Falconry

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Some years back I read Ransom Riggs’ Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children and the two follow-up volumes.  My interest in them was reignited when I started seeing them being branded as dark academia.  The home is really a kind of school and the images offer a feeling compatible with other dark academia works for children.  Then, reading about Tim Burton, I realized one of the few movies of his I hadn’t seen was the one based on this book.  Now, it has been long enough that the storyline has faded a bit, but I’m pretty sure the movie took some liberties with the original tale.  Even before seeing the movie, it seemed to me that Burton’s distinctive style would be a good match for what I remembered of the tale. I didn’t know it was a Burton movie when I first learned about it.

The best way to be introduced to the story is to read Riggs’ books, but the basic idea is that “peculiar” children—those with strange abilities—are kept in secret locations by Ymbryne, peculiar women that can turn into birds.  Miss Peregrine, for example.  They are kept safe from Hollowgasts, monsters that want to eat their eyes, and Wights, Hollowgasts that eat enough eyes to appear human.  The children are kept safe in time loops created by Ymbryne, where everyone stays the same age and they can hide from Wights and “Hollows.”  Jake’s grandfather was in Miss Peregrine’s home, but he decided to leave to hunt down the Wights and Hollows.  When he’s killed, Jake wants to find out if all the stories he told were true.  His father, thinking his son has mental issues, agrees to go on holiday with him and Jake finds and befriends the peculiars at the school.  They’re stuck in 1943.

When a Wight follows Jake to Miss Peregrine’s loop, the children have to fight the Hollows and Wights to rescue her.  And Jake has to make a decision whether to stay in 1943 or go back to 2016 where things haven’t been so great for him.  You get the picture.  The movie’s not bad.  It threw me a bit not to have the music by Danny Elfman.  Again, the subject matter would seem to have suited his particular style.  I remember hearing about the movie when it came out a decade ago.  It didn’t make a huge splash, and nobody else I know had read the books so I didn’t see the film back then.  Burton is a director that I’ve followed more or less steadily since his second film.  I have a little more catching up to do, however, peculiar as that may seem.

Building Horror

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Christina Henry grew a reputation rewriting fairy tales.  At least that’s how I found her.  I read The Girl in Red and then Horseman (which was after I’d begun work on Sleepy Hollow as American Myth).  I thought she’d found her niche as a writer.  Lately, when browsing bookstore shelves in the horror section, I’ve discovered she has a reputation there as well.  The House that Horror Built caught my eye, and I trust certain writers, based on past performance.  (Which is, I suspect, how most agents assess their clients.)   In any case, I wanted to give it a try.  Speaking of trying, I’ll attempt to avoid spoilers here because there’s a twist ending.  The story begins innocently enough.  Harry, a woman down on her luck, has a job cleaning the house of a famous horror director, Javier Castillo.  Barely making ends meet in Chicago, she cleans his horror props three days a week.

Castillo is in Chicago because of the disappearance of his wife and son after the latter was accused of a murder he probably committed.  His family gone, Castillo moves away from Hollywood while trying to work on his next project.  Meanwhile, Harry’s landlord is evicting her and her son Gabriel.  Upon learning that Harry likes horror movies, Castillo invites her and her son to dinner one night.  Things get a bit chummy for Harry’s tastes, but they return once more when a couple of actors are staying with the director.  One of the actors has a tragic accident, falling to her death.  Meanwhile the eviction date is moved up and Harry has no choice but to accept Castillo’s offer of hospitality.  She’s known for some time that his house is haunted.  I think I’ll leave things there.  Hopefully it’ll peak some interest.

I don’t know much about Henry, but she does seem to understand the plight of the poor.  It isn’t easy to survive when you can’t earn enough beyond what covers the necessary expenses.  And when you have a child, the anxiety increases exponentially.  For the most part, this is a slow burn horror tale.  The suspected ghost is introduced not too far into the proceedings, but the explanation is more than the reader expects—at least this reader.  The last couple of chapters are page-turners with some full-on horror.  I don’t mind waiting for some payoff.  To me, however, the darkness in the threat of homelessness is its own form of horror.  And it’s not too difficult to imagine for the majority of us.  I’d say Henry has bridged successfully into the genre.

Thorny Path

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Although we’ve all heard “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” we all do.  An image, or artfully done cover design, speaks to us.  I admit I bought A. G. Slatter’s The Path of Thorns because of the cover.  I don’t remember exactly where, but it was in an independent bookshop, probably either in New Hope or Lititz, or some town in-between, and it was face out on the shelf.  I noted it was somewhat thick, and I have a penchant for shorter novels, but the thorns, werewolf, and hand of glory on the gothic cover spoke to me.  I have to confess that it took quite some time to get into it.  Asher Todd is an unreliable narrator.  And she keeps secrets.  It took several chapters to be grabbed by the story.  But to be honest, I’m finding lately that stories that take their time building are frequently worth the wait. Trust the author.

Placed in a setting that a couple of the blurbs classify as “fairy tale,” Path of Thorns is told by Asher, a mysterious woman who we know is a witch.  She’s on a shadowy mission not revealed until quite late, to the Morwood estate.  There she uses her magic discreetly to help both members of the family and some people on the grange.  Witches are still hunted and killed.  She introduces the priest, called a “god-hound,” and it turns out that he has a minor, but important part to play in the story.  The Morwood estate is run by a vain, self-centered son Luther, while the matriarch, Leonora, technically in charge, is more or less an invalid.  Until Asher, out of pity, cures her blindness.  From there the story unfolds.

There is a werewolf, and the hand of glory has a role.  It’s not really a horror novel, though.  It does have a gothic, dark fairy tale feel to it.  And once the major turning point in the plot is revealed, it’s difficult to put down.  This is made even easier because the chapters are uniformly short, which means you can pick it up and reach an obvious stopping point without committing half an hour.  In the end it’s quite a well-told story that I’m glad to have read.  Whenever I go to a bookstore, I do so with a list.  Given the nature of my interests, I often have trouble locating anything on said list.  Those of us who prefer not to walk out of an independent bookstore empty-handed frequently benefit from judging a book by its cover.

Serious Series

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The Carnivorous Carnival continues to reveal more of the Baudelaires’ unanswered questions.  At the Caligari Carnival the orphans disguise themselves to fit into a freak show, and meet Madame Lulu, who reveals important information—the V.F.D. has split into two parties.  The children still don’t learn what the initials stand for, but they discover that some of the influential adults in their lives were part of it.  The story grows quite gripping and more seriously dark than I remembered it being when I read it to our daughter many years ago.  One of Count Olaf’s associates isn’t mentioned after The Hostile Hospital, where presumably they died.  In this volume, another of his associates is thrown to the lions that give the book its title.

I couldn’t help but think of Daniel in the lion’s den as I read this one.  And Olaf’s plan is only too eagerly lapped up by the crowd wanting to see violence (and sloppy eating).  The reference to Daniel here can’t be coincidence.  The story also has the children questioning their own motivations.  Are they villains too?  Madame Lulu was a good member of V.F.D. who’d turned bad.  The children helped her reform, but in the end she betrayed them to Count Olaf.  Were their motives really pure?  For the first time in a Series of Unfortunate Events, the orphans end up separated at the end.  Neither Mr. Poe nor the Quagmire Triplets appear in this part of the tale.  It does seem, as noted, darker than usual.

Daniel Handler continues his subtle talking over the heads of children, though.  When explaining “déjà vu” for children, he gives other examples such as “ennui” and “la petite mort.”  The latter he explains that it’s a feeling that part of you has died, but Handler certainly knows that the common usage for the phrase is a circumlocution for “orgasm.”  Something many adults know as well, I suspect.  And there is humor for younger readers as well.  The “freaks” with whom the orphans share their job at the carnival provide some comic relief.  As an adult reading the books for myself, I get the feeling that, by this far into the series the story—while remaining pure fantasy—is aimed more at older readers.  It’s amazing what you can forget over the course of a couple of decades.  I trusted Lemony Snicket all those years ago, not to write anything that would seriously disturb our child.  I still trust him as an adult as I look forward to book ten.

Haunting the House

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Although it starts off a little slowly, the premise of The Haunting of Ashburn House keeps you reading.  I don’t mind taking the time for a story to unfold.  I know many people want action to draw them in, but I’ve been reading about quiet horror and since it often takes its time, I know to appreciate it.  I’ve not read Darcy Coates before, but as this tale unspooled itself it grew gripping.  Even before the action took off, the situation was intriguing enough to draw me in.  I do quite like a haunted house story.  So, Adrienne has inherited a big old house from a great aunt she only vaguely remembers meeting once as a child.  A writer a bit down on her luck, she’s glad to have a place to live, but she knows nothing of the recently deceased relative who lived there.

Ipson, the town outside of which Ashburn House sits, is peopled with citizens who remember, often incorrectly, the tragedy that took place in Ashburn decades ago.  An entire family, apart from a young daughter, had been slaughtered there.  The daughter, sent to a foster family, returned as an adult to care for the house.  It has many secrets.  The people have been kept away from the house during the aunt’s long life alone there.  Adrienne arrives with little money and no acquaintances, and no knowledge of the history of the house.  She soon discovers that it’s haunted.  Not one to believe in ghosts, it takes some time to convince herself that the occurrences are supernatural.  Once that’s confirmed in a very stark way, much of the rest of the novel unfolds over the course of another day and night.

I don’t remember where I learned of this novel, but I do recall it was on a list of gothic literature.  Indeed, it is gothic.  And it’s a horror story.  The monster—“ghost” is a bit mild—has to be explained, but it fits within the context.  These days to make horror stories work you need to isolate protagonists from phones or “signal.”  Putting Adrienne in a small town, in a house with no wifi, and even partially without electricity, serves this end quite well.  Making her more or less penniless raises a bit of anxiety—such things can happen far too easily in real life.  The story is nevertheless well told and once the monster attacks it becomes difficult to put down.  I don’t remember where I learned about The Haunting of Ashburn House, but I’m glad that I did.

The Shaft

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For those following my musings on Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, I’m up to book six of the Baudelaire orphans’ adventures, The Ersatz Elevator.  There’s much to appeal to adults in these stories, as ridiculous as some parts are.  In this installment the Baudelaires are adopted by Esmé and Jerome Squalor, wealthy benefactors who live on Dark Avenue.  Mrs. Squalor, who’s very wealthy, follows whatever’s in at the moment, setting the theme for this part of the saga.  Of course, many “in” things are quite silly and they keep the situation light.  Although they live on the 66th floor (at 667), the Squalors have the elevators decommissioned because elevators aren’t in.  Count Olaf uses an abandoned elevator shaft to help work out his scheme to control the orphans, all the while trapping the Quagmire triplets.  The V.F.D. theme is further emphasized, but not yet explained.

The world-building of this series is impressive.  I remember reading through the first time and being increasingly drawn into the question of what V.F.D. could mean.  Although the 2004 movie picks up on Olaf’s arson activities, it doesn’t include this particular aspect.  The rest of the world Handler devised is also intriguing.  The time-frame is unclear.  The place, although it goes to outer-lying areas, centers on a city unnamed but which clearly has relevance for the overall plot.  People of this world are singularly clueless, including the orphans at times.  The world with its desultory, or even sinister, place names reflects that constant theme of misfortune that somehow isn’t depressing.  And an educational element, particularly in introducing children to new terms, phrases, and concepts, is generally present.

I learned the word “Ersatz” in German class.  A noun denoting “substitute,” it became an English adjective only in the last century.  Once the concept is defined in the way the children devise to climb down the elevator shaft, it’s used in reinforcing ways throughout the rest of the story.  Often in humorous contexts.  Also, the character of Lemony Snicket starts to grow more prominent as Beatrice is brought more explicitly into the plot.  The first mentions here are subtle, but her role takes on some shading as the series moves on.  This use of narrator as character had some influence on me as a writer.  While I’d written a not very good novel before beginning my doctorate, I started on my fiction again, on and off, during the period when I was reading these books to my child.  Coming back to them continues to inspire an adult who loves their gothic flavor, even if as ersatz adult literature.

Ghost Belief

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I haven’t read Plato since I was a college student.  It’s not that I don’t want to read more, but as with most things it comes down to a matter of time.  If I’m honest I’ll confess Plato wasn’t the reason I read Cathy Gutierrez’s Plato’s Ghost.  It was the second word.  And the subtitle: Spiritualism in the American Renaissance.  I’ve always been interested in Spiritualism.  In fact, Lily Dale is on my bucket-list of places to visit.  The idea that ghosts can inform our spirituality is an intriguing concept.  While Gutierrez’s book is an academic one, it contains many stimulating ideas and shows that the Spiritualists were perhaps the truest progressives of their era.  And they had their heyday during the Victorian Period.  I enjoyed learning more about their theology and social views.  And, of course, ghosts.

When academics venture into esoterica, some amazing things can result.  I occasionally discuss Jeff Kripal’s books—he’s on the forefront of this movement—and now and again the books of other academics who engage the unusual.  Ghosts have, of course, been noted and believed in since the earliest humans who wrote.  Probably before.  They are still reported and chasing them has become a business model by which one might make a living.  A religion foregrounding the departed, however, is fascinating.  As Gutierrez demonstrates, Spiritualists were very forward-looking while keeping an eye firmly on the past.  While reading her book I kept stumbling upon astonishing observations that made me stop and wonder.  Spiritualists supported abolition, feminism, fair treatment for all, and, at least some of them, free love.  Numerous historical asides also brought me to a halt.  The idea, for example, that patients with multiple personality disorders might benefit from putting a non-dominant personality in charge.  There are Easter eggs like that throughout the book.

While Plato’s Ghost is academic, and there are parts that require some careful reading, it is the kind of book that laity interested in Spiritualism could benefit from picking up.  There are sections that enlightened me, and I’ve been studying religion for many decades now.  In general I’ve been steering away from reading academic tomes in my time off.  When I go to do my own writing it tends to veer back toward getting published only in academic presses, which I’m also trying to avoid.  I’ll make exceptions for books like this one, however.  I was drawn in by the promise of ghosts, and while they weren’t exactly what I was expecting, they were a rich feast nevertheless.

Bad Start

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I’m not too proud to admit to reading books for young readers.  On a recent family night we watched the 2004 film, A Series of Unfortunate Events (not for the first time), and I realized that my memory of the books by Lemony Snicket was hazy.  Since we bought and read all the books for my daughter, I pulled The Bad Beginning from the shelf and read it in a couple of hours.  Although it was published over a quarter century ago, it is still fresh and it stands as one of those books (and series) that defied convention and presented stories that were potentially disturbing for children.  I have to admit that another of my motivations in re-reading this was the suggestion that perhaps on another family night we might start watching the Netflix adaptation, which, as I understand it, is better than the theatrical movie.

The movie, of course faced a dilemma.  There are thirteen books in the series—too many to comfortably fit into one film.  Each individual book, however, is too slim to fill out a feature-length presentation.  The decision was made to blend the first three books together, beginning and ending the show with the events from The Bad Beginning.  If you’re not familiar with the series, even if you don’t have children, the books are an entertaining read.  Snicket, who was later revealed to be Daniel Handler, is quite a clever author and there were a couple of points that had me, well, snickering out loud.  In any case, I’m given to understand that the Netflix series tackles this conundrum of too much/little material by being, ahem, a series.

A brief summary of The Bad Beginning may help if you’re still undecided about reading it as an adult.  The three Baudelaire children, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny, are orphaned in a fire.  Adopted by their scheming uncle, Count Olaf, they are immediately put in peril as he tries various ways to get at their parents’ fortune.  Since Olaf is a thespian, he devises a plot to hold a wedding between himself and fourteen-year-old Violet in disguise as a play.  The plot is foiled, of course, by the children.  The book ends by letting the reader know that the orphans are still in danger because Olaf has escaped and remains at large.  That would take quite a lot of padding to get a feature-length film out of it.  It works quite well as a brief book for young readers.  I was impressed at both the set-up and execution when I first read this many years ago.  And I liked it again the second time through.

Bad Boy

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I’m still trying to figure out what I think about it.  The introduction by Grady Hendrix got me interested in the novels of Ken Greenhall.  The introduction was in Hell Hound and it described how Greenhall’s books whispered horror rather than shouted it.  That’s also true of the horror stories I write, and it’s clear I still have plenty to learn.  Baxter is a bull terrier whose thoughts are recorded for part of each chapter in this short book.  What we read isn’t terribly welcome.  Baxter is aware and intolerant of human weakness and he has a strong will.  So strong that he uses it to get people he doesn’t care for out of his way.  At the same time, as the story unfolds, you can’t see Baxter as evil.  He obeys his nature but he has morals.  Spoilers follow.

His first owner, an old woman with little joy in life, is his first victim.  He’s adopted by a young couple but they’re about to become parents and when they do his jealousy appears in the worst way.  They couple give him away to a young boy who aspires to be a Nazi.  A fan of Hitler, he appreciates Baxter for his power and his, as he thinks, killer instinct.  But Baxter doesn’t kill for the sake of it.  Misguided as he might be, his kills all have a purpose.  The boy is a bit different.  He demonstrates his callousness by trying to have Baxter kill another boy.  Then the Nazi kills the pups Baxter has sired.  The two face off and the story is written well enough that you find yourself hoping that Baxter will prevail.  But alas, opposable thumbs do give a fatal advantage.

It’s unclear by the final chapter how much, if at all, the boy has changed.  He knows how to manipulate others and his own interest is what guides his actions.  It’s kind of a bleak story in the end.  It is, however, well told and compelling.  Greenhall wasn’t known much during his life, but he did manage what’s rather difficult today—he had a series of novels published.  He died over a decade ago and is now starting to be recovered.  That’s often the sign of quality writing.  Those who make an impact are often overlooked in their own time.  Hell Hound isn’t my favorite horror novel, but it is a strangely affective and effective one.  And it shows that dread need not take place over many hundreds of pages to work.  I’ll likely be coming back to Ken Greenhall for more.

Academic Reading

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There is an art to writing biographies.  In the course of my training myself to write on literary horror, I’ve read a number of them.  Those written by literary scholars tend to veer into literary analysis, derailing the narrative.  Academic writing encourages such things, whereas the reader simply itches with boredom until the author gets back to more interesting things, like who the subject met, or what s/he did.  This is a shame, really, since I’ve read many books that could’ve been made much better by leaving the academese out of it.  Scholars far more brilliant than me have argued this for years.  I find it particularly ironic among English professors.  When they write biographies of literary figures, look out.  Obfuscation being mistaken for erudition is the order of the day.  Why do we teach those who study literary expression to make their own writing so turgid?

I know!  I know!  “If you can do better, you’re welcome to try.”  But I’m only after information.  If I’m reading a biography of a writer I don’t want her or his literary output analyzed.  I want to know about their life.  What made them tick.  Chances are, I can read what they wrote for myself and I don’t need anyone to tell me how to do that.  As an editor, I see a lot of academese.  My face falls when I do.  This stuff is so dull that only a true specialist would appreciate it.  Of course, I grew up in an uneducated family and I valued teachers who were good at explaining things.  There’s plenty I don’t understand (i.e., I can’t do it better myself), and I read to try to comprehend.  It reminds me of that witty academic bumper sticker I see from time to time in university towns: eschew obfuscation.

Is it really so difficult to write well?  I suspect some of the less accomplished biographies I read are in reality revised dissertations.  Dissertations are written for a committee, and rare are those that can be read by general readers with any appreciation.  But then, there are so many interesting people in the world who deserve biographies who’ve never been discovered.  The one who realizes this is often the doctoral student and when they begin to write up their findings, they bury this interesting person again under so much unnecessary verbiage that they continue to remain obscure.  Perhaps there’s a reason I was never really welcomed into the academy.  I am, perhaps, too easy to understand.

Substitutes

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I discovered Mary Roach in a Borders store in Somerville, New Jersey.  Well, it might’ve been Raritan, technically, but it was right off the infamous Somerville Circle.  We were fairly new in town and I was looking for reading material.  I found Spook, her second book.  I enjoyed it so much I went back for her first book.  I introduced my wife to her third book and, starting with book number four, we’ve been reading them together.  (All of her books are at least mentioned on this blog; I rarely follow an author like that.) That brings us to Replaceable You, which published last year.  The subtitle, Adventures in Human Anatomy, gives you an idea of the content.  Roach is a charming science writer.  The two traits don’t often meet.  She peers at things that most of us shy away from, which, in a way, makes her a good potential horror writer.  Instead, she looks at her subjects with humor, often self-deprecating, and a sense of wonder.

Replaceable You isn’t my favorite of her books, but it’s not her fault.  Roach is about four years older than me and she too is facing aging.  This book is about parts of bodies that can be replaced, printed, or engineered.  Some of it is surprising and much of it almost incredible.  The reason that it isn’t my favorite is that it hits pretty close to home.  Two of my immediate family members have chronic health conditions.  (Life, of course, is a chronic health condition.)  I often think about the implications, but reading about them makes me uncomfortable.  As one reviewer once indicated, though, reading Mary Roach on any subject is enjoyable.

We are embodied creatures.  This is one reason that “artificial intelligence” will always retain the emphasis on the first word.  One of the surprising things I learned from this book was that organs/tissues are now starting to be 3-D printed.  Last time I looked, 3-D printing involved plastic, but in some places biological components are being used.  The tech isn’t far enough along to print actual organs yet, but there is incredible work being done.  It’s quite possible, and this is me, not Roach, that people born in a couple of decades (depending on whether we can get Republicans out of the White House, and science funding can be restored) may well be able to have biologically personalized health care that includes new organs made from their own cells.  That gets too close to eternity for my liking.  I enjoy living, but wouldn’t want to do it forever.  I’ll be okay along the way, however, as long as there are Mary Roach books to read.

Confidential Hazing

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Set in a Long Island prep school, among a somewhat secret society called the Players, this is a dark academia tale of murder and discovery.  The Players, usually numbering eight in the senior class at Gold Coast Prep, are down to six.  One of their number was murdered and the one who confessed to that murder has been jailed.  Most of the students are extremely wealthy, but Jill Newman isn’t really rich.  This is what lies behind They Wish They Were Us by Jessica Goodman.  Although technically a young adult novel there are several disturbing elements here, some worthy of Lord of the Flies.  For that we need to dig a bit deeper.  To become a member of the Players, hazing is involved.  Since this isn’t an official program of the school, the hazing is entirely controlled by the seniors who are Players, to initiate their underclassmen into the club.

Some of the hazing is pretty intense, even for an adult reading the novel.  Kids aren’t always good about thinking through the consequences of traumatic activities on other kids.  People tend to be resilient, but at the same time scars heal in different ways.  In the course of one of the hazing tasks, something goes wrong and one of Jill’s friends, her best friend, ends up dead.  Since there’s a lot of drinking and drugs involved, it isn’t always easy to piece together what might’ve happened.  The crisis occurs for Jill when her younger brother joins the Players.  She has to watch him face the hazing, and at the same time comes to have suspicions about what really happened to her best friend.  Things get pretty tense.

As adults we can easily place ourselves, in our minds, back to our teenage years.  This is something that we didn’t appreciate as teens, and even now most teens don’t realize this about adults.  Wisdom, hopefully, comes with age.  In this fictional setting, rich adults are seldom around.  Their kids, with access to nearly unlimited money, can set their own rules.  Even the police treat them differently.  I’m deliberately not saying too much about the story since it would be too easy to give away the ending.  The school officials in the book care more about preserving the reputation of Gold Coast Prep than they do about the welfare of their students, even if this leads to blackmail to maintain its good name.  And this is something that teens will come to understand only once they start to work for a company with its own secrets.

The Help

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Helpmeet was recommended to me by a friend.  Since most of my reading these days seems to be in the form of long books, I welcomed a brief one.  And the story, which is gothic and distinctly creepy, unfolded quickly.  I’ll not give away the ending, but the premise is spooky enough.  Edward is a physician who is married to Louise.  This is in the late 1800s.  Louise is aware that Edward has been unfaithful, but she loves him nevertheless.  He is dying.  His request is to end his days in his ancestral home near Buffalo, New York.  Travel is difficult because his body is literally falling apart.  Other doctors don’t know what’s wrong with him.  Some acquaintances suggest a venereal disease, since, well, he hasn’t kept his love in one place.  Louise agrees to the move.  Edward has lost both his eyes and his nose, and some other extremities.

He has to be wrapped carefully for the move, which is by train.  In a private car.  Secrets are revealed.  The mysterious woman with whom he had an affair.  How she was able to reach inside his body.  And how she is coming to visit in their new location.  After all this the plot takes an unexpected twist, which I’ll leave out in case it’s a spoiler.  Atmospheric and melancholy, this is one of those horror stories that is easy to get into and difficult to put down.  Body horror is a sub-genre that can be disturbing since we all have to deal with bodies and their issues.  And bodies are tied to mortality.  We are pretty sure from the beginning that Edward is not long for this world.  His body has begun to decompose with him still in it.  Louise’s care for that body is also a factor that forces us to look at what we’d rather not see.  Out of love, in her case.  And maybe revenge.

Spare stories such as this can still be powerful.  There’s a supernatural element to the twist, but it doesn’t feel like a deus ex machina.  It has been there from the beginning, but the reader couldn’t see it.  Helpmeet also raises the question of how well we really can know another person.  Even couples have to spend much time apart and individual experiences can change a person.  Edward isn’t a sympathetic character here, but he’s not evil.  Louise has to accept him as a man with weaknesses, and one who requires, as the title suggests, a helpmeet.

Vengeance Is Hers

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A Lesson in Vengeance, by Victoria Lee,  is a novel with some twists that I’ll try to conceal.  It is a kind of young adult horror-themed dark academia novel.  I really enjoyed it although there are a few improbable events.  That’s the way of fiction with an unreliable narrator.  Felicity Morrow, a girl from a wealthy Boston family, is enrolled at Dalloway School.  Dalloway is a girl’s prep school in upstate New York.  Felicity had to take some time off, during which she was institutionalized, after the death of her best friend, and lover, Alex.  Now that she’s back at school she feels the ghost of her friend coming back for vengeance.  She lives in Godwin House, which only has space for five.  It’s also part of the story of the Dalloway five, girls accused as witches when the school was founded, who all died there.

A new girl is starting at Dalloway this year.  Ellis Haley has already written a published novel and is working on a second.  She lives in Alex’s old room.  In spite of their rocky start, Ellis and Felicity become friends.  Then more than friends.  Meanwhile, they’re both working on their senior projects but Ellis wants to form a fictional coven and replay the way the Dalloway five died, for her novel.  Things grow tense as Felicity begins to remember more and more about what happened to Alex.  Then a murder takes place.  I won’t say more about the plot.  The last several chapters are ones where putting down the book is a real struggle.  You want to know who did it.  And since Felicity is the narrator, you gather that she must survive.  But this isn’t without danger.

The horror elements involve ghosts and witches.  Since Felicity is revealed to be an unreliable narrator it’s unclear whether the ghosts are real or not.  Most of the events are revealed to have had naturalistic answers, but one remains as either a real ghostly visitation or a delusion on the part of Felicity.  I read this book as part of my ongoing fascination with dark academia, and I’m glad I did.  It’s quite a well-told story.  Enough information is held back and revealed in moments of insight as the story unfolds that I was kept guessing until very near the end.  And the final realization only hits at the very end.  This is a good entry into dark academia for anyone wondering where to start, at least in my opinion.

With Thorns

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I’ve seen T. Kingfisher’s books on the tables of various bookstores and I’ve noted them.  I wasn’t sure if they were horror since the tables have always had ambiguous labels, such as Books to Read at Night, or some such.  I was in a new independent bookstore a couple weeks back and A House with Good Bones was decisively shelved with horror and so I decided to give this new (to me) author a try.  I’m glad I did.  Kingfisher writes in the vein of humor and horror, like Grady Hendrix.  This is a fetching kind of horror writing, if it’s done well.  A House with Good Bones keeps the pages turning with winsome writing as things start to get more disturbing and dark.  Samantha Montgomery, an archaeoentymologist (an archaeologist who studies insects, or an insect scientist who’s into archaeology) waiting for a dig to resume, visits her mother in North Carolina.  She learns that her mother has been acting strange.  There could be some spoilers below.

Overall, the plot is a bit complex, so some aspects will be left out.  Even if there are spoilers, you’ll need to read the book to reconstruct it all.  Fair warning.  The house seems to be haunted, but Sam doesn’t believe in ghosts.  And the haunting is unconventional—it focuses on roses.  The roses were planted by Sam’s grandmother, a woman she and her mother lived with, but who was anything but nice.  She was, however, dedicated to her roses.  While staying with there as an adult, Sam tries to do some research.  She learns that her great-grandfather was a kind of local wizard, or warlock.  Her grandmother wasn’t well liked in the small community where she lived.  As things begin to get creepier, Sam is forced to realize that despite her scientific training, houses can be haunted.  Her dead grandmother shows up, made of roses.  With the aid of a local witch, they banish the grandmother.  Then more trouble comes.

The grandmother had warned Sam of “the children underground”—her version of the bogeyman—and when the house suddenly becomes half buried, Sam and her mother learn that the children underground are real.  The novel also has a vulture theme.  I’m not doing a good job summarizing, since the story is, as I said, complex.  But it’s very enjoyable to read.  Kingfisher is funny and then scary, and passes easily between the two.  I enjoyed this book quite a lot, and I’ll be coming back for more.  And I think I know, after reading her, why Kingfisher is sometimes placed on ambiguously labeled tables at bookstores.  I always appreciate writers who make up their own genres while telling a compelling story.