Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, a Review

Perhaps the reason I've an affinity for dark & twisted art lies with a trio of books I read as a child.  Alvin Schwartz is most known for his collection of folktales marketed towards children.  His most famous books--Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, and Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones--were some of my most favorite reads as a lad, and when I recently happened upon my personal copy of SS3, I couldn't help but dive in.  I went to the library and checked out the first two volumes (not sure why I only have the third?), then promptly drove home and leafed through the pages.

It's impossible to continue without acknowledging Stephen Gammell's defining artwork.  In fact, I'm going out on a limb and saying that it's Gammell's work that makes this collection so cherished (and challenged*, for that matter).  I love the loose, spindly, flowy lines that add an ethereal feel to each work.  Everything has the tone of something horrific waiting to be loosed upon your mind.  I would love to see Gammell do some Lovecraftian illustrations.  Yes, it is Gammell's work that shines in these books, and they've no doubt affected my subconscious.  

Allow me to wax on here.  The illustrations are grotesque.  Magnetic, whereby they repulse the reader, but attract as well.  I feel as if Gammell has somehow captured the essence of a nightmare (or some hell) and then rendered it on us, and, in particular, young minds.  Frankly I'm surprised these books are read by kids, as I can easily see them getting utterly creeped out and running for Mommy in the dead hours after midnight.  Moreover, as I was rocking Avonlea to sleep the other night, I was reading the books and left them beside her crib after she went to sleep.  Keisha brought them to me later as I was brushing my teeth and said, "You can't leave those in there. If I look over there and see 'em in the middle of the night I'd be freaked out."

I guess I would, too.  I have this fleeting fear whenever I wake up during the night.  With the thick shadows and eerie softglow lights, coupled with the fact that I'm not wearing my spectacles, everything is blurred and skewed.  My mind deceives me.  My eyes tell untruths and distortions.  I see monsters and things unknown in the darkness, sinister and evil, things that would fit perfectly alongside these horrors Gammell's illustrated.

Still, there is more to these books than just the art.  Schwartz writes in an easy to understand form, especially for children.  To my understanding, the intention is for these things to be read aloud, and working with that assumption, these stories all do well.  However, if one looks too closely as the sentences, well, one gets disappointed in the simplicity.  It's anticlimactic at times, coming across as uninspired and flat out boring.  This is not prevalent, nor is it epidemic, but the way these stories are told is very weak when compared with other folktales.  (This seems fickle, as I'm comparing a children's book to adult, scholarly things, but what can I say?)  Nevertheless, I did feel like Schwartz dropped the ball several times throughout these three books, but if you're reading them aloud, it's not too bad.

If we look at the folktales and urban legends themselves, then these three books are a treasure chest of them.  Each tale spans from 1-3 pages (most falling at just over a page) in length, and because of that, there are a multitude of stories.  Many are familiar things, things we all know, things our grandparents swear are true.  But there are more than enough unfamiliar ones, too.  And to me, digesting a "new" folktale, especially one that's been around for years, is like cream cheese icing on a carrot cake.  Delicious.

I appreciate Schwartz listing a bibliography at the end of each book, as it's nice to be able to dig deeper (or see different tellings) for a story.  When things are from oral tradition, Schwartz lists people involved, too, or areas he collected from.  I also like how there are "alternate endings" or miscellany for the stories listed.

These three books are delightful little reads.  There's no doubt that they're heavily responsible for my taking to folktales, as I read these books for the first time in elementary school, but they're also probably responsible for my weakness for dark art.  I'm glad to have stumbled on my copy of SS3 the other day, and even more glad to find the library's copies were in the stacks and not checked out.  Halloween is the perfect time to read these books, and the RIP challenge just makes it more pleasant.  If you've never read the stories Schwartz tells, then you're missing out.  But even more, if you've not had your heart stopped by Stephen Gammell's horrid illustrations, you're really missing out.  I strongly recommend remedying this as soon as humanly possible.

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*Not only was this series the most challenged during the 1990s, it was also the 7th most challenged between 2000-2009.  I'm assuming 

House of Leaves, a Review (Spoiler-Free)

Little solace comes

to those who grieve

when thoughts keep drifting

as walls keep shifting

and this great blue world of ours

seems a house of leaves

moments before the wind. (p.563)"

Defining Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves is like asking a five year old to describe the Riemann Hypothesis.  House of Leaves is, on its fringes, a story about the Reader.  In the Introduction by Johnny Truant, we're flat out told that what we're reading is a product from a manuscript he found in the room of a dead man named Zampanò.  The manuscript, as it turns out, is a scholarly work based on a documentary Zampanò has become obsessed with: The Navidson Record.  And if House of Leaves is about anything at all--its heart, its cornerstone, its foundation--then it's about The Navidson Record.

Will Navidson is a critically acclaimed photojournalist.  Years of life spent away from his long-time partner Karen Green, a former cover model, and his two children, Chad and Daisy, has the Navidson family barreling towards non-existence.  Will and Karen decide to purchase a quaint Virginia house and settle down and work on their family.  Will seeks to finish his career with a simple documentary on their new lives in their new home.  He installs video cameras throughout the house, motion sensors to pick up when activity is going on, and settles in for a calm retirement.

But everything does not go as planned.  The house seems odd, and one day, for no apparent reason, Will and Karen discover a new closet situated outside their bedroom door.  Baffled, Will gets the floor plans and begins going through measurements, confused.  And when he discovers that the house measures larger on the inside than it does on the outside, the groundwork is laid for the rest of the "movie."

The Navidson Record is as tantalizing as it is terrifying.  The house on Ash Tree Lane is creepy and dark.  Navidson, an explorer at heart, sets out to understand the house and its unnerving black (and apparently unending) labyrinth of hallways that appears in its center.

Zampanò's manuscript exhaustively covers the film, from its subtle and serene beginnings to its haunting and stunning conclusion.  His work is littered with footnotes, and as Truant tells us at the onset, many of these footnotes' references simply do not exist in real life.  Keeping this in mind, the remainder of the manuscript makes for a fascinating exploration of the film, sometimes mind-numbingly so.

"As I discovered, there were reams and reams of it. Endless snarls of words, sometimes twisting into meaning, sometimes into nothing at all, frequently breaking apart, always branching off into other pieces I'd come across later--on old napkins, the tattered edges of an envelope, once even on the back of a postage stamp; everything and anything but empty; each fragment completely covered with the creep of years and years of ink pronouncements; layered, crossed out, amended; handwritten, typed; legible, illegible; impenetrable, lucid; torn, stained, scotch taped; some bits crisp and clean, others faded, burnt or folded and refolded so many times the creases have obliterated whole passages of god knows what--sense? truth? deceit? a legacy of prophecy or lunacy or nothing of the kind?, and in the end achieving, designating, describing, recreating--find your own words; I have no more; or plenty more but why? and all to tell--what?" (p.xvii)

But still yet, in an even further removed frame, the Reader understands (again, at the beginning of the novel, so as to keep SPOILER-FREE) that we're also reading Johnny Truant's annotations of Zampanò's manuscript.  Truant's story begins in the Introduction, and as it unfolds throughout the footnotes, we discover how the manuscript affects him.  Truant is a mesmerizing POV, as one of the first things he tells us is that he's unreliable.  And as we read, both the manuscript and the footnotes, we're constantly left puzzling over what's been altered, if anything.  This, as the Reader will undoubtedly understand, is disorienting and intentional.  And as we come to understand Truant's background, especially concerning the Whalestoe Letters, what's real and what's not comes under even more scrutiny.

To me, the most interesting part of the book deals with the darkness inside the house.  Danielewski a la Truant a la Zampanò paint a vivid picture of the blackness, the absence of light within the house.  

"The walls are endlessly bare. Nothing hangs on them, nothing defines them. They are without texture. Even to the keenest eye or most sentient fingertip, they remain unreadable. You will never find a mark there. No trace survives. The walls obliterate everything. They are permanently absolved of all record. Oblique, forever obscure and unwritten. Behold the perfect pantheon of absence." (p.423)

I know what dark is.  I live in the state with the largest cave system in the world.  I've been to the depths of the earth and had the lights extinguished, propelled into absolute darkness, a blackness so thick that one can't help but despair.  And yet, the darkness within the house seems darker.  This has definitely played upon my mind at night as I've roamed the halls of my own house, and I confess to a quickened pulse a time or two.

Another part that must be addressed is the bizarre formats used.  This was the primary reason I wanted to read the book, and after finishing, I enjoyed the way the book was presented.  The Reader has to flip the book, turn it sideways, and go through mental hoops to read certain passages, but it definitely adds to the story.  I read the full color edition, which is the author's preferred edition, as it includes over two-hundred pages of appendices, filled with more fascinating puzzle pieces (and if you read the book, I recommend following the instructions to see the Appendix before continuing on with the novel) and I can't imagine reading this book any other way.

So what is House of Leaves?  It's a book containing four stories, one woven story, some spelled out more than others, some flat out ignored.  It's meta.  It's contained.  It's puzzling.  It's erudite, so keep a dictionary very close.  It's compelling.  It's tedious.  It induces smiles and wicked grins, but groans and sighs.  It's beautiful.  It's art.  It's a love story.  It's disgusting and leaves one needing a bath.  It's definitely not for the faint of heart or those offended by crude sex.  It is a remarkable read, leaving the Reader satisfied and immediately ready to dive back in again to see what's missed, but at the same time worn down and betrayed.  If Danielewski intended this, then he succeeded.  I enjoyed House of Leaves immensely and would love to discuss it with someone (thankfully there are forums devoted to it).  It's easy to recommend.

Buried, a (film) Review

I've watched the cursor blink several times now, waiting for me to somehow begin this post.  And yet, after watching Rodrigo Cortés' 2010 thriller Buried, I don't know how to begin.  A brief synopsis:

Paul Conroy (Ryan Reynolds) is an American truck driver working as a private contractor in Iraq.  After one convoy trip goes wrong, Paul wakes up to discover that he's been buried alive in a wooden coffin.  Armed with only a cell phone and a lighter, Paul begins a desperate struggle to have himself located and freed.

I wanted to watch Buried back when I first heard about it, primarily because of the risky gimmick.  See, the entire film is really one long scene.  The camera never leaves the coffin.  This gives the audience a somewhat claustrophobic effect, though certainly nowhere near as strong as Conroy's.  So when I settled in to watch Buried last night, I was expecting to be on the edge of my seat, and Rodrigo Cortés went well beyond my expectations.

Honestly I'm still struggling on how to come to grips with this film.  I classify it as a suspense/horror movie, and of the worst possible kind.  To me, scary isn't some ethereal monster lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce and devour.  It's not demons and goblins boiling young children and feeding them in pies to trolls.  No, to me, true horror is the possibility that an unsettling event could actually happen, and that's definitely the case with Buried.  (That's also the reason why I detest torture-porn movies, because some psycho could actually watch, find inspiration, and act on what they've just seen, but that's tangential.)

What makes Buried even more frightening is that I personally have friends and family that are serving our country overseas.  Some are military, but some are private contractors, working in war zones, just as Paul Conroy was.  And that's part of why this film affected me so strongly.

So how to discuss the movie without spoiling anything?  I've decided on a list of adjectives I felt throughout the film.

• Emotional, of the heart-wrenching kind.  
• Disturbing, of the "what the heck's wrong with humanity?" kind.  
• Pulse-gripping, of the kind that grabs and doesn't let go.  
• Bleak, of the "help, I'm buried alive in a coffin somewhere in the Iraqi desert and I'm suffocating" kind.
• Infuriating, of the "surely this kind of thing doesn't really happen but it probably does" kind.
• Dreadful, of the full-of-dread kind.
• Suspense, of the "how is this going to end?" kind.
• Melancholy, of the "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" kind.

Truly, this movie kept me in full attention.  As the film progresses, watching the character development has a staggering affect on the Viewer, and Reynolds performs superbly.  The acting was convincing, the lighting believable, and the sounds as I would imagine.  There was one part that was remarkably creepy, and another that was remarkably tear-jerking. The restrictions of filming solely in the coffin are smartly handled and felt by all, and I think the risk taken by Cortés paid off.

Buried is one of those movies that leaves you pondering well into the night, and then on into the next day.  My only solace is knowing that the film is fiction.  That's a comforting thought, and possibly the only one I have.  Buried is not an easy film to watch, and the feeling after finishing is truly horrifying.  This minimalist movie had a maximum affect on me, and I'd love to discuss it with someone.  It's available now on Netflix Instant Streaming for those with a stout heart.

The Passage, a Review

Earlier this year, Justin Cronin's much acclaimed novel The Passage was released.  The book was hyped to be The Book of the year, offering such a fine and well-written story that all who read it would be left in its wake with their mouths open and their eyes begging for more.  The movie rights were bought before the book even had time to rest itself on the shelves.  Sequels were planned.  I knew I wanted to read the book, so I jumped on the wait-list at the library.  The library ordered eight copies, I was number 26, and the waiting began.

The Passage is mostly compared to Stephen King's The Stand.  Cronin's work is epic in scope and in the telling, spanning over a thousand years in points of the plot with a character list well in to the double digits.  There are three interconnected plots going on in the novel, and all three work together to create a tale that's bleak in the outlook.

Plot One begins in the near future.  Many changes have happened in America, and most of them seem like reasonable/believable changes.  New Orleans is basically one large factory now.  Traveling between states may require documentation.  But scientists are still searching for a cure to many diseases and provide longevity.  One, Dr. Lear, thinks he may have found the answer.  The US Army takes an interest in Lear's work, provides funding, joins the team, and the new partnership dives headlong into research & development.  Test subjects are collected and the world takes a turn for the worse.

Plot Two takes place almost one hundred years later.  It is the major plot of the book, covering about 70% of the 769 pages, and now the American world is a desolate, rusting wasteland.  The outbreak of the virals put an end to nearly all life, and those that have managed to survive so long have done so in fear and anxiety.  In California, a resemblance of life and culture exist in the Colony, the Last City, but it's one of despair and utilitarian in nature.  Things are slowly going downhill, and they know that one day soon their batteries will stop working and the lights will fail to come on.  Then nothing will stop the virals.  But, when a small girl walks into the Colony one day, alone and unharmed, a wave of unrest drops on the survivor's like a bomb.

The Third Plot is very sparsely told.  It's set over a thousand years after the outbreak.  Everything is revealed through journal entries or letters.  The impression is that someone in the future is reading these notes on the American Quarantine Zones, though the identity is never revealed.  Cronin will sometimes use a chunk of journal entries to pass through several days for the protagonists, and while passive in tone, it generally works well.

One of the joys of reading The Passage was that Justin Cronin is a fantastic writer.  His descriptions summon up imagery easily.  His prose reads fluidly, action-filled when needed to be, and sizzling on the burner when called for.  There were scenes that had me nervous to read because I knew something was going to happen, and I liked the characters so much that I didn't want anything to happen to them.  Some scenes are genuinely creepy, some funny, and some so fast-paced that it's hard to catch your breath.  Yes, Justin Cronin knows how to write.  

On the other hand, he may know how to write too well.  I felt that some of the character's were expounded on too much, especially minor characters that appear only once or twice.  It was almost as if Cronin didn't want to leave any stones unturned.  Also, some of the daily expressions used seem a bit overdone (Flyers!), but the world he's crafted is believable and the curse works.

I'm not sure exactly how to classify The Passage.  In some parts it's horror.  In others its definitely science-fiction.  Even more, it's fantasy.  The blend of genres creates a remarkable tale that has me interested in reading its sequel whenever it comes out.  All in all, the book is a very good read.  It's well-written, thought-provoking, and leaves you wanting more.  I can easily recommend Justin Cronin's The Passage to anyone looking for a good book to read.

Heart-Shaped Box, a Review

Horror is a realm I rarely venture into. To me, horror is only spooky and eerie as long as it holds on to the mystery of what's going on. Why is there a ghost haunting me? What was that noise in the closet? Once the questions start to get answered (or once you realize that they will get answered, even) the potency of the story drops dramatically insomuch that the genre transforms from horror to thriller/suspense. Unfortunately, few novels can carry the plot long enough to maintain an overall sense of unease, and Joe Hill's Heart-Shaped Box falls victim to this very problem.

Judas Coyne is a fifty-something year old retired rock star. He's spent his whole life running away from his past, eager to leave his Louisiana roots behind and embrace the celebrity world of rock & roll. His songs are hard, angry anthems that sing of hate and sex and good times. His current bed-mate, a twenty-something that goes by the name Georgia, is just another girl in a long line of states.

Jude has long had an interest in the weird. He has a private collection of strange things from all around the world, from a hangman's noose to a snuff film. One day his personal assistant tells him that someone is selling a ghost online and Jude decides to buy it and add it to his collection. He promptly forgets about it until the heart-shaped box package arrives, bearing a dead man's suit. Things will never be the same.

The first hundred-and-fifty pages or so of this book had me hooked. I was reading late at night, and after I turned off the light I felt a little uneasy about some things. A shadow might have moved. A dog might have scratched the bed and startled me. A ghost might have been standing at the top of my stairs. Yes, the first half of Heart-Shaped Box was horror, evoking genuine spookiness.

Hill's descriptions of the ghost are haunting. I had a vivid image of the thing in my head, almost as if I could see it myself. The writing style is perfect for the genre, seamlessly jumping from the "norm" to the odd with a sentence, easily keeping the reader on-edge. The plot is fast-paced, and I admit I turned over pages fast to find out what was going to happen next.

Sadly, the book loses its ability to keep the reader spooked. That's not to say that the story goes downhill or gets stupid, because it doesn't, but it simply morphs into a suspense novel. It's like I accepted the ghost for what it was and now Jude is just trying to get rid of it. It relies on the "here's the problem, find a solution"  formula. There's still otherworldly things happening, but it's no longer eerie, and most of the imagery doesn't seem as fresh any longer.

Still, Heart-Shaped Box was an enjoyable read. Jude Coyne is an interesting character, and watching him develop through the read is as enjoyable as the ghost story. Hill's writing is great and, coupled with the quick-paced plot, the book is a rather short read. Overall I enjoyed Heart-Shaped Box, but I ultimately feel that it lost its edge as it drew to a close. To me, horror is best suited to a short-story environment, but Hill's first half of the book certainly hit all the right notes for the genre, so I'm not complaining. That's better than many others can do.

RIP IV Challenge Update and a PSA

I signed up for the R.I.P. IV (Readers Imbibing Peril) Challenge back a few months ago. The challenge is, essentially, to read eerie fiction (mystery, suspense, thriller, dark fantasy, gothic, horror, and supernatural) and to have fun while doing so, and also to share that fun. I chose to participate in the Short Story challenge. So, without further ado, I give you my thoughts.

The Shadow Over Innsmouth, by H.P. Lovecraft

Innsmouth, MA is a fishing town that was once large and prosperous, but over the years it has fallen on hard times. The unnamed narrator (who from later notes by Lovecraft turns out to be Robert Olmstead) is telling the story of his travelling and touring of New England, in particular his time in Innsmouth. Outsiders caution the narrator against going to the shambling town, saying how some people have disappeared and how the Innsmouth folk don’t take kind to strangers. Against his own judgment, the narrator decides to go on a daytrip.

As he arrives in the dilapidated town, he immediately notices the horrible smell of fish and ruin. The people he sees all have a peculiar look and gait about them. The antique architecture is strange, and something eerie seems to be going on.

I enjoyed The Shadow Over Innsmouth. The tale was spooky enough to have my pulse race a bit faster than normal. As the story progressed I became more engrossed in the tale and history of Innsmouth, especially when Zadok began to give the history to the narrator. If you can get past the wordy introduction to the story, this tale is truly eerie. By the end, you’re left with haunting images in your mind and a dreadful stench in your nostrils.

Dagon, by H.P. Lovecraft

This story is much shorter than the previous one, but they are related to one another. This tale is told in a similar fashion, by an unnamed narrator recalling an incident by being stranded on a lifeboat in the ocean. While he’s at sea he witnesses something that leaves him haunted and terrified.

This story was a quick read, but the impact was strong and felt. The last few paragraphs are shocking, and as I finished I blankly thought about what had just happened. I can’t say much, but if you want to read a quick-paced, psychological-paranormal horror tale, Dagon is it.

Together, these two tales examine the impact on the psyche, and the "madness" that ensued was quite believable. These stories by Lovecraft have given me a taste of what the Master of Horror is capable of, and I'm sure I'll read more Lovecraft in the days to come.

And now, here's a Public Service Announcement from around 1979. (Apparently there are a slew of these sorts of PSA's, but I've never seen any.) Enjoy. Writing Wednesday's tomorrow...