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.)

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.)

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).

REVIEW: Alan Wake - Rick Burroughs

• Year first released:  2010
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780765328434
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Tom Doherty Associates
• My rating (out of 5):  1.5

As much as I love horror video games, I haven't (yet) gotten around to the 2010 game Alan Wake. It's on my list to play - in fact, I've owned it for awhile now - I just haven't touched it yet. Weird, since it's gotten almost universally positive reviews.

This novelization of the game came out the same year. And, as I explained in my post Guilty Pleasures, I'm rather a sucker for video game novelizations.

That said, giving a review about a novelization has an interesting dilemma: if there is anything amiss with the plot, you can't actually blame the author - at least not quite as much as if the author had invented the story himself.

And, though I still haven't played the game to compare it to the book, I have to say: there is definitely something amiss with the plot. I'll give Burroughs the benefit of the doubt and not pin it on him, but it certainly impacts my feelings about the book, and so needs to be discussed.

First, to give you an idea of the premise:

Popular horror author Alan Wake and his wife, Alice, head to the tiny island town of Bright Falls, Washington for a three-week vacation. Almost as soon as they get there, things go mighty wrong and Alice ends up missing. Alan then spends the rest of the book hunting her down, grappling with some sort of clunky, manifest-darkness/evil/possessed/monster/something-or-others with downright annoying speech patterns. (Yes, they talk, unfortunately.)

This is a fine setup (except for the monster talk). The mystery effectively leaves you scratching your head until near the end of the book - a necessary trait for suspense. And the main twist near the end was fairly clever, though not quite as fleshed out as it needed to be, especially considering how complex everything is.

...actually, I think I said that too nicely.

To be more clear:

At some point, it's almost as though the writer (whether Burroughs or the game's writer, I can't say) seems to hit a wall and say, "That's enough explaining; you kind of just have to accept it from here on out."

Um...why?

This is flat laziness. If you, the creator, can't even explain the complexity, then most likely the pieces don't actually fit together that well. (Indeed, they don't in this book.)

Further, though I won't go into spoiler territory here, there's a big splash right at the very end which it seems we're expected to accept as "It simply has to be this way." Yet I could think of no plot reason that it really had to be this way. Could there really not have been a different ending? - I'm sure there could have been, if the writer had taken a bit more time to sort it out before throwing it at us.

This is all too bad, because the secret behind everything could have made for a much better story - in fact, I'm tempted to say it deserved a better story. 

Aside from these gripes about the plot, there are a couple other points that should be said:

The setting felt rather unfocused. Bright Falls was certainly a great place for this sort of situation to occur. Yet Burroughs really didn't quite give us enough of a feel for the island town to really put together the imagery and scenery for ourselves. Perhaps he assumed we would have already played the game (and, therefore, already have a mental image of the island)? - it's hard to say. Either way, the location and atmosphere of the book felt like a missed opportunity. 

Also, the movement from one scene into the next was often downright jarring. We'll have Alan falling asleep in a bed somewhere, then, in the very next paragraph, he's crashing his car into a tree. 

...wait - what? When did he get behind the wheel? Is this a dream? (Oh, and yes - lots of sections of the book are dreams, which made the overall picture quite confusing about which pieces we really needed to know/pay attention to for the sake of the actual mystery at hand. A huge rookie mistake, if ever there was one.)

It often felt like pieces of the narrative were simply missing - and not for any particular, plot-driven reason; the creator just didn't feel like including them, I guess.

Ultimately, Alan Wake delivers an intriguing mystery - albeit with a bad ending - but wrapped up in a disarrayed, difficult-to-follow package. I'll still play the game eventually, in hopes that the presentation is more sensible there. The book was just plain messy, though.

What Horror Is Really About

When you’re trying to discuss the horror genre with someone, you may discover that is has a unique problem which it shares with only one other genre*:

Smarmy McGee: What’s your favorite horror movie?

Me: Hmm…probably Let Me In.**

Smarmy McGee: Psh. Whatever. That’s not even scary at all.

Well…yeah. Actually I agree. It’s not that scary. But you didn’t ask me about the scariest horror movie - you asked me what my favorite horror movie is.***

It’s the same with books, of course: I already explained that I don’t think books are scary, but that the scariest book I’ve read is I’m Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid. But Ending Things is a far cry from the best horror/thriller book.****

You don't see this problem with, say, sci-fi or fantasy or literary fiction. Can you imagine telling someone that your favorite sci-fi series is Asimov's Foundation series, and then that person replying that those books aren't "roboty" enough? Or that The Fellowship of the Ring isn't really that fantastical? It's ludicrous, right?

And yet we find people very often judging horrors/thrillers based on how scary they are. Yes, of course the idea is that these books/movies unsettle us, but does it really mean they're somehow inferior if they aren't that scary or disturbing? Is scare factor the only thing that sets these genres apart from others?

Not really, no. Though horror media usually tries to unsettle, frighten, or disturb us, it also shows us things: the darkness and the light that we all wrestle with; how people react in the face of the worst possible scenarios; how we overcome our fears, our past, our demons, ourselves.

This is what good horror is all about. Scares and thrills are, actually, merely the byproduct of this.

What do you think about this, friends? What do you think makes a good horror book (or movie)?

*Comedy, if you’re wondering.

**This is true. It’s probably my favorite horror movie. And yes, I like it just a hair more than the European original, Let the Right One In (though I sometimes feel alone in thinking that way).

***If you’re curious what the scariest horror movie is, it’s probably The Babadook.

****Which, obviously, is Dracula. Does that even need to be explained? 😉

Are Horror Books Actually Scary?

It's an interesting question, actually. I mean, we assume they're meant to be scary. But do they succeed?

I've told you that I love horror.

What I haven't yet told you is that: no, in fact; I don't think horror books are scary. Further, I don't really think they can be scary - at least not in most ways.

Surprising, I know.

Luckily, scare factor is not what I enjoy about horror (if it were, October would be a very different month for me - in this blog, as well as in my general media consumption throughout the month).

But why is that? Why is it so difficult for a book to be scary?

Actually, that question already includes the answer: to me, a book can't be scary precisely because it's a book.

When I'm reading a book - no matter what book it is, what time it is, where I'm at, what's happening around me - my brain never fully gets past the fact that I'm sitting in a room, holding a book in my hands, reading black words on white paper. No matter what happens in the book, I am always acutely aware that it is happening... well, in a book.

Movies are all about the visual and auditory elements. You actually see the monster, the mutilated corpses, the shadows creeping along the wall. There are crashes and clatters and whispers and panted breaths and scratches on the window. Things can jump out at you, catch you off guard, literally show you the palpable fear.

A book, on the other hand, is a bunch of papers glued together and imprinted with letters and words.

Obviously books are incredible - hence this blog. If I had to pick between having access to one type of media for the rest of my life - books, movies, video games, or music - I would pick books in the blink of an eye. No questions, no regrets.

But that doesn't automatically mean they always accomplish what they mean to do - especially if what they mean to do is scare me.

That said, though, surely there are some things books can do to impart scares, right?

Well, I've never been so scared by a book that I suddenly dropped it or threw it across the room or made sure it was never behind a locked door with me. I've never jumped out of my seat, screamed out loud, or clutched on to my wife while reading a book.

But books can most certainly cause tension. They can make my heart beat faster and faster as I race through the pages, wondering what's going to happen, hoping things will work out. They can leave me in complete shock about by the events and twists and the pervading evil. They can cause me to feel repulsed, squeamish, horrified (at least in a sympathetic way), anxious, and glad that I'm not in the same situation as the protagonist.

Do these things add up to being scary, though? It's hard to say, I guess. But I've never felt especially frightened while reading.


I know this opinion may not be very common. So what do you think, friends? Do you find books to be scary? 

REVIEW: Zombie Apocalypse - Stephen Jones

• Year first released:  2010
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780762440016
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Running Press Book Publishers
• My rating (out of 5):  2.5

To be clear, I definitely picked up Zombie Apocalypse as a guilty pleasure. No expectations to speak of - just some zombie fun. The first hundred or so pages had me a bit fooled, though, into thinking this could actually be better than I had suspected.

Turns out I got a little ahead of myself by thinking this, of course - but who's surprised?

Apocalypse is, technically, a book of short stories, all by different authors. However, the creator, Stephen Jones, did a surprisingly good job of making the stories connect. They all - or most of them, at least - work together to tell different angles of, essentially, the same story: a government project in London ignores the proper protocol and digs up a centuries-old graveyard, unleashing an evolved version of the Black Plague...

etc. etc. etc.

Most of the stories aren't expressed as straightforward narratives - instead we have government memorandums, research notes, email and Tweet exchanges, diary notes, etc. - a great presentation for this sort of overarching plot.

The first several stories interlace like puzzle pieces, setting the book off on a great, disturbing note. Settings are repeated, characters reappear, the unfolding is elaborate and precise.

If the entire book had kept up this momentum, it actually could have been one of the better zombie books about there.* It doesn't take long for Apocalypse to lose its way, though. Starting somewhere around the first Tweet-exchange story ("Tweets of the Dead" by Jay Russell), the focus of the book gets more shifty and less defined. (In fact, specifically, "Tweets of the Dead" is one of the least interesting and least well-written of the collection.) From there, the stories get to be more hit-and-miss.

There are several missed opportunities here and there throughout - many of the stories seem to allude to larger things to come...which don't (at least not in any sort of meaningful, worthwhile way).

I briefly mentioned the overall story - London, graveyard, plague, blah blah blah - but, unfortunately, this actually only describes the first three quarters of the book. Up to that point, it's entirely centered around the events of London. And then, inexplicably, we have a story in Australia ("Wasting Matilda"). Why? - because...well, it's hard to say. Perhaps Robert Hood didn't get the memo that the stories were supposed to connect? Not really sure.

In fact, from this point on, the stories erratically and disjointedly jump around the world, only finally returning to England for the final, anticlimactic, terrible final story/speech.

The first half of the book is actually generally fun and worthwhile - if you're comfortable setting it aside before things derail. Majorly derail. The graphic design of the book alone makes it worth spending at least a bit of time with, and at least the first few stories are genuinely interesting for the genre. I only wish Jones hadn't let the latter half of the book slip through the cracks so badly.



*Actually, I guess, this is still one of the best zombie books out there - but that says more about other zombie books on the market than it says about this one.

The Four (Main) Types of Horror

Now that we’ve discussed the differences between the Horror, Thriller, and Mystery genres, it’s time to go a little more in-depth and talk about the ways in which Horror can be subdivided: the different types of horror, the typical elements of each, the types of scares each utilizes. And, of course, I’ll pepper each with a few examples.

Personally, I tend to break down horror into one of four categories. Keep in mind, these labels and definitions are partially my own, but should – at least hopefully – more or less follow the general consensus on the matter. And, it should go without saying that even though we may generally assign a book (or movie or video game) to one category, of course it’s entirely possible that it may share elements of another category.

So then…

Monster Horror

Likely the most obvious/easily identifiable type of horror is Monster Horror – and it is precisely what it sounds like: vampires, werewolves, golems, demons, etc. Usually the monster is evil (though not 100% of the time), and the story will ultimately revolve around a battle against it. Ghosts can qualify as monsters in this case, but usually only if they’re malicious, antagonistic, and/or must be confronted or battled. (If they don't fit this description, they're more likely to be found in Psychological Horror.)

Typically, the thrills and scares of Monster Horror come from the evil acts the monster performs, as well as from the seemingly underdog status of the heroes. Where did the monster come from? How can it be defeated? Are the heroes strong/capable enough to get the job done?

The main types of scares that Monster Horror utilizes are suspense and action.

A few examples from literature and film:

• Dracula by Bram Stoker
• Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (a rare example of the monster not actually being particularly evil)
• The Resident Evil movies (which are zombie movies, but much too action-y to count as Body Horror)
• The Alien franchise of movies, books, and video games

Grind Horror

Grind Horror seems occasionally to go in and out of style. It’s not actually too terribly common in literature – typically, the visual element is simply too vital to its execution, and so is more often found in film.

The thing that separates Grind Horror from the other types is that it is over-the-top grotesque, visceral, revolting, obscene, etc. Very commonly, Grind Horror involves either a serial killer or a monster which butchers its victims in absolutely repulsive ways, and which is shown/described in explicit detail. These are the gruesome stories that often make you feel more nauseated than scared. In fact, Grind Horror often doesn’t bother that much trying to put together a meaningful story – the so-called “plot” is often just an excuse for trying to shock/disgust its consumer.

The main types of scares that Grind Horror utilizes are being shocking and disturbing.

A few examples from literature and film:

• The Saw movies (likely the most intellectual of the category - but still Grind)
• Anything Rob Zombie lays his fingers on
• Select parts of the Hannibal Lecter series by Thomas Harris (On the whole, I actually classify the Hannibal series as Thriller, not Horror. That said, though, there are definitely a few scenes – especially in the third book, Hannibal – that were of the Grind persuasion. If more parts of the books had been written along these lines, they could have feasibly ended up in Grind territory.)

(A personal note: Grind Horror is easily my least favorite type of horror. Too often it substitutes actual intelligent thrills for the mere shock value of the grotesque. Grind is sort of the “low-brow” of the Horror genre.)

Body Horror

Though I most often refer to this category as Body Horror, I admit the name could be slightly misleading. Body Horror focuses on science/medicine, abnormalities – and possibly exploitation of – anatomy, etc. There’s a lot of room for overlap between Body and Grind, but usually Body Horror won’t take things to quite as obscene of a level – and is, ideally, more story-driven. In fact, one of the elements that particularly sets Body Horror apart from the others is that it often goes out of its way to attempt to explain the science/medicine/abnormalities at the core of the story.

Stories about zombies tend to fall into this category. Most zombie stories give us an explanation for – or at least a glimpse into the beginning of – the story’s zombism: in Brooks' World War Z, it’s a variation of rabies; in Jones' Zombie Apocalypse it’s a mutation of the Black Plague that’s been lying dormant underground for several centuries; etc.

The main types of scares that Body Horror utilizes are being macabre and maybe even believable.

A few examples from literature and film:

• World War Z by Max Brooks (the book more than the film)
• Spiral by Koji Suzuki (the sequel to The Ring – which, interestingly, is more Psychological than Body Horror)
• Parasite Eve by Hideaki Sena (as well as the video game of the same name)

Psychological Horror

And, of course, I’ve saved the best for last – my personal favorite: Psychological Horror.

These are the stories that don’t bother as much with the shocks, the monsters, or the grotesque, and instead focus on the cerebral side of things. These stories often unfold more slowly than other types of horror – but the unfolding itself is highly important to the overall tone and evolution.  Psychological Horror is generally more mysterious than the other categories, and works the hardest to bring you into its world.

Psychological Horror tends to be the most focused on setting. In other types of horror, it is the elements inside of the world that create the scares. In Psychological Horror, though, the world is often one of the key sources of the story’s eeriness. Houses and buildings that may or may not be haunted; rural villages where all the villagers seem to share some sinister secret; boarding schools in which the students go missing one by one - these are all settings ripe for Psychological Horror. 

The main types of scares that Psychological Horror utilizes are emphasis on an unsettling mood, tension, and mystery.

A few examples from literature and film:

• The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson (likely the very best Psychological Horror novel in existence)
• Most of the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe
• Black Swan (Darren Aronofsky movie)
• A Tale of Two Sisters (a fantastic Korean horror movie)

Tell me, friends: of these four categories, which is your favorite?

What are some examples of books or movies that you like in one of these particular branches of horror?

Let me know!

(Oh, and also: is there a book or movie you're having trouble assigning to one of these categories? Ask away, and I'll try to help you sort it out if I'm familiar enough with it.)