In the Mood for Horror

Now that Horror Month is drawing to a close, it's time to take one last foray into a horror topic which would be nigh unforgivable for me to neglect any longer.

I've already told you about the most unsettling book I've read, my top recommendation for a literary Halloween, and my favorite modern horror book.

Over the past several years especially, I've noticed one other thing about my enjoyment of - and experiences in - the horror genre, though, and I want to share it with you:

Though he doesn't necessarily write all my favorite horror stories - nor even what I would call the scariest stories out there - no other writings puts me so squarely in the horror mood than the works of Edgar Allan Poe. At first pass, this may sound a bit cliche; I hope I can rise this explanation at least a hair above this surface triteness.

I have a very vague memory of reading The Cask of Amontillado in high school. (Or perhaps it was read to me in class? Maybe not read at all, but merely discussed?) The reason it's so vague, though, is because I remember not particularly enjoying it all too much. I'm sure I also came across The Raven at one point or another, and probably The Tell-Tale Heart, at least in passing.

It wasn't until I sat down one day to begin writing my own horror novel when I realized that - for all my love of horror - I wasn't quite sure how to establish the mood just right. I pored over it for awhile, attempted several false starts, but ultimately couldn't decide on the right pieces, the right words, the right way to bring my images together. I would have to read some horror, then, to get inspiration.

I was feeling antsy to get started on my own book, though; I didn't want to waste too much time getting buried in a full novel. As fate would have it, an old, beat-up paperback of the completes work of Poe was sitting on my shelf. (I must have picked it up for cheap somewhere along the way, though I no longer remember when or where.) This seemed like the perfect fit - I could read just one or two of his short stories in no time flat, then get right back into my own writing.

Only it didn't work out that way. No, I still haven't actually read all of his writings, but I devoured a sizable chunk of his complete works over the next day, maybe two. And even when I wasn't fully immersed in the stories, I was still constantly opening up the book for reference - to recount a certain image or passage, or remind myself of how Poe would handle one situation or another in his writing.

If I recall, I believe I started with The Fall of the House of Usher (possibly still my favorite Poe story). I also read - and re-read several times, right away - The Masque of the Red Death (my other favorite of his stories). The Tell-Tale Heart was in the mix, as was The Assignation, Hop-Frog, and The Oblong Box, as well as at least 12 or 15 others, and a bunch of his poems (of which I particularly loved The Raven, The Conqueror Worm, and The Haunted Palace). I've also enjoyed The Imp of the Perverse a number of times, though it's not as much of a story as the others - more of a philosophical treatise.

It's no secret that, even nowadays, a lot of writers claim Poe as an inspiration for their writing. And yet, none of these authors write like Poe anymore, do they? None of them sport the bountiful vocabulary, the oftentimes labyrinthine sentences, the intense focus on mood over plot or characters, the totalism of imagery and detail.

Back when I first really dove into Poe's works, it certainly worked as an inspiration for me - not only for establishing the right mood and atmosphere in my own writing, but also for putting me in the right paradigm for the season, the feelings, the experience I most want to get out of horror. This mindset is something I've returned to countless times over the years since my first true experiences with Poe, and it's something I have every faith I will continue in throughout the coming years.

Happy Halloween, friends!

REVIEW: Thornhill - Pam Smy

• Year first released:  2017
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9781626726543
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Roaring Book Press
• My rating (out of 5):  4.5

If I could draw (and I sincerely wish I could), I would create books like Thornhill. It is lovely, imaginative, succinct and with a fantastic dose of eeriness.

It’s a rather simple story, told half in prose and half in drawing:

The prose half of the book is the diary of a girl in an orphanage in the early 80’s, who is bullied by another tenant. The orphanage is struggling to keep its doors open, and one by one, all the other children and workers move on from the home.

The art half of the book – which is basically told only through drawing – is modern day, and shows us another girl, new to the neighborhood, who has more than a healthy amount of curiosity about the creepy, abandoned building not far from her house.

This delivery – of telling two intertwining stories, one with only words and the other with only art – is a fantastic approach. If this book were handled any other way – only prose or only art, or even all prose with occasional illustrations of both stories – surely something vital to the effect would have been lost. This combination does a truly remarkable job of creating precisely the right ominous atmosphere for this ultimately sad, dark story about loss and hope and bullying and figuring out where we belong.

And make no mistake, Thornhill is quite dark: according to the publisher, the age range is 10-14 years old. This sounds about right (actually, I would just say 10+, rather than capping it on the upper end at all), but it's perhaps not for a kid who is particularly susceptible to frights. (Though if you’re a parent, you know your kids well enough to know the right amount of thrills for them. My son, for example, loves creepy books and movies. I may pass this book on to him even earlier than 10.) 

Either way, at 32, I enjoyed it immensely. It’d be a fantastic book to read alone late at night, or curled up on the couch with a cuddle-buddy or squeamish friend. If you want a simple, easy, but still truly haunting book to read with your friends or loved ones on Halloween, Thornhill would be an exceptional candidate.

(Don't let the 544-page count put you off: since half is art, and the prose half doesn't actually boast too many words per page, it's not an especially long read - totally doable in a couple hours on Halloween night.)

REVIEW: Doubt (vols. 1 and 2) - Yoshiki Tonogai

• Year first released:  2013
• ISBNs of the editions I read:  9780316245302 and 9780316245319
• Publisher of the editions I read: Yen Press
• My rating (out of 5):  4

Doubt begins normally enough: a group of high-schoolers who play an online game together - Rabbit Doubt - decide to meet up in-person for the first time. They have a good evening together shopping and eating and singing karaoke, and then suddenly wake up in a creepy, abandoned warehouse with bar code tattoos, the corpse of one of them hanging from the rafters, and the idea that they have to kill one other to flush out the murderer. 

I guess I should say: Doubt begins normally enough...if you're a Saw movie or an Agatha Christie novel.

I loved the premise. It's not really a spoiler to say that, of course, each of the kids has his (or her) own secrets he's hiding which sure makes him seem to be the guilty one. These secrets and red herrings roll out over the course of the books - as the corpses quickly stack up - until the person behind the game is finally revealed. 

There's a very Agatha-Christie-like conceit to the entire set up (think especially of And Then There Were None) which Tonogai pulls off brilliantly, and without making it feel as though he's simply rehashing the ground she started nearly 80 years ago.

The art, too (which Tonogai himself does) is fantastic. He moves deftly between scenes of warmth and humanity, and scenes of shocking violence (and/or the aftereffects of it). Doubt certainly isn't for the faint of heart, though it never comes close to crossing into grind territory - this is definitely a thriller, through and through, with nothing gratuitous or supernatural in play. There is plenty of violence and gore throughout, but it is always meaningful to the story as a whole.

The premise (of high-schoolers being trapped together in an abandoned building to play a twisted, murdery game) worked so well in Doubt that Tonogai repeated it almost exactly for his two other series, Judge and Secret. To his credit, he was careful to fill each series with a different host of secrets and clues, and even a different approach to who the game-maker is behind each. If you like any one of the three series, there's simply no way you won't like the other two. 

That said, though you're certain to like all three series, there's no getting around the fact that they all feel highly correlated, for better or worse. The twists and secrets are unique to each series, but the overall type of twists and secrets remains largely unchanged between the three (except, importantly, for who the ultimate villain is behind each - having read one won't give you any sort of clues or logical patterns that you can use to guess who the villain is in either of the other two).

Also, in reading just any one of them all of the characters look and feel distinct. When you begin in on another of the series, though, you'll quickly realize that these are basically the same personalities and quirks, just re-skinned and renamed for the next story. It's not so bad if you allow a gap between reading each of the three series, but a haze settles over them if you read them too closely together. 

It's an interesting idea, though: this recycling of personalities feels like a misstep on Tonogai's part - and yet, if I'm only reviewing one of the series for you (which, technically, I am), it's not as though it affects this one series on its own. This isn't a problem you will notice by only reading Doubt (or only Judge, or only Secret). I suppose, then, it's more of a warning for you if you decide to keep up with Tonogai beyond just this one series, rather than something I can fairly hold against just this one series.

These small inconsistencies (actually, ironically, I suppose I should say these small consistencies) don't keep Doubt from being what it attempts to be, though: a fun, solid, intricate thriller full of twists and personality, with interesting plotting and a clever ending. It has everything you could want from a manga thriller - and, I would venture, would be a good starting-off point if you're into thrillers but haven't yet approached the wonderful world of reading manga.

(Note: If these books sound familiar, I’ve actually already mentioned them once before - along with Judge and Secret - in my list of books to read if you’ve played certain games. Specifically, I mentioned that these books are great to read if you've played any of the three games in the Nonary Games series: 999, Zero Escape: Virtue's Last Reward, and/or The Zero Time Dilemma.)

On Ryukishi07’s Higurashi: When They Cry Manga Series

You’ve guessed by now that I’m a fan of manga (though I haven’t yet reviewed any for you). I’m actually a bit picky about manga, though. There’s a lot to like - and a lot to not like - in the average manga.

The 27-volume Higurashi series is no exception: it falls into some of the same pitfalls as many other manga series. Certainly it isn’t perfect. Despite this, though, it’s easily my favorite series (though not my favorite single-volume manga). And, since it’s such a great example of a psychological horror series, it’s finally time to talk about it.

Though the overall plot, for what it is, is highly fascinating - and I could easily rave about it for awhile - what actually stands out to me the most is the way the entire story is arranged. Throughout the 27 books, we're given an abundance of pieces that all point at the one, ultimate truth of the Higurashi universe. Along the way, though, the story continually "resets," so to speak, in a sort of give-and-take format.

Sounds odd, I'm sure. And until you get the hang of how the series works, it can be quite confusing at first. I can only explain so much without getting into spoiler territory, but I'll do what I can - the arrangement is worth discussing (since it's probably the most clever aspect of the entire series).

In order to explain the setup for you, let's start with a couple of the book covers:

 

The most obvious difference between the two are that the first one (which is the cover to volume 1) has a black background, and the second (the cover to volume 11), a white. This fact is important.

The series is separated into smaller sets of books called "arcs" - volumes 1 and 2 comprise an arc, 3 and 4, etc. (The arcs are anywhere from two - four books long each, with a couple single-arc exceptions.)

The black-backed arcs are known as the "Question Arcs" and the white-background ones are the "Answer Arcs." And, importantly, there's a direct correlation between a Question Arc and its Answer Arc. You read through all of the Questions first, before diving in to the Answers - which are continuations of their accompanying Questions.

(Each new arc is where the plot "resets," as I mentioned. Each takes you back to the very beginning of the ordeal to show you a new - and often contradictory - angle to the overarching story.)

As for the two books I showed above: the black is volume 1 of the Abducted by Demons Arc (again, a Question Arc), and the white is the first volume of the Eye Opening Arc - the Answer to the Abducted by Demons Arc.

Whew. Sound confusing? Probably. Once you have the pieces in front of you, though (and especially once you finally start in on the Answers), everything becomes much more clear.

- much more clear, that is, and absolutely phenomenal.

The series paints (and repaints, and repaints...) an incredible picture of the horrifying incidents in a rural Japanese village. All throughout, Ryukishi07 maintains a deeply unsettling, disturbing atmosphere that is psychologically gripping. Both the imagery and the plot twists are downright shocking, driving all the way to the incredible finale which will leave you in horror and disbelief and utter confusion until the penultimate volume, when the deepest truth is finally laid bare. You'll be shocked. More, you'll be electrified. (At least I was, and if you enjoy even the faintest whiffs of Japanese horror, you certainly will be too.)

...yeah, I know: sounds amazing, right?

It truly is.

Illustrations in Horror Literature

It’s too bad that more books aren’t illustrated. Images can truly bring an entirely new mood and idea to a book, deeply altering the way you experience it - especially when the pictures are poignant, beautiful, or unsettling.

This idea is no less true in the horror genre. Of course an illustration will never jump out at you like something on the movie screen will,* but they can certainly cause a sense of dread, and add to the already eerie, foreboding atmosphere that the written words produce.

That monster that's stalking the innocent townfolk at night? - it's one thing to read about it and know it's there and form a mental image of it. It's another thing entirely to actually see it on the page right in front of you, lurking in the darkness; ravenously eyeing its prey with its too-deep yellow eyes; baring its horrible, gangrene, gnarly fangs moments before the pounce.

(Ironically, do you see what I'm doing here? I'm using words to create an image in your mind, in order to show you how illustrations do this. Very meta, I know.)

Neil Gaiman, for example, has been re-releasing a string of his books and stories in illustrated formats (most of them illustrated by Chris Riddell) that add to the unsettling nature of his already unsettling books. (If you're curious, Barnes and Noble's page for Neverwhere has a selection of illustrations from the book that are delightfully creepy.)

Similarly, this is one thing that makes horror manga so particularly effective. Yes, reading about the girl with long, black, scraggly hair covering her face while crawling out of the TV can certainly be disturbing enough,** but actually seeing her right there in front of you is a whole different beast - something that a non-illustrated book can't quite match for thrills. (In fact, if you look at my manga shelf, you'll see the horror manga outweighs the non-horror selection about 5:1.)

Recently, I discussed The Strange Library by Haruki Murakami, as well as Witches! by Rosalyn Schanzer, both of which are fantastically - and highly effectively - illustrated. (I've got a couple more such books/reviews lined up for you before the end of the month, too, while I'm at it. 😉 ) The manga version of Yukito Ayatsuji's Another is incredible as well - one of my favorite manga out there.

Yikes and a half, am I right?

Even if you don't know what's going on here, this is a pretty dang unsettling image.

What do you think of this, friends? Are there any illustrated horror books you've read, in which the images added to the overall tension and fear of the book? Let's hear about them!

*I guess an exception to this would be pop-up books, but I'm not really thinking about those right now. Then again, I'd be highly interested in the pop-up book The Babadook...

**You probably know I'm referencing The Ring here. Ironically enough, though, this doesn't actually happen in the book - it was merely added to the movies. Yes, there's a sinister girl behind a lot of the horror, but we never have a scene of her crawling out of a TV. 

REVIEW: Another - Yukito Ayatsuji

• Year first published:  2009 (Japanese), 2014 (English)
• ISBN of the edition I read:  0316339105
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Yen On
• My rating (out of 5):  4.5

Somehow, despite having already seen the anime of Another AND having read the manga version, I had completely forgotten the major twist at the end of the story. Granted, it's been a couple years, but even still...how could I have forgotten something that big?

Whatever the reason for this, it worked out perfectly. Reading this novel version of the story (which actually came before the anime and manga) I was just as surprised by the twist ending as I was when I first experienced the story in those other formats. I mean that literally - even the very sentence before the big reveal, I still couldn't remember/piece together/guess the ultimate twist. And considering how crazy of a finale it is, this was definitely ideal.

Much like I said of The Tokyo Zodiac Murders in my review of it last week, "the journey matters here, too." In fact, as shocking as the ending was to Another, I would argue that it wasn't even the best part of the book. Brilliant and great, yes - but not the best. 

For one thing, Another is exceptionally paced. Barely a page goes by without some sort of clue, image, or bit of dialogue that set my mind reeling, trying to figure out how it all fits in. Of course it's quite standard for a mystery/thriller/horror to often leave you questioning what is happening - those moments are often half the fun of the book. You read a new tidbit and try to fit it into your theory of what's really going on. In this vein, no book has made me ask nearly as many questions as Another. Every step of the way, the story continually evolves - whether subtly or overtly - and is jam-packed with at least a dozen hefty twists, each of which alters the trajectory of the plot in unpredictable ways. 

Perhaps the most fantastic element of Another, though, is how brazenly original the entire experience is. It starts out as a fairly typical, rural-Japanese-high-school, maybe-ghost/curse story, but very quickly - though subtly - begins to steer away from this. Rather, to be clear, I should specify that it steers away from the common tropes of this. (It still takes place in a rural Japanese high school, etc.) One can almost imagine that Ayatsuji began by saying, "How can I start with this common horror setup, but then completely turn it on its head?" At least, whether or not this was his thinking, it's precisely what he did. Importantly, he accomplished this while still giving us a smooth story that felt fully realized - never jarring, never far-fetched, always ten steps ahead of the reader.

If you want a highly unique, engaging psychological horror - and especially an Asian horror, which, as I discussed previously, tends to handle the psyche of horror better than American literature - Another is easily one of the best out there. I can't imagine I'd actually forget the ending yet again, but I'm sure I'll still be reading it again anyway.

(And, for what it's worth, the manga and the anime versions are absolutely first-rate as well - I'd happily give a 4.5 to all three formats of the story.)

REVIEW: The Strange Library - Haruki Murakami

• Year first released:  2005 (Japanese), 2014 (English)
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780385354301
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
• My rating (out of 5):  4

Why this book took nine years to hit our shores, I'll never know. Maybe we just weren't ready for it. In fact, even though I've loved Japanese literature for quite some time now, I think I may not have been ready for The Strange Library until recently.

To be sure, The Strange Library is an aptly named book. It is mighty strange, indeed. A young boy goes to the library - his normal, everyday library - to return a couple books when he quickly gets tricked into becoming a prisoner in the library's deep, labyrinthine basement. Oh, and one of his jailers is perpetually dressed like a sheep but fries up some amazing donuts. So. There's that, I guess.

Going into it, you might miss the fact (as I did at first) that this is actually a children's book (Murakami's only children's book, as far as I know). Once that realization hit me, the book suddenly took on a whole new hue. Before that moment, I was beginning to dread having spent $18 on this 96-page book which is half pictures. (Highly nonsensical pictures, mind you.) Once I was able to absorb the book as a whole, though (which only took about half an hour, cover to cover), I realized that I was in the presence of greatness.

There's certainly something deeply metaphorical going on throughout the book. And I'll be the first to admit that at least half of it is completely lost on me. Sometimes this is a hindrance to understanding and appreciating the story. Sometimes, though, just being in the presence of - what we assume is - an elaborate metaphor is reason enough to enjoy the journey. The Strange Library fits snuggly into this second category.

Why the sheep outfit? Why the donuts? What's with the tax records of the Ottoman Empire? I have no idea. But it all comes together in a magical, whimsical package.

Again, considering that this is a children's book, surely the metaphor - whatever it is - will be missed by most. If we can take it as a Tim Burton-esque, creepy-with-a-touch-of-adorable story, though, then The Strange Library is a tightly-bound, quirky, wonderful nightmare that I am certain I will come back to repeatedly - and, in fact, will probably share with my five-year-old son this Halloween season.

REVIEW: The Tokyo Zodiac Murders - Soji Shimada

• Year first released:  1981 
• ISBN of the edition I read:  1782271384
• Publisher of the edition I read: Pushkin Vertigo
• My rating (out of 5):  4

On page 231 (out of 316) of this serial-killer murder mystery, Shimada breaks the fourth wall and interrupts his own book. He says, in part:

All of the information required to solve the mystery is now in your hands, and, in fact, the crucial hint has been provided already. ... Let me throw down the gauntlet: I challenge you to solve the mystery before the final chapters!

What a fantastic, fun invitation. And it’s okay by me.

At this point, I set the book aside for a week. Once I proceed on to the next page, there’s no going back. You can’t unread things.

One week later, when I came back to Zodiac again, I was precisely zero percent closer to having figured out even the first thing about the solution to the murders.

This is one thing I love about Zodiac. The final solution to the crime was, quite simply, cosmic. Unlike The Devotion of Suspect X, though, (another Asian mystery which I read and reviewed a few weeks ago here), Zodiac is not merely a novel about its finale. Yes, the final act is the best part, but the journey matters here, too.

For one, it matters in the way I’ve already described: the author actually directly challenges us to figure out the case before the characters. Even beyond this element, though, we are still left with excellent pacing (at least once you finish the first part of the book, which is a bit of an overly-long exposition about the crime, more than it is actual plot), an ingenious crime, and a secondary character who is enjoyable and attention-grabbing throughout (even if he does make fun of Sherlock Homes, which is only barely forgivable).

All of this perhaps sounds as though I am building up to a stellar rating. And I wish I could say that I am. There is a sizable flaw, though, which I can’t really ignore:

Zodiac is the perfect example of the translation leaving us to wonder who is to blame for the stiff style of writing. Is it Shimada’s form which is rigid, or Ross and Shika Mackenzie’s translation? As I don’t speak Japanese, I can’t say. (And, as I explained in my blog The Art of Translation, pt. 3, I try very hard not to blame the author directly for this.)

Nevertheless, we have a rather colorless set of words and sentences to tell us a very colorful story, which can be somewhat distracting. 

This rigidity is worth forgiving, though, so that we can experience a truly unique mystery - and incredible payout - that serves as one of the highest examples of the genre.

On Koji Suzuki's Ring Hexalogy

Remember Gore Verbinski’s 2002 horror movie The Ring (starring Naomi Watts)?

Well I don’t, because I fell asleep halfway through. 

Luckily, though, this remake of the 1998 Japanese movie Ringu at least introduced us in the West to what is actually a great series of Japanese horror stories. (In fact, we can basically thank Verbinski for starting the Japanese horror craze on our shores altogether.) 

Before even the Japanese film Ringu, though, was the 1991 Koji Suzuki novel of the same name. The book was immensely popular (rightly so) and spawned what is - at least so far - a hexalogy of books:

Ring

Spiral

Loop 

Birthday (a collection of three novellas)

S*
Tide*

(As S and Tide have not yet been translated into English, I haven't read/can't discuss them. But S is finally getting its US release in just a couple months!)

If you've seen any of the movies in the series - whether any of the five Japanese movies or four American - you're probably at least mildly familiar with the overall trope:

A mysterious video tape appears, filled with eerie, disturbing images. At the end of the tape is a message - something to the effect of "You will die in seven days, if you don't..." But of course the end of the tape cuts off, and you don't really know what you're supposed to do to avoid being murdered. Well shucks.

Oddly, this is more or less the basic premise of all of the movies...and yet only the first novel. 

Much like the movie sequels, I had expected the second book, Spiral, to continue on the mystery of the killer video tape. And yet, to my pleasant (if morbid) surprise, Spiral ended up taking the story in a wildly different direction. Weird that the movies (and even the five-part manga series, which I haven't yet mentioned) all basically ignored the overall story from this point onward.

Ring is a stylish, incredibly inventive psychological horror. (See The Four Main Types of Horror for a reminder, if you need.) It features the dreadful mood and tension so predominant in the genre, and a terrifying mystery that unravels like a slow poison - contrasting wonderfully with the protagonist's veritable race against the clock. (And, by the way, if you haven't seen the movies nor had the ending ruined for you, the book really is highly clever and surprising.) 

Spiral, though, gives us half a psychological horror, but smoothly moves the book into more of a body horror. Clever transition, that. Instead of the book being all about a mysterious, deadly, supernatural object, we now have a scientific/medical approach to the entire ordeal. 

Equally clever is how the third book, Loop, takes the body horror of Spiral, then moves the series in the direction of sci-fi. Here, many of the scarier elements of the series are lost, but replaced with what is a truly mind-blowing coup d'etat compared to everything else in the series. 

(And, lest I forget: Birthday mostly goes back to the psychological brand of horror, which makes sense, considering that two of the three novellas in it are prequels to Ring.)

It's a smooth trick that Suzuki plays on us throughout the series, morphing the genre each step of the way.

More than even this unique genre-shift, though, is the way Suzuki plays with everything we think we know about the universe of Ring:

Most stories give us at least some sort of a resolve by the end. Even if it's not entirely complete, we generally have a good idea of the how and the why behind everything. 

Indeed, Ring basically unravels the history and secrets of the video tape by its final page, much as you'd expect would happen. And yet only a fraction of the way into Spiral, I found myself a bit dumbfounded, asking, "Wait - that's what's actually going on here?" What we discover in Spiral completely subverts what we learned in Ring.

It was a fantastic trick which I, at least, didn't see coming. 

Perhaps even more fantastic is that, by the end of Spiral, we realize what's really going on...but only until halfway through Loop, when we are doubly dumbfounded and doubly shocked to find out what's actually, really, for-reals-this-time going on. 

People often use the phrase "tour de force" when describing a book. I don't generally like the expression in this sense (one, because it's become highly overused, and two, because most books really aren't actually "tour de forces"), but I can think of no more appropriate book/series that has earned the label. 

The way the series evolves from Ring through Spiral and into Loop - in both the shifting genres, as well as the genius plot evolution - is nothing short of mind-bending. Give it a go.

Asian Horror v. American Horror

Really, this topic could easily be a book. And I don’t think I’m qualified to write that book. Despite this, there are plenty of observations I’ve made along the way – and things that make me tend to enjoy Asian Horror more than American – so there’s clearly something there worth discussing.

And, I hope it goes without saying that I’m speaking in broad strokes here – of course there are exceptions to the ideas I’m about to discuss. I’m sure there are plenty of Asian authors/film directors/video game designers who create their medium in a more “American” way, so to speak, and vice versa.

Aside from these exceptions, though, I tend to prefer horror media that comes out of Asia (especially Japan) more than that which comes from our own shores. Why is this? 

The easiest way to answer this question is to begin with my earlier post The Four (Main) Types of Horror. The last of the four sub-genres that I discussed there - and the one I identified as being my favorite - is Psychological Horror. 

That said, the most direct way I can explain why I enjoy Asian Horror more than American is to say this: 

Asian Horror tends to be more psychological than American. 

It's really as simple as that. 

If you think about the horror/thriller media that is produced in the U.S., you often see tales of gratuitous serial killers; violent monsters; evil, megalithic corporations; etc. We have Stephen King, the Hannibal Lecter series, and the Saw movies. 

To sum it all up - admittedly in a very general way - we tend to produce highly violent clashes of external, opposing forces, which are most often solved by the use of power. In a word, our horror is often

BIG 

Of course all of this has its place. Sometimes, this sort of media is exactly what I'm looking for. Though the Resident Evil movies don't contain a fraction of the quality of their video game counterparts (their Asian-made video game counterparts, I should add), dang it if I don't have a blast watching them anyway. (Guilty pleasures, for sure.)

Asian horror, though, tends to focus much less on these bombastic power plays and more on the psyches of its key players. Gone are the enormous explosions, set pieces, and over-the-top violence, all replaced by the tiniest details that add up to an overwhelming sense of dread. In a word, Asian horror is often very 

small

- in all the right ways, though.

Rather than Asian horror focusing on an archetypal hero (or group of heroes), we are usually given an everyday person who must wrestle with his or her own demons just as much as - in fact, usually more than - whatever dark force is at the center of the plot. Of course seeing Bruce Willis kick @$$ is fun, but there's something much more psychologically, intrinsically gratifying in seeing someone overcome their fears and their past and their inner darkness.

We might even say that American horror tends to be like a huge painting, full of color and gunfire and monsters, which we can absorb all at once. Even before finishing it, we can already see that the hero(es) will overcome The Evil - which is always Someone/Something Else.

Contrasted to this, Asian horror tends to be more of a puzzle, the gray-shaded pieces of which we're only handed one at a time, each of which ratchets up the tension more and more all the way up through the end, when we ultimately realize that this was never a painting, nor a Something Else - it was always a mirror. 

REVIEW: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley

• Year first released:  1818
• ISBN of the edition I read: 
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Signet Classic
• My rating (out of 5):  5

Frankenstein's nameless monster, pleading with us, 

wondering how we've come to misunderstand the original story so badly.

Now that I’ve read both The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Frankenstein in close proximity to another, I realize that each suffers from the opposite problem of the other. As I explained in my review of Jekyll and Hyde,

[W]hat most people consider to be the heart of the story is actually left a complete mystery from the reader until over two-thirds of the way into the book. Nowadays, you go into the book knowing precisely what Dr. Jekyll is up to, when his actions are intended to be shrouded in a deep, eerie mystery - and, in fact, are meant to be the ultimate twist of the book.

In other words, most people nowadays already know the biggest secret/climax of the book before they even pick it up.

Frankenstein suffers from the obverse of this: what you think is the climax actually happens only a quarter of the way into the book.

Most modern adaptions of Frankenstein present us with the long-bearing struggle of Dr. Frankenstein as he tries, fails, tries again to create a monster – all the while growing insane, digging up graves, and being hounded by suspicious villagers/police officers – until, finally, just in time for the perfect thunder storm, he is able to accomplish the feat with a suspiciously timed lightning bolt striking his lab. “It’s alive! It’s ALIVE!”

And then he says, “Oops,” and the monster kills him. Or something like that.

…yeah, except none of that happens in the original. Like…none of that. No, really: none.

The edition I read of the book was 223 pages long. In it, Dr. Frankenstein succeeds at creating the monster on page 55. And neither before nor after this feat are we given scenes of police dodging, corpse desecrating, villagers mobbing, or storms lightninging. (Yes, I know that's not a word, but you get the point.)

Oh, and there's no hunchbacked assistant named Igor. Nor just a hunchback. Nor just an assistant. Nor just an Igor. But that's neither here nor there.

Weird how things evolve like this.

In fact, as you might suspect from everything I’ve explained so far, the actual creation of the monster is a far cry from the real heart of the book. Rather, the weight of the plot rests on what happens to the monster – and to its creator Dr. Frankenstein – after the monster is made (and immediately escapes). And it’s in this tale where the book truly shines, whilst simultaneously frightening us.

The fact that Dr. Frankenstein is able to create life out of non-life is certainly interesting, but not necessarily frightening on its own. What becomes of his new breed of life, though...

Well.

It’s one thing for a book to show us the inner workings – and, by extension, the inner depravity – of man. This is, for example, what Jekyll and Hyde excelled at so fantastically. In Frankenstein, though, Shelley creates for us a monster made in the image of man, but which is not a man – and, in so doing, creates for us a powerful exploration of many of the other ways in which depravity can take shape, while also serving as a perfect parallel to man himself, in his glory and gluttony. 

The monster's arc is a clear highlight of the book. Yes, the monster is certainly criminal, but his rise and fall - his misunderstandings about how the world works, the complete lack of compassion and empathy he is shown at every turn - make us wonder who is really at fault here. In fact, as Frankenstein himself wonders aloud time and again, we are forced to ask how deep the fault actually lies on him. What line has he crossed? Are the blood of the monster’s victims actually on Frankenstein’s hands? Is it ever okay to play god like this?

Taking the novel to be a look at both blind ambition and moral ambiguity, it would be harder to find a more fitting tale – which is, no doubt, what continues to make it such a powerful, lasting book 199 years after it was first published. 

REVIEW: Witches! The Absolutely True Tale of Disaster in Salem - Rosalyn Schanzer

• Year first released:  2011
• ISBN of the edition I read: 
• Publisher of the edition I read:  National Geographic Society
• My rating (out of 5):  4

Despite what we may sometimes hope, not all horror belongs to the realm of fiction. The bookstore is rife with true crime books, some representing cases which have been definitely solved, others which to this day remain unsolved (and, unfortunately, some which may forever remain unsolved). Yes, there are plenty of twisted individuals in our world and our history – about whom fascinating, disturbing stories can be told – but sometimes the scariest events don’t revolve around individual people so much as cultures and ideas that, scarily, become the norm. Nazi Germany can certainly be an example of this. And, as Schanzer points out with her book Witches!, so, too, can the Salem Witch Trials.

If the very essence of the “trials” weren’t horrifying enough – which they certainly are, you’ll realize only a couple pages into Schanzer’s book – Witches! also contains a selection of eerie, even disturbing woodblock prints (done by Schanzer herself) which masterfully represent the terrifying ideas that ran rampant through Salem in the early 1690’s. Considering their gruesome imagery, I don't think "beautiful" is quite the right word for them - they're certainly fantastically done, though.

If you’re unfamiliar with anything regarding the “trials” (except for the fact that they existed), Schanzer’s book is certainly a great intro to the subject. She does an excellent job at displaying the moods and culture that surrounded the horrifying events that lead to the torture and executions of dozens of people – women mostly, but also a few men – through the spring and summer of 1692.

It’s also worth pointing out: the subtitle of the book, The Absolutely True Tale of Disaster in Salem, is highly apt. Unlike many other writings on the subject, Schanzer does not present us with loads of conjecture (there is some bits in there, yes, but she is always very careful to point out what is fact versus what is inference). There is no imagined dialogue in the book, no guessing at what any given individual may have been thinking at one point or another throughout the happenings. Witches! truly deserves the moniker of “Absolutely True.”

All of this leads into my one half-complaint about Witches! though, which, I freely admit, must be presented with a grain of salt:

I was careful to say that this is a “great intro” to the subject for a reason. Witches! really is only an introduction to the subject matter. Though there’s good information in the book – and it is expounded very well – it ultimately only scratches the surface of that fateful year. The story which Schanzer weaves for us is really quite simple.

Then again, Witches! is targeted for 10-13 year-olds, which is, for better or worse, precisely what it feels like. This simplicity is probably just about right for that age range. The writing style, too, was certainly meant for the pre-teen crowd.

I can’t, per se, hold this simplicity and writing style against the book, of course. It wasn’t written for me. It was written for kids 20 years younger than me. Trying to look at it from that perspective, I imagine these complaints are probably a wash. Would a pre-teen think this book has lots of good information? – likely, yes. (Also, note that I tried to give the book a numerical rating taking into consideration this viewpoint.)

I bring up these complaints, though, to point out two things:

First, I’m jealous these wondrous woodblocks are to be found in a children’s book, rather than in an “adult” book on the matter. Clearly we need to have more illustrated "adult" books.

Second, I’m actually a big fan of children’s books, many of which seem to transcend ages and become tales in which anyone and everyone can find joy and inspiration. Unlike such timeless children’s books, though, Witches! has an “upper age limit,” so to speak.

If you’re looking for recommendations on good horror books, I would say that Witches! has the potential to be one of them. It’s a deeply troubling story presented in a wondrously eerie package. And, unlike most other horror you’re likely to encounter this Halloween season, Witches! has the added bonus of being both educational and Absolutely True. I would almost say that these things alone make it worth adding to your reading list – merely keep in mind that you may find the depth of information and the writing style a bit beneath your age (depending on how old you are).

If You’ve Played This Video Game, Read That Book (Horror Edition!)

In my post Are Horror Books Actually Scary? I explained how it is that movies have the potential to be scarier than books.

Of all forms of media, though, nothing beats video games when it comes to scares.

Sure, movies have all the same sights and sounds of video games (and, of course, often appear more realistic than games), but there's still an element missing in movies:

You sit in the theatre and watch a story unfold in front of you. Will the hero survive/escape/beat the bad guy/save the day? - sit there long enough, and you'll find out.

In a video game, though, you can't just sit there and find out.

It's up to you if the horror is overcome.

You're the one who must defeat the monster, solve the puzzles, escape the maze. Are you keeping an eye on your character's health? Your ammo? Can you solve this riddle? Run fast enough? Set up the traps in time? Find a place to hide?

Movies and books can't even come close to that sort of tension.

That said, if, like me, you enjoy games, I want to join the worlds of video games and literature for you:

So if you've played This game, read That book.

(Alphabetical by video game title)

if you've played Alice Madness Returns...

...read Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman

___________

if you've played Amnesia: The Dark Descent...

...read The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole

___________

if you've played Bloodborne...

...read Perdido Street Station by China Mieville

___________

if you've played Dead Space 3...

...read At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft

___________

if you've played Fatal Frame 2...

...read Kwaidan by Lafcadio Hearn

___________

if you've played Inside...

...read A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle

___________

if you've played The Last of Us...

...read World War Z by Max Brooks

___________

if you've played Layers of Fear...

...read The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

___________

if you've played The Nonary Games...

...read Secret, Doubt, and/or Judge by Yoshiki Tonogai

___________

if you've played Prey...

...read Sphere by Michael Crichton

___________

if you've played Resident Evil VII...

...read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

___________

if you've played Silent Hill (1)...

...read Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane

___________

if you've played Silent Hill 2...

...read I'm Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid

___________

if you've played Until Dawn...

...read Ancient Sorceries and Other Weird Stories by Algernon Blackwood

___________

if you've played The Vanishing of Ethan Carter...

...read Tales of Soldiers and Civilians: and Other Stories by Ambrose Bierce
(particularly the story The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge)

___________

What do you think of this list, friends? Have you experienced any of these pairings? Have any similar recommendations of your own to share? Let us know!