WEIRD FICTION, VOLUME 3 – EDITED BY SIMON STRANTZAS
The thing about “best of”
collections is that, although they’re commonly chosen by only one editor,
readers are not going to love everything selected. These books are often
varied, celebrating the wide range of fiction published each year in a specific
field. That is why, as I review this book, I’m going to pull out the pieces
which spoke particularly to me (although I can’t say I disliked any story
Let’s zero in immediately on the
book’s big coup, a previously unpublished story by Robert Aickman. ‘The
Strangers’ is as good as I could have hoped, one of the author’s queasy
explorations of male sexuality. I’ve no idea why Aickman never included it in
one of his collections, but wonder whether he felt it was too similar to
certain of his other masterpieces. Whatever the truth is, this is a wonderfully
suggestive and typically perverse story involving all the usual Aickman tricks:
high culture, low morals, vampish femmes, and callow young men. It also
contains a new candidate for his most M R Jamesian line (the existing champ
being one about rags in a treetop at the end of ‘The Fetch’). This one involves
bones in a suit. But I’ll say no more than that. Other than it chills deep
down. Wonderful tale.
Almost up there with the Aickman
is Robert Shearman’s ‘Blood’, a near-repulsive elucidation of a sordid trip to
Paris taken by a teacher and his underage pupil. The suggestiveness is
Aickmanesque, with a scene in a manky restaurant involving a hideous dining
experience, and then a conclusion as enigmatically weird as anything Shearman
has done previously. A really unpleasant tale. By which I mean, superb, of
In Ramsey Campbell’s ‘Fetched’, a
man undergoes some kind of Kafka-esque transformation in an offbeat location full
of blackly comic character-clashes and spatially impossible imagery. In Reggie
Oliver’s ‘The Rooms are High’, an amiable narrator gets caught up in a seedy
sequence of events as he visits a peculiar hotel in the place where he grew up.
Full marks for one of the most loathsome characters I’ve read in years. Both
stories are archly surreal and highly effective.
I really enjoyed Nadia Bulkin’s
reworking of Lovecraft’s ‘The Colour out of Space’. In ‘Violet is the Color of
your Energy’, Bulkin reinterprets the classic tale from the mother’s point of
view (or maybe, a mother’s), focusing
on the violating cosmic force through the dynamics of her male family. It’s a
striking and intertextually impressive piece. In D P Watt’s ‘Honey Moon’, a
recently married couple – he initially eager, she prudish – undergo a modification
of sexual roles, as a landscape and its history tease out the limbic forces in
both, drawing them inexorably into animalistic passion. The tale’s deceptively
simple, cleanly written surface only enhances the power of its truly wild
I consider Lynda Rucker’s ‘The
Seventh Wave’ one of the most effective ghost stories I’ve read in a long time,
the frisson achieved through a combination of modern narrative techniques and traditional
nautical legend. Tim Lebbon’s ‘Strange Currents’ is similarly haunting, with an
adventure-style main section leading to a genuinely creepy closing image.
Sometimes straightforward storytelling is the most potent, and that’s rarely more
true than here.
‘Julie’ by L S Johnson is a
compellingly written piece of alternative literary history, with feral
transformations standing in lieu of shameful human behaviour. I’ve always
considered Rousseau rather overrated anyway, so it was nice to see him getting
a good hatchet job here. Johnson’s prose is a delight and the story memorable.
As for Sadie Bruce’s dark fable about the generationally inescapable adoption
of exhibitionist female desires, well, it’s dark and grotesque, as it should be.
‘Little Girls in a Bone Museum’ is required reading for all.
These were the tales I enjoyed
most in the book, though I should add how impressed I was by Matthew Bartlett’s
juicy, rhythmic prose. Marion Womack’s ‘Orange Dogs’ was filled with evocative
passages, and Christopher Slatsky’s tale finished with a killer last line. I’ve
reviewed the Brian Evenson story elsewhere, and consider it a fine one.
All in all, then, I greatly
enjoyed this broad-ranging collection of the best new weird of 2015. Strantzas
has read widely, choosing his tales with an eye for variation and style. I did
wonder why two tales involving the sea – the Rucker and Lebbon – were placed
side by side, but that’s a relatively minor matter when both were among my
favourites here. I was also struck by the large number of female authors
represented – heartening stuff.
The genre’s in rude health, it
would appear – both in terms of the authors writing such great new gear, and
the editors sitting up to take notice. I very much look forward to next year’s
Over 25 years ago Campbell wrote a book called MIDNIGHT SUN,
which he now, with typical humility, describes as an “honourable failure”. Would
that the rest of us could pen such failures! I know I’m not alone in
considering that novel a very fine contribution to the field of cosmic horror,
but perhaps we should be happy that the author is never satisfied with his
stuff and always aims higher.
In interviews around that time, Campbell claims that “maybe
in another 20 years” he’ll have “another go” at scaling the peaks ascended by
Lovecraft and Blackwood. Well, he’s done so already in several works – THE
DARKEST PART OF THE WOODS (2003) and “The Last Revelation of Gla’aki” (2013), both
considerable successes – but when I heard that he’d chosen to write a trilogy
of novels focusing exclusively on a Mythos theme, I grew more than a little
And so here we have the first entry in what promises to be
Campbell’s most ambitious project yet. I understand that these three books will
focus on different stages of their narrator’s life, documenting the decades in
which Campbell himself has lived and worked. This opening piece is set in the
1950s, in the author’s native Liverpool, and anyone who’s read a little about Campbell’s
youth will realise that quite a bit of this (with significant exceptions; for
instance, the narrator’s parents appear rather less fractious than Campbell’s
own were) is autobiographical.
Campbell’s post-WWII Liverpool is packed with evocative
details, from bomb-damaged downtown property to cinemas in the city centre,
from adverts saturating high streets to daily life at a Catholic school. Scenes
in which the narrator’s juvenile self attends classes, hangs out with friends,
and negotiates an ever-perplexing adult world possess an air of fond nostalgia,
something which feels quite new in Campbell’s work. Indeed, the tone of this
book put me firmly in mind of King’s IT and other works of that stripe.
But it’s not only the minutiae of ’50s English city life
under scrutiny here; Campbell also explores social developments of the era,
with much reference to international conflicts, gender politics, the resilience
of religion under attack by new sciences, Trade Unions, and much more. This
novel, fundamentally the intimate tale of a boy entangled in the activities of his
decidedly sinister schoolteacher, has a broader dimension which hints at all
the cosmic material which will surely be explored in later volumes.
Such rich, detailed world-building lends the book intricacy
and completeness. The narrator’s early life is depicted with merciless
attention to the circumstances which mark his development from reticent child
to teenage artist. It is here that I believe that Campbell’s autobiographical
material becomes most prevalent, with memorably vivid passages concerning how
it feels to start out as a writer: the nervousness when revealing new work, the
transformative impact of latest literary enthusiasms, even the way writing
fiction helps one to understand one’s own life and can even lend one courage (like
Burt Lancaster, the star of the piece can never die).
I feel that this is perhaps the book’s most significant
theme: the role of fiction, particularly from the 1950s and the ubiquity of
cinema, in shaping the way people in the modern age think about themselves and
their actions. Campbell’s young characters are constantly borrowing phrases
from the films, structuring their lived experience with mimicked behaviours.
Indeed, the more fiction the narrator writes, the more he
comes to think of himself and his friends as characters in a story – and so
they are. His tales of an intrepid gang become entwined with the narrator’s
retrospective account of his youth, to such a degree that the older incarnation
inevitably wonders how much he’s recalling in accurate detail and how much he might
be elaborating according to fictional conventions and how they patch up incomplete
This is a deep (and yet unobtrusive) strand of the novel, but
let me not suggest that the book welshes on its horror material. Campbell’s
tale of a young boy becoming involved with the dark shenanigans of a guru-like
adult has more than a hint of King’s REVIVAL about it, but while King focuses
intertextually more on Shelley’s FRANKENSTEIN (despite his prefatory reference
to “The Great God Pan”), Campbell’s novel feels more firmly rooted in the world
of Machen’s seedy suburban adventure.
Something is amiss at an elderly friend’s house. When this
lady suffers a breakdown as a consequence of some species of meddling by the
insidious schoolmaster, the narrator’s boyhood self must figure out why and
what caused it. This leads him into a sequence of events whose underlying pungency
and escalating dread peak in images of hallucinogenic weirdness (a scene in a
cinema’s bathroom is particularly fine) and a tantalising vision of imminent
The narrator, looking back from a hitherto undisclosed future
time period, repeatedly claims that the world is over now, but this first novel
hints at only a third of the reason how. Its concluding scenes, one of them set
under a creepy old church, provide both a fitting ending to this low-key
exercise in mounting unease and a mouthwatering taste of what’s surely to come.
Well, that’s the traditional horror narrative, right there.
But as I hope I’ve made clear, THE SEARCHING DEAD is about so much more than
dark frights. Campbell’s parallel depiction of his narrator’s sensitive youth, particularly
the social and existential forces which make him what he’ll become (a reflexive
adult author), is tender, true and (in a great many places) painful. Indeed,
prior to the unsettling finale, the narrator witnesses something equally disturbing
in his personal life, and the way this prompts his literary aspirations, even reorients
his religious affiliations, feels both right and real.
It’s a powerful ending to a novel which looks set to become one
third of Campbell’s masterpiece: a trilogy about who he is as a man and what he’s
always striven to achieve as an author. Bring on BORN TO THE DARK, I say. I
can’t even begin to tell you how much I relished every page of THE SEARCHING
I read a lot of Hook’s short fiction back in the day, during
the good-natured rivalry between us hard horror types and his fey slipstream
folk (joke). Hook’s fiction always struck me as inventive, cleanly written and often
unsettling, so I was looking forward to what he was up to lately in this lengthy
The tale begins with a prologue of sorts, detailing the
emergence of a couple of unusual children in an olde English community. It’s an
intriguing opening, and when the piece switches to the latter-day, with a woman
going about her familiar domestic routines, the stage is set for some kind of
ancestral connection, some merging of the presence with the past.
And so it goes. The central character’s husband is
researching his and his wife’s genealogical trees, soon chancing upon a
decidedly odd episode among her family’s distant relatives. But what have these
strange children to do with this woman’s obsessive compulsive behaviours, the
way she tries to keep her own offspring safe with torturous daily rituals?
Well, that’s the basis of this novella.
Hook’s narrative, arrestingly written, takes us on a voyage
from very normal everyday British family life to the horror of a snatched child,
to a manic billionaire intent on discovering one of the world’s great secrets,
to outlandish conspiracy theories and forbidden knowledge, and finally to a stirring
conclusion set among agents eager to take more than their reticence threatens.
It’s a derring-do story, with traditional Wellsian strands
and some nice speculative history concerning the likes of Hollow Earth. The narrative
switching between characters works well, even though I felt that the piece’s
big traumatic scene – a snatched child – was rather underplayed. I would have
preferred to hear a bit more anguish from both parents in the immediate
I think Hook tackled the issue of OCD quite sensitively,
given that it’s a serious psychological disorder and shouldn’t necessarily be
twisted to genre ends. I’m a sufferer myself and recognised the woman’s
obsessive routines, her irrational and yet psychoLOGICAL belief in the power of
her actions. The way this strand dovetails with the plot-proper also worked
well, with a particularly strong conclusion tying up loose ends.
Overall I enjoyed this offbeat adventure a great deal. It’s
very Andrew Hook, a reminder for me of that earlier work (some of which I enthusiastically
published) and his capacity to take aspects of everyday life and make magic out
of them. An intriguing, readable and satisfying piece.
THEY SAY A
GIRL DIED HERE ONCE by Sarah Pinborough
I read this short novel in a single sitting and I can’t
remember the last time I managed that (maybe a reread of Jackson’s similarly concise
’Hill House a few years back). If “unputdownability”
is the ultimate yardstick against which we judge popular fiction, then
Pinborough’s latest has a helluva lot going for it.
The book opens with its central character, Anna, living with
her all-female family: sister, mother and grandmother. Her grandmother is experiencing
incipient dementia, and it soon becomes apparent that Anna suffers a similar
memory-related problem, which isn’t spelled out for the reader until later in
the narrative (but those sensitive enough to detect apposite clues will work it
out in advance).
It’s a tense, intriguing opening, and as the plot unfolds to
incorporate the family’s new home and location, these matters are driven
deeper, as other residents become both friendly and threatening, with Anna’s
secret lurking at the heart of why she refuses to engage with them too quickly.
She has a low-key job in the area, but when folk get too close, she shuts them
out, clearly experiencing psychological residue of her trauma.
It is this aspect of the story which appealed to me most.
Pinborough, as she demonstrated in 13
Minutes, is excellent at depicting slightly pissed-off, fearful, resilient
female youth. Anna’s relationship with her sister is particularly convincing in
this sense, as Anna simultaneously resents her innocence and is scared of how
the 10 year-old will soon lose that shine.
Anna’s difficult relationship with her grandmother is
similarly real and touching. The older woman, formerly an unimpeachable churchgoing
type, has been changed through her illness, becoming less restrained by the
moral chains of her community and expressing both her independence and the true
values of life (the smoking episodes are especially well done in that regard).
Indeed, while dementia and its effects on memory (the book’s
central theme) have set the grandmother free, it is Anna’s experiences in this
new residential location which must perform a similar trick on her. But it isn’t
going to be easy.
Now that everything is nicely set up, the plot-proper takes
wing. Anna continually finds her grandmother up late at night, standing near
their house’s cellar and experiencing the kind of mental fugue which makes her
mutter suggestively weird comments (including the novel’s evocative title). Anna
soon discovers from elsewhere – the only person she lets into her life, a
similarly acerbic young female outsider – that two girls died in the community and
that their killer hasn’t been apprehended yet. Can these dead girls be speaking
through Anna’s grandmother, using her illness as a supernatural conduit?
Without giving too much away, let me say that Anna’s investigations
will land her in all kinds of trouble, including blackmail, erroneous
suspicions, an act of cruelty on her part, and a revelation which comes right
out of leftfield. By the end of the book, the novel’s previously suppressed
spookiness takes an original twist, and the final chapter does something so
unexpected that I had to go back to the start to absorb all its tricksy
In short, I truly enjoyed this tense, intriguing and original
short novel. If it had any faults, I’d cite that hard-to-avoid part of the conclusion
where the villains vocally reveal the backstory while stalking the heroine. On
a technical note, there were one or two repeated phrases in the same passages
(e.g. Anna twice thinks something like “if grandmother was going to intervene, this would be a good time”) which hint
at a need for a further polish.
But these are relatively minor matters. The book remains a
clever, different, and psychologically convincing narrative, and I wouldn’t
hesitate to recommend it to those in the mood for something dark, gripping and (maybe
its best feature) original in its payoff.
On this evidence, Pinborough is the go-to mistress of
well-characterised, arrestingly written, and intriguing story. What else can we
You can buy a copy here, and also check out newcomer Polly
Morris’s suitably pungent and sulphurous cover artwork.
There seems to have been a small revival of fictions dealing
with “hidden people” lately. I’m thinking of Ramsey Campbell’s exquisitely
weird novel The Kind Folk and the
recent (modestly effective) film The
Hallows. Perhaps there’s something about the true nature of fairies which
appeals to us all during these dark days of global strife overlaid by media-enforced
bogusly sentimental discourse.
Anyway, here is Alison Littlewood’s latest novel, also focusing
on the hidden people of yore. It’s narrated by a young Victorian rationalist
(Albie), in the thrall of social and industrial revolution in 19th
Century Britain. He’s committed to scientific enlightenment, and yet when he
meets his young cousin, the pure Lizzie, he experiences some ineffably magical
connection with her which haunts him for years to come.
Then, some time later, she dies. Having gone their separate
ways, Albie to the city, Lizzie to the wilds of Yorkshire, our narrator must
now venture to the countryside, with all its backward-thinking residents and
strangely ancient lore. Here he will investigate just what led to his fair
cousin’s premature death.
The early sections of this book will feel very familiar to
wide readers, and that’s no bad thing. There’s almost a cosy, Victorian-novel
feel to the opening events, each scene delineated by Littlewood in a highly
convincing pastiche of the great storytelling masters’ prose (Eliot, et al). Indeed,
it’s the quality of the writing which makes these introductory passages soar,
with landscapes populated by flora and the villagers’ closed community depicted
with all its questionable traditions.
The plot when it gets going takes the form of an
investigative mystery, with many a sinister set-piece – visits to mystical
seers, troubling dreams, and grave-digging – and off-the-page spookiness.
Littlewood is adroit at relating her story without ever giving away to the
reader just what kind of book this is: straight horror story, historical drama,
This clever evasion of categorisation keeps us guessing right
to the end, and the conclusion, once it comes, is highly satisfying. It’s hard
for me to discuss this part of the book without giving away key moments, though
I will say that its borderline ghostly nature and focus on familial events in
the near-past put me most closely in mind of Barbara Vine’s macabre mystery
In short, this is a compelling book, but not one which readers
of hardcore dark fiction are necessarily going to relish. Its references to the
titular hidden people remain allusive throughout, and if such quiet, suggestive
horror is your preference, you’re in for a good time here.
The characterisation is solid throughout, and although even
I, a dyed-in-the-wool Yorkshire-man, struggled a bit with the vernacular dialogue
at times, I found the book a particular joy to read. Littlewood is excellent at
capturing locations, while her understanding of human psychology is – essential
here – never less than convincing.
Did I have any issues with the novel? Well, I did think
Littlewood used the “it was only a dream” motif once too often to start a
chapter, but that’s a minor issue and, in fairness, these passages did crank up
the accumulating tension. The plot, as I’ve suggested, is, in the early stages,
rather traditional, but whether you consider that a fault or a pleasure is your
business. For me, the latter held sway; I’ve always been a big fan of the 19th
Century melodramatic novel.
I particularly relished the final chapter, which, following a
sequence of events that assert the narrator’s hardnosed rationalism, challenge
this simplistic assumption with some mystical reflections and transformative
perceptions. Just as Albie appeared to fall in love quickly at the book’s beginning,
he’s learnt, by its end, that not everything in life, especially us “wild”
people, work as mechanically as all the clocks and devices he’s observed at the
Great Exhibition in the opening chapter.
This is a compelling, weird and knowing conclusion to a deeply satisfying book. I have no
hesitation in recommending it to both genre and non-genre readers.
I came to this book after hearing from peers how great it
was, and that’s always a dangerous thing for an author. Can s/he ever live up
to whatever hype a new title has garnered? I’d loved Langan’s earlier work –
his inventive short stories and novellas – and so I was highly hopeful that
this new novel would cut considerably more than the mustard.
The plot focuses on a guy who’s lost his wife who meets
another guy who’s lost his wife and family and who together go fishing. That’s it.
That’s the plot. Hollywood is not salivating. But that’s no bad thing. Because
as we literature lovers know, it’s what authors do with such material that
And here Langan gets off to a strong start. His pen-portrait
of a man experiencing grief – the disjointed narrative, the ruptured habits, and
transformed perceptual experience – has a pungent air of authenticity, the
whole elucidated in a lyrical, laidback, breezy style that put me firmly in
mind – even down to turns of phrase (e.g. “…when you get right down to it…”) – of
The narrative itself is riskily ambitious. After our central
character meets his new fishing buddy, they go out on the road and hit a diner
where some fella reveals the backstory of the place to which they’re headed.
This section constitutes half the book.
It’s a Machen-like “tale of terror” full of suggestive imagery and tell-and-not-show
Such stories within a story give the book a “modernist” feel,
with a focus on communicable history and the agents upon which it relies. This
strategy lends the book both verisimilitude and factual tension, as this
frankly “unlikely” tale of a mysterious visitor and all the occult-ish events
in which his arrival-in-town prompted may or may not have consequences for our fishermen’s
And so it goes. By the time the pair arrive at their
destination, the suspense has been cranked up to such a degree that the
landscape thrums with threat. Langan is excellent at bringing life to
locations, at capturing the minutiae of everyday existence. This gives his
fiction a sense of vibrancy, and if some readers might tire of what
occasionally feel like over-descriptive passages or unnecessary longueurs while
documenting a character’s thoughts, then they’re wrong, simple as that.
Patience is required here. The prose has a density which is all grist to Langan’s
mill. He’s creating a lived world, and all material is essential. The reader needs
to believe in both the characters’ psychology and the location’s organic power.
As for the book’s “scary bits”, well, what can I say? These
events are simultaneously familiar – a corpse walking across town whose movement
isn’t right, whose misaligned bones clank together – to the strikingly new and audacious.
The image of some great beast tethered to a coastline is particularly vivid, as
is the presence of water forming tunnels in woodland, along which intruders
must venture. All this feels mythic,
packed with brain-tingling depths and fodder-for-reflection.
These sections, inescapably there as a result of more of that verbose prose, lend the end of
the book much more weight, including a startling closing image (in the final
paragraphs) which will, I imagine, haunt you forevermore. It’s a fine ending to
a strange, intense, fussy narrative which feels both lean (it’s only 100,000
words) and packed with material (those 100,000 words essentially focus on a single
day out fishing).
In short, I really enjoyed this book. Its thematic ambition
and aesthetic textures greatly impressed me. But did I think it had any
shortcomings? Well, I’m not sure this is a fault per se, or even whether it’s just my personal reading, but at times
– hell, a lot of the time – the prose did feel very much like Stephen King. As
I’ve said, even some of King’s pet phrases turn up here, but there are other things
– the way Langan’s characters reflected and communicated – which felt similar. Late
in the book a homeowner takes a tray of sweet comestibles around to a newly
arrived neighbour (folk are always
doing that kind of thing in King’s novels). This is just a petty example, but
it illustrates how very Kingian this narrative felt. It’s for this reason that
occasionally the book felt, to me, slightly derivative. Even the execution of
the mythic material felt like the King of Lisey’s
Story or Rose Madder. Maybe I’m
being harsh or am in error. But I also want to be honest about my response to
Another minor quibble I had involved the lengths to which the
central character went to explain how he’d remembered all the details of the
backstory after hearing it only once in spoken form. There’s no way he’d have recalled
it in such detail, and his attempts to account for having done so felt
unconvincing to me. He might have been better admitting that his recollection would
be imperfect and based perhaps on familiarity with the speaker. It’s possible
that he was deluding himself in this claim, and also causing the reader to
question his trustworthiness (later in the book, he does wonder whether
material he recalls was actually mentioned by the storyteller), but even so, this
short section felt a little awkward to me.
However, let me not suggest that these issues were a
hindrance to my enjoyment of such a finely pitched, rigorously structured, and
genuinely unsettling piece. The best of it is uniquely Langan, the stuff he’s
done so well in earlier work and synthesised here to a remarkably dense degree.
It’s a memorable novel which is apt to gain only in power as time advances and
all its implications fail to leave you alone.
I think I like Lovecraftian horror fiction better than any
other kind, but here’s the sting: when it’s done badly, it’s probably my least
favourite. Too many “Mythos-inspired” writers, I find, don’t know HPL’s work
very well at all, tending to over-reveal their cosmic entities and essentially
miss the point of the best of that particular author: that his invasive forces represent
the sheer alienating power of the universe at large, its cold indifferent
vastness, any part of which would murder us if we happened to leave the comfort
of our earthly cradle.
And so here’s another scribe trying to raise his star in a firmament
currently packed with them: Rich Hawkins, a relative newcomer who’s published a
handful of books and is developing quite a desirable reputation. I’m sorry to
say that until now I hadn’t read him, but on the strength of this novella, I
reckon I’ll be returning for more.
Black Sun is essentially the tale of a guy returning to his native
village following the disappearance of his wife. Ben is a taciturn chap, given
to robust reflection and critical self-analysis. His relationship with his
father, reignited after years of separation, is convincing in all its “us
against them” textures, the pair mutually bereft of their cherished lovers.
Hawkins is particularly good at expressing states of mind
through his character’s perceptual orientation to the world. His prose is
gaudy, choppy, jam-packed with lyrical turns of phrase. This put me in mind of
early Ramsey Campbell, where people seem almost enmeshed with their environments,
as if the world around them is staining their psyches. It’s all good gear,
possessing a rhythmic impact, an accumulation of rich detail and acerbic
observations, each of which contributes inexorably to a mounting pungent
The plot is slight, but that’s not a criticism. Hawkins
appears to be more interested in evocation of place and character than in
telling a headlong tale. Ben’s meetings with various village folk resonate with
tensions, to such a degree that when the guy finally starts seeing things from
the corners of his eyes, such outré elements, possibly not there at all, have
a creeping force, a hint of horrors to come.
Ben’s meeting with a local artist with a similarly troubling backstory
brings into play a physical aspect of all these suggestive elements: some kind
of creature, decidedly unearthly, along with much delusionary talk of realms
beyond our world.
In short, everything is grist to Hawkins’s mill – the atmosphere,
the characters, the increasingly tangible events. We’re building towards
something horrible, the Lovecraftian reveal, but the question here for me was,
could Hawkins pull it off?
He did, and he didn’t, I think. In one sense – SPOILER – the
very end of the novella is an anti-climax, the super-horror the author has
threatened occurring off-stage, beyond the final page. However – and this is a
big however – he’s already done something equally terrible. Indeed, the final village
scene in the book is so awful that the traditional HPL-infused narrative is completely
usurped, as a very human terror becomes as thunderously dreadful as anything lurking
on the fringes of a void.
It’s a frightening, resonant conclusion to a very
well-written piece. Hawkins controls his narrative, seems to know exactly what
he’s hoping to achieve, and the whole thing reminded me of Lars von Trier’s Melancholia: a very human drama pitched
in the form of an otherworldly violation. It’s a real head trip, and one I was
grateful for. Splendid work.