you know, 50s voice, and even the creepy parts he reads like he's an old fashioned TV or radio announcer of some sort, which means that there is ZERO spooky atmosphere in his telling. He also makes both of the kids sound SO WHINY! Even when they're angry and brawling and trying to punch each other in the face. I hate it.I also...well, I don't really enjoy books about scary carnivals. I blame Thomas Tryon's The Other for that--the carnival part of that book just disturbed me for life, and now every time I run across a carnival of that sort in a book I immediately feel concurrently queasy and bored--queasy because, you know, disturbed for life, and bored because I can't help but feel that one freaky carnival book was enough for me--it worked great that first time, but the idea is just no longer interesting to me. So, yeah, I should have maybe read the summary for this one before I started it.And then, man, Bradbury really goes adjective crazy. I didn't even know what the hell he was saying at times--a lot of it just sounds like total nonsense to me. He used "clearwater," to describe three different things within the first quarter of the book or so. In addition there's this part where he goes on this weird spiel about how women are time and sleep like babies and old people and only middle-aged men and boys are ever awake at 3:00 a.m. when the soul has left the body. Whaaaaaat? Nonsense. But even so, I was pushing through it and still managed to be somewhat intrigued--not really by what horrifying thing was going down at the freak show, but by whether Will and Jim could somehow manage to remain friends in the face of whatever horrifying thing was going down at the freak show--only then I hit a part full of stuff like this: "He ran fast. Very fast. Extremely fast." "Their hearts beat fast. Then slowed down. Then beat very fast. Then slow. Then extremely fast." "Live, live! Come to life! Live! Live! Come to life! Live!" "The old, old, dead, dead man sat there." Argh!!! The repetition! I found myself shouting out loud for Bradbury to just GET ON WITH IT ALREADY! And it seems like, for me, there's just no redeeming a book once I've reached that level of frustration with it. I don't think any of this would have bothered me quite so much if I had been reading the book instead of listening to it; I would have at least had the option to skim. But I'm not convinced it would be worth it to track down a paperback copy and give it another try. I just don't think I care enough at this point. But if you think I'm totally wrong and am really missing out on a super fantastic story, feel free to try and convince me. For now though, I'm just going to walk away and try to forget it ever happened. And maybe reread The Other again--ha!

Chance Maree

"By the pricking of my thumbs,Something wicked this way comes."I had a strong urge to read this novel. Perhaps it was the title, a quote from one of the witches in Macbeth where she says she can tell something evil is about to come because of the way her thumbs are itching. In the next two lines, she welcomes that evil--open the door, let it in (which reminds me of a Paul McCartney song....). Anyway, what a wonderful title! And who can resist a sinister carnival rolling into town? So, I was hooked. Other reviewers have mentioned loving this novel in their youth, which is understandable due to its two young protagonists, Will and Jim. Boyhood is at once idealized and fraught with danger in the form of devices, both fleshy and mechanical. The one adult who connects with the children, stands both small and tall, in the eyes of the boys, as often a parent will do. And it is the parent who grows and leads and helps, so security is provided in a fearful world. Things are scary, but the good people can prevail. Or maybe not, since I don't want to give anything away....For me, and I'm no longer young in years, this story is about time and the possible disasters of aging. The Wicked of the title is that future you--old and wrinkled and weak. And for all, it is coming. However, the story offers hope. It offers a way to nullify the wickedness of time. The secret is a matter of perspective. The secret is to look it in the eye, and laugh. To go ahead and run with the boys if you wish. We have the power to overcome the dread that awaits us, by not crying over lost youth or trembling in fear. Step outside the finite, and you will be amazed at the world again. In summary, I enjoyed the story and loved its ability to speak across the ages. The lack of a fifth star is due to the style of prose that bothered me at times--still highly recommended though, for the springboard into thoughtfulness.

Mike (the Paladin)

One of my favorite "semi-horror" reads. I suppose it could be called "horror" but it doesn't fit neatly into the mold. Like a lot of Bradbury's work the smell of late summer and early fall permeates this volume. The point of view is that of a boy on the brink of manhood as he gets to know more about certain concepts of "good and evil" than he ever really wanted to. I grew up on a farm within walking distance of a small (very small) town and this work hits home with me. There are books that can become or are iconic. While I don't think this one has reached that point with the general reading public I think it might deserve to. It holds a special place in my library and my "reading history". It reached right down and touched something, possibly because I could feel the nostalgia ruffling through the volume and wafting out of the book with each turn of a page. October with it's mixture of melancholy and fun for children, riding on the edge of a dying summer and setting on the cusp of a holiday season leading us into Thanksgiving and then Christmas...the apex of an American kid's yearly dreams. At least it was for my generation, the one before and the one just after.Is it that way still? Not as much I fear. Will children of the 90s or 2000s or 2010s have the same capacity for wonder and fantasy as the children of the 40s, 50s, and 60s or even the 70s and 80s? I guess we'll see.The traveling carnivals that traveled from town to town and showed up at county fairs of my own youth that set the background for this tale with their mysterious denizens, noisy rides, lights that filled the night while leaving pockets of darkness are almost gone. The barkers and their "side shows", the fixed games of "chance" are passing, a thing of a bygone era. Some of that is probably good...but not all. As you join Jim and Will here and delve into the dark and sinister world of Mr. Cooger, Mr. Dark and the Autumn people I suspect you'll see some corollaries to life, but I can't be sure of that. A lot will depend on your own past...and your own capacity for wonder.

Jason Pettus

Ray Bradbury has never sat comfortably in the world of literature, nor with me; considered a "genre writer" by some and meant as an insult, a "serious writer" by others and meant as a compliment, it seems that I am always going back and forth about his merits in my head too, especially the farther away we get from many of the books' original publication dates. That said, how can you not love Something Wicked This Way Comes, which the older it gets the more can actually be appreciated as a historical document, instead of as a fantastical tale? A pastiche of horror story and childhood recollection of traveling county fairs, Bradbury paints such a vivid picture of a now-lost bucolic rural life here as to be almost heartbreaking to contemporary readers; oh yeah, and there's a horror story too, old enough now that its main twists have become well-worn cliches. This is always the problem with reading Bradbury in modern times, after all; he's been so influential, almost none of his story elements hold any surprise anymore, not to mention being written in a sometimes clunky way. A story that holds up better than, for example, "The Martian Chronicles," because of the historical small-town elements, or at least in my opinion.


Oh Bradbury, why did I take so long to discover you? I could blame the fact that I missed that class in High School where they read Fahrenheit, or I could point to the some four hundred books on my To Be Read Doompile, but they all seem so shallow now. I instantly connected to your style, it was brilliant. I could feel the autumn and October winds drift past me, laden with smells and tastes that are specific to the chilly months in the Midwest. Every word was so beautiful, so evocative, it was a perfect fall read.It wasn’t spooky, it wasn’t horror, but it was really really ridiculously excellent. I mean, I would love to quote the entire conversation between Will and his Dad, right here, because it is a) the best father-son talk in any book ever and b) from that alone you should understand why I loved this book. But that would be cheating you out of the experience of reading it for yourself. So I will give you an excerpt. It will be my whole review. I want you to have a taste, and then I want you to reach for the book yourself, reach for the bottle, and drink it up. Every word.“…Now, look, since when did you think being good meant being happy?”“Since always”“Since now learn otherwise. Sometimes the man who looks happiest in town, with the biggest smile, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. There are smiles and smiles; learn to tell the dark variety from the light. The seal-barker, the laugh-shouter, half the time he’s covering up. He’s had his fun, and he’s guilty. And men do love sin, Will, oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, sizes, colors, and smells. Times come when troughs, not tables, suit our appetites… For being good is a fearful occupation; men strain at it and sometimes break in two. I’ve known a few. You work twice as hard to be a farmer as to be his hog.”

Stefan Yates

This was my first experience with Bradbury and I had to ask myself several times, "Why haven't I read any of his work before?" Bradbury has a wonderful style to his prose and his use of language really makes the reader pause and relish what has just been read before moving on for more. Several other reviews and comments have labeled this book as a book for teens or slapped it with the dreaded "Young Adult" label. While I do find this novel to be very appropriate for a younger audience. I also think that whether or not you read it at a younger age, it is a novel that will be more appreciated by those of a more ripened age. To me, a younger audience will be more drawn to the plight of the main characters whereas someone such as myself will identify and better understand the position and emotional makeup of Will's father, Mr. Halloway.The story itself is a wonderful coming of age type of adventure with plenty of tension and horrific moments that keep the reader on the edge of their seat. While the book is not so long as to be intimidating to more inexperienced readers, I found that it was anything but a quick read. That is not to say that I struggled to get through it, as a matter of fact, that couldn't be further from the truth. I found this novel to be one that I had to savor in smaller bites, taking a moment from time to time to sit back a reflect on the language and description provided by the author rather than rushing on to the next moment with our young heroes. All in all and enjoyable tale for both young and old that I will be sure to pick up again.


The Dark carnival is coming to town and two boys and a dad are the towns only hope. If only out of fear you could stay home and don't go down to the fair ground tonight for the dark man awaits. Two buddies, boys, they live next to each other and can see each others bedroom windows when needed. Friends born two minutes apart one 1min before midnight October 30th and the other 1min after midnight October 31st Halloween.I loved the father son relationship in this story between Will and his father Charles Halloway. His father has a level of understand of boys and there little needs and acknowledges his sons growing up and testing the waters of limitations in his obedience.A darkly poetic story. Executed in with an elegant prose and a style unique to Bradbury. It's a short novel but the sentences hold more meaning and need pondering over.Page-turning but with a high quality of richness of description and atmosphere.When you visit a maze or hall of mirrors again after reading this you will be reflecting back to this dark carnival that you have paid visit to by way of Ray Bradbury.A timeless story that is high up many readers lists of all time reads and that holds significant inspiration in writers pursuit in writing a story for the masses.As I finished re-reading it I can't help thinking I be paying a visit again to this treasure trove of weirdness, mystery and darkness involving weird characters of the carnival, two youthful buddies and a father. The illustrated Man a really interesting character and probably in my next stop after reading this i will be paying a visit to his novel The Illustrated Man a collection of stories involving a tattooed man similar to that of the Illustrated Man/The Dark Man in this novel. This one keeps you turning the pages with the fate of two friends in mind.Ray Bradbury says in his afterword..."Disney created Disneyland as a bright antidote. He made a new world. I finished a novel, with Mr. Electro at its centre, changed from a kind Christian mystic into an unfailing evil Cooger and Cooger an Dark's Pandemonium Shadow Show."If you ever happen to notice a carousel at a funfair rotating backwards and music being played backwards steer well clear of the ride. For that backward ride, a carousel, of a carnival is driven probably by dark feelings, fear and anger.Excerpts that I had to take note of... "A carnival should be all growls, roars like timberlands stacked, bundled, rolled and crashed, great explosions of lion dust, men ablaze with working anger, pop bottles jangling, horse buckles shivering, engines and elephants in full stampede through rains of sweat while zebras neighed and trembled like cage trapped in cage. But this was like old movies, the silent theatre haunted with black-and-white ghosts, silvery mouths opening to let moonlight smoke out, gestures made in silence so hushed you could hear the wind fizz the hair on your cheeks.""In the meadow, the tents, the carnival waited. Waited for someone, anyone to wade along the grassy surf. The great tents filled like bellows. They softly issued forth exhalations of air that smelled like ancient yellow beasts. But only the moon looked in at the hollow dark, the deep caverns. Outside, night beasts hung in midgallop on a carousel. Beyond lay fathoms of Mirror Maze which house a multifold series of empty vanities one wave on another, still, serene, silvered with age, white with time. Any shadow, at the entrance, might stir reverberations the Olof of fright, unravel deep-buried moons. If a man stood there would he see himself unfolded away a billion times to eternity? Would a billion images look back, each face and the face after and the face after that old, older, oldest? Would he find himself lost in a fine dust away off deep down there, not fifty but sixty, not sixty but seventy, not seventy but eighty, ninety, ninety-nine years old? The maze did not ask. The maze did not tell. It simply stood and waited like a great arctic floe."" 'Three....'Three in the morning, thought Charles Halloway, seated on the edge of his bed. Why did the train come at that hour?For, he thought, it's a special hour. Women never wake then, do they?They sleep the sleep of babes and children. But men in middle age?They know that hour well. Oh God, midnights not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two's not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there's hope, for dawns just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body's at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You're the nearest to dead you'll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you'd slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that's burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with it's idiot face. It's a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead-And wasn't it true, had he read it somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M than at any other time...?""The music, thought Will, what was it? And how do I know it's backside first? He hugged the limb, tried to catch the tune, then hum it forward in his head. But the brass bells, the drums, hammered his chest, revved his heart so he felt his pulse reverse, his blood turn back in perverse thrusts through all his flesh, so he was nearly shaken free to fall, so all he did was clutch, hang pale, and drink the sight of the backward-turning machine and Mr Dark, alert at the controls, on the sidelines. It was Jim who first noticed the new thing happening, for he kicked Will, once, Will looked over, and Jim nodded frantically at the man in the machine as he came around the next time. Mr Cooger's face was melting like pink wax.His hands were becoming dolls hands.His bones sank away beneath his clothes; his clothes then shrank down to fit his dwindling frame. His face flickered going, and each time around he melted more.Will saw Jim's head shift, circling, The carousel wheeled, a great back-drifting lunar dream, the horse thrusting, the music in-grasped after, while Mr Coogar, as simple as shadows, as simple as light, as simple as time, got younger. And younger. And younger."" 'An old religious tract. Pastor Newgate Philips, I think. Read it as a boy. How does it go again?' He tried to remember. He liked his lips. He did remember 'For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ's birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and son on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In guts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles- breaks. Such as the autumn people. Beware of them.' "" 'Riding that merry-go round they shave off a year or two, any time they want, right?' 'Why, then--' The abyss opened at Wills feet -'they could live forever!' 'And hurt people.' Jim turned it over, again and again.'But why, why all the hurt?' 'Because,' said Mr Halloway.'You need fuel, gas, something to run a carnival on, don't you? Women live off gossip, and what's gossip but swap of headaches, sour spit, arthritic bones, ruptured and mended flesh, indiscretions, storms of madness, calms after the storms? If some people didn't have something juicy to chew on, their choppers would prolapse, theirs souls with them. Multiply their pleasure at funerals, their chuckling through breakfast obituaries, add all the cat-fight marriages where folks spend careers ripping skin off each other and patching it back upside around, add quack doctors slicing persons to read their guts like tea leaves, square the whole dynamite factory by ten quadrillion, and you got the black candlepower of this one carnival. 'All the meannesses we harbour, they borrow in redoubled spades. They're a billion times itchier for pain, sorrow, and sickness than the average man. We salt our lives with other peoples sins. Our flesh to us tastes sweet. But the carnival doesn't care if it stinks by moonlight instead of sun, so long as it gorges on fear and pain. That's the fuel, the vapor that spins the carousel, the raw stuffs of terror, the excruciating agony of guilt, the scream from real or imagined wounds. The carnival sucks that gas, ignites it, and chugs along its way.' ""Somewhere in the recumbent solitudes, the motionless but teeming millions of books, lost in two dozen turns right, three dozen turns left, down aisles, through corridors, toward dead ends, locked doors, half-empty shelves, somewhere in the literary soot of Dickens's London, or Dostoevsky's Moscow or the steppes beyond, somewhere in the vellumed dust of atlas or Geographic, sneezes pent but set like traps, the boys crouched, stood, lay sweating a cool and constant brine.Somewhere hidden, Jim thought: He's coming!Somewhere hidden, Will thought: He's near!'Boys....?' " Review also found @


A wonderful classic by one of the best pure storytellers in speculative fiction. Not overly dark and scary in light the state of contemporary horror, but a terrific story with some nice creepy moments to keep you up at night.


I read this when I was an insanely romantic teenager and since then the cruel world has beaten all that nonsense out of my brain with bars of iron and wires of barb, and left me bleeding and barfing in a vile ditch, so I should probably not have plucked my old Corgi paperback of Something Wicked out from my most cobwebbed shelf and thought to wander nostalgically recapturing the wonder and enrapturement I once perceived herein. In those faroff days I wanted to be the smile on the bullet, I wanted to be the weathervane, I wanted to run the dark carnival, and above all else I wanted a calliope so I could play mad twisting melodies at three in the morning from the caboose of a train made out of dead men's bones. Instead I got a job in an office, after a few detours, none of which involved a naked living woman in a block of ice. But anyway, when I did reread this book, I could not shake off the growing realisation that none of it made the least bit of sense. Not a single bit. And the dad is a complete steal - it's Atticus Finch back from the dead. And I saw that Ray Bradbury never met a pudding he did not want to over-egg or an emotion he did not want to wring dry. I had grown old. I didn't recognise the place. I didn't know who the boy was who loved this book so much. I knew his name but I couldn't remember his face.It was a bad idea, rereading a book which so knocked me out all those years ago. I'll give it 5 stars for the love I used to have for it, but I don't really recommend it to anyone now. The world has changed and no longer has the stomach for Ray Bradbury's 1950s goldenhued renderings of his own 1920s childhood. So goodbye, then, to Dandelion Wine, another one I loved. What I learned from this book is that Memory Lane has been mined. You walk down that street at your peril.


This book is every bit as creepy as I remember. Bradbury's prose is exquisite. It mirrors the action in the novel perfectly. I loved the one sentence chapter. I don't think I ever really noticed the character of Charles Holloway when I was a kid, but he really is pretty amazing. He experiences more growth and change than the two boys. While this is supposed to be a coming of age story, the one who really becomes a man is Charlie. I'm definitely passing this on to my son.-------------------------------------------------------------My rating is subject to change. I read this book in junior high when I was reading everything by Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allen Poe and John Steinbeck. I remember an overwhelming sense of creepiness permeating the pages of this novel. I'm re-reading it for a Yahoo group I belong to.

Share your thoughts

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *