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All Horror Coverage

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Aliya Whiteley’s The Beauty is just the thing for readers who prefer maximum weirdness and body horror in their books. Set in a post-apocalyptic colony where all the women have died of a bizarre fungus and only the men remain, the story transmogrifies, folds, spindles and mutilates gender roles and common expectations.

The narrator is a boy named Nate, who functions as the griot for a colony of bereft and bewildered men. That the women, from the eldest to the newly born, have all died is dreadful and mysterious enough, and then the men start to notice mushrooms growing out of the women’s graves. The mushrooms evolve into yellow, ambulatory beings with heads but no faces. These mushroom-fungus creatures claim a number of the men. They are seemingly irresistible, bringing such pleasure that the men call them the Beauties. The men see in them their lost mothers, wives, lovers, sisters, daughters. But the Beauties’ love, gentleness and subservience are not unconditional, and the changes they wreak in some of the men who love them are freakish. Sometimes, the freakishness is welcome, as a man may be so enraptured by his devoted Beauty that he’ll tolerate anything to be with it. But other men of the colony resist and pay the price.

Also included within The Beauty is a tantalizing novella titled Peace, Pipe, about an astronaut’s relationship with an alien entity that the astronaut calls Pipe. On the other hand, maybe Pipe isn’t an alien at all. Maybe what the astronaut takes as Pipe’s voice is just the sound of water in the plumbing of the space where the astronaut has been quarantined after a disastrous mission.

Despite the Möbius-strip twistiness of her stories, Whiteley imbues them with compassion and—dare I say—humanity. Love and hope punch their way through, despite all obstacles. You’ll be surprised by how moved you are at the end.

 

This article was originally published in the January 2018 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Aliya Whiteley’s The Beauty is just the thing for readers who prefer maximum weirdness and body horror in their books. Set in a post-apocalyptic colony where all the women have died of a bizarre fungus and only the men remain, the story transmogrifies, folds, spindles and mutilates gender roles and common expectations.

While filming a mockumentary about purported mermaids in the Mariana trench, the Atargatis is overwhelmed by deadly creatures swarming up from the deep. Climbing over the deck rails, revealing mouths filled with sharp teeth, the humanoid aquatics tear the passengers apart, all while the cameras roll. The gruesome footage later recovered from the abandoned vessel is largely discounted as a hoax, but remains a driver of debate about the existence of mermaids.

For Tory Stewart, the loss of her sister aboard that doomed ship leads her to devote her life to marine studies in order to learn more about her sister's death. Seven years after the tragedy, Tory gets her chance when the network mounts a return expedition to the trench to search for the truth of what happened to the Atargatis. Tory joins a diverse team of scientists ready to plumb the depths for answers. But as hunters, media personalities and corporate players are added to the team, the real motives of the expedition become blurred. And when the sea bares its teeth, Tory and the crew are thrown into a frantically shifting mission. While everything else is coming apart, greed, revenge and grief coalesce to spark a violent descent into madness that will unnerve and enthrall even seasoned horror fans.

Author of the popular Newsflesh series, Mira Grant masterfully ratchets the tension up and down, holding readers firmly in her grip as the mysterious and the monstrous collide. Stirring up a chilling, claustrophobic undercurrent in the dark world of unexplored deeps, Grant keeps a firm grip on the wheel as the story turns its bow into rougher water. Outside the norm for this genre, fully developed and diverse female characters are at the fore of this title and anchor the odyssey as ideal adversaries of the threat below the surface. Fleshing out her near-future feast with fascinating marine science and modern cryptozoology, Grant's Into the Drowning Deep is a delicious dive for readers with an appetite for original oceanic horror.

Fleshing out a near-future feast with fascinating marine science and modern cryptozoology, Mira Grant's Into the Drowning Deep is a delicious dive for readers with an appetite for original oceanic horror.

Isaac Marion is building his first zombie novel Warm Bodies (2010, adapted into a 2013 film) into a bona fide epic. He has surrounded it with both a prequel (the novella The New Hunger, 2013) and this superb sequel, and there’s more to come.

Marion’s original Shakespearean twist is just good enough to be true. In a zombie apocalypse, it makes so much sense for “Romeo and Juliet” to get reduced to “R. and Julie,” and for a petty family feud to get enlarged into a global battle between living humans (Julie’s beleaguered tribe) and the Undead (R.’s hapless, brain-eating kind).

In the first novel, R. and a few of his zombie friends begin to feel human warmth coursing through their dead veins. All hell breaks loose between survivors of the zombies’ hunger too afraid to believe in this “resurrection,” and those who believe it but don’t know what to do about it, let alone what it means. In The Burning World, this conflict grows into a comprehensive political nightmare, a brilliant satire on current events.

R. and Julie are the only ones who keep their heads. That’s because they love each other. In the sequel, their love is tested to the breaking point, barely held together by the friendly presence of another zombie-human couple, characters we recognize with a wink from the prequel.

R.’s slow return to humanity brings with it unbearable memories of his first life, before he died and turned Undead. This tripartite identity—pre-zombie, zombie, post-zombie—is Marion’s master stroke. When a former zombie realizes he was worse as a human being, the spiritual toll is shattering. From time to time in the new novel, an uncanny chorus called “WE” addresses the reader with an omniscience and detachment that can only be called sublime. Who are “WE”? Well, we’ll have to wait and see. I can hardly.

Marion’s original Shakespearean twist is just good enough to be true. In a zombie apocalypse, it makes so much sense for “Romeo and Juliet” to get reduced to “R. and Julie,” and for a petty family feud to get enlarged into a global battle between living humans (Julie’s beleaguered tribe) and the Undead (R.’s hapless, brain-eating kind).

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About midway through his latest novel, Universal Harvester, author John Darnielle drops a potent clue to a larger reveal, but in typical Midwest fashion, it’s unadorned, unheralded, that one massive bass lurking beneath the deceptively calm waters of an otherwise unassuming lake.

Here it is: “You have to get inside to see anything worth seeing, you have to listen long enough to hear the music. Or possibly that’s just a thing you tell yourself when it becomes clear you won’t be leaving. Sometimes that seems more likely. It’s hard to say for sure.”

Darnielle, who is probably best known in pop culture as the prime mover behind the celebrated lo-fi indie band The Mountain Goats, was also nominated for the National Book Award with his NY Times bestselling debut novel, Wolf in White Van. In Universal Harvester, he explores the role of novelist as tarot card reader; as he uncovers each scene, he seems to say, “This could mean X, or it could mean the opposite of X. Let’s flip over the next card to see what it reveals.” The plot springs from a series of unexplained and vaguely disturbing scenes that continue to show up on videotapes rented from an indie store in the hamlet of Nevada (pronounced Ne-VAY-dah), Iowa. Slacker clerk Jeremy Heldt gradually—and a little reluctantly—immerses himself in attempting to unravel the mysteries of what the footage is, where it came from, and what it means.

The spirit of the Under Toad from John Irving’s The World According to Garp hangs heavy over this novel. Corn fields that appear benign under the noonday sun turn sinister after dark, basements and barns conceal clandestine confrontations, shadow and substance play tag in imagination and reality. One almost expects Rod Serling to step out in an epilogue, wrapping everything up with a neat bow, but Darnielle refuses to make it that easy for the reader. Universal Harvester both demands one’s attention and rewards it, but ambiguity is interwoven throughout its warp and weft. Out there on the lit-fic frontier where horror meets mystery and reaches for something beyond, that’s the ultimate achievement.

Thane Tierney lives in Inglewood, CA, and has actually driven through Nevada, Iowa.

About midway through his latest novel, Universal Harvester, author John Darnielle drops a potent clue to a larger reveal, but in typical Midwest fashion, it’s unadorned, unheralded, that one massive bass lurking beneath the deceptively calm waters of an otherwise unassuming lake.

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In his thoroughly engrossing debut novel, British writer Andrew Michael Hurley provides a chilling masterclass in gothic suspense.

Hurley’s protagonist is Tonto Smith, a man haunted by long-ago events on an Easter trip to “The Loney,” a desolate spot of coastline in Lancashire. Smith’s family, and their fellow parishioners, are confident that a shrine near the Loney will help Smith’s mute brother, Hanny, and make yearly trips there in the 1970s—but darker things are afoot. Decades later, another sinister event occurs at The Loney, and Smith is forced to revisit his past.

A bestseller in the U.K., The Loney has drawn comparisons to authors like Shirley Jackson and Sarah Waters, and the seductive and deliciously dangerous sense of place Hurley establishes does evoke these writers. The Loney is a perilous place that literally seems to swallow everything that comes near it, and it hovers over the novel like a ghost. In addition, the spot feels tactile in an organic, powerful way, from a floorboard that hides old treasure to a forest that reveals the darkest secrets of the Lancashire coast. With a breathtaking mixture of effortlessly evocative prose and authentic character moments, The Loney is an immersive story that will make you hope, and fear, along with every character. The Loney is a novel of innocence lost—a brooding, beautifully composed saga that will chill you to your bones.

In his thoroughly engrossing debut novel, British writer Andrew Michael Hurley provides a chilling masterclass in gothic suspense.
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The creepy motel is a staple of the horror genre—think the Overlook or the Bates. In her chilling seventh novel, The Night Sister, Jennifer McMahon has created a worthy addition to that roster: the Tower Motel. 

Located in the tiny town of London, Vermont, the hotel was the pride of the region when it opened in the 1950s. But after the interstate was built, bookings trickled down to nothing and the hotel fell into disrepair. Amy Slater grew up on the grounds of the Tower Motel in the 1980s. Raised by her grandmother, Charlotte, Amy grew up hearing stories of her mother’s instability and her aunt Sylvie’s mysterious disappearance in 1961. Family lore has it that Sylvie ran off to Hollywood in hopes of becoming Hitchcock’s new favorite blonde, but Amy has doubts. In the way of preteen girls, Amy and her best friend, Piper—often trailed by Piper’s younger sister, Margot—love to scare themselves by imaging more sinister reasons for Sylvie’s disappearance. 

Cut to the modern day: Piper and Amy are no longer best friends, but when Margot calls with the news that Amy has killed her son, her husband and herself, leaving only her 11-year-old daughter, Lou, alive, Piper knows she owes it to her old friend to investigate. The mystery leads her back to a discovery the girls made the summer their friendship ended—and to a dark Slater family secret.

As in her previous bestseller, The Winter People, McMahon draws from myth and legend for inspiration in crafting the tragedy that haunts the Slater family. But she has also created a powerful story of childhood friendship and sisterhood, as Piper and Margot work together to clear their old friend’s name. The Night Sister is a dark and compelling story that will keep you turning pages.

 

This article was originally published in the August 2015 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

The creepy motel is a staple of the horror genre—think the Overlook or the Bates. In her chilling seventh novel, The Night Sister, Jennifer McMahon has created a worthy addition to that roster: the Tower Motel.
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When eight-year-old Carolyn stood in the kitchen in her home, helping her mother make potato salad for a Labor Day picnic, she had no idea her life was going to change drastically in a few short hours. Soon, she and several other children from her quiet suburban neighborhood of Garrison Oaks would be orphaned and forced into apprenticeships with a man who could raise the dead and make light from darkness.

The children learned to call him Father. He knew the secrets of the universe and how to make it bend to his will. The children were thrown into rigorous study of his catalogs, books that would teach his 13 adoptees to manipulate life, death and the in-between. They learned to speak to animals, to see versions of the future and more. A question was murmured among the students: Was Father God?

The children’s world was turned upside down again with Father’s disappearance: If he is gone for good, one of his apprentices must take his place as keeper of the catalog library, the key to life and death and the universe. Carolyn prepares for the inevitable battle for the library, unaware of the heartbreaking sacrifice she must make to ensure victory.

A combination of horror and contemporary fantasy, The Library at Mount Char is full of varied and interesting characters, with a Buddhist burglar-turned-plumber, war heroes and murderers in tutus all making appearances. In his first novel, Atlanta software engineer Scott Hawkins shows an obvious mastery of the language and an ability to keep readers involved, even if that means meeting at the intersection of bizarre and creepy. The Library at Mount Char is unique, mystical and hugely entertaining.

When eight-year-old Carolyn stood in the kitchen in her home, helping her mother make potato salad for a Labor Day picnic, she had no idea her life was going to change drastically in a few short hours. Soon, she and several other children from her quiet suburban neighborhood of Garrison Oaks would be orphaned and forced into apprenticeships with a man who could raise the dead and make light from darkness.
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Something terrible has happened to Triss. It’s worse than the story her parents tell, that Triss fell in the lake and came back with a raging fever. It’s stranger than the bratty behavior of Triss’ little sister, who seems tortured by Triss’ presence. Triss’ memories are spotty, but when she finds herself devouring one of her own dolls, she can no longer ignore the truth that she is no longer Triss. As Not-Triss, she finds herself in an eerie game of cat-and-mouse with a bizarre magical force that seems to be terrorizing her family.

The novel is set just after World War I, when Triss’ older brother was purportedly killed, and author Frances Hardinge’s version of England reflects the desperate attempts of a people trying to forget.

With a combination of horror and wry humor reminiscent of Neil Gaiman’s Coraline, Cuckoo Song transcends its teen-reader designation. The psychological and historical nuances, along with the sheer horror of Not-Triss’ existence, will mesmerize older readers as well.

 

Diane Colson works at the Nashville Public Library. She has long been active in the American Library Association's Young Adult Library Association (YALSA), serving on selection committees such as the Morris Award, the Alex Award and the Excellence in Nonfiction for Young Adults Award.

This article was originally published in the May 2015 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Something terrible has happened to Triss. It’s worse than the story her parents tell, that Triss fell in the lake and came back with a raging fever. It’s stranger than the bratty behavior of Triss’ little sister, who seems tortured by Triss’ presence. Triss’ memories are spotty, but when she finds herself devouring one of her own dolls, she can no longer ignore the truth that she is no longer Triss. As Not-Triss, she finds herself in an eerie game of cat-and-mouse with a bizarre magical force that seems to be terrorizing her family.

Warning to the reader: It is impossible for this review to proceed without a number of spoilers. In case anyone still holds the charming belief (as I do) that the mechanics of plot have a bearing on our enjoyment of a novel, the reviewer feels obliged to perform his task up front. I shall do it The Quick (pardon the pun) way: If you are a fan of literary Gothic—think Susanna Clarke or John Harwood—buy this book. You won’t regret it.

Now to details. Debut author Lauren Owen possesses the delightful knack of devising the bleakest possible permutations of the vampire myth. It is as if she made a checklist of the most abysmal variations on Bram Stoker’s blood-pounding themes in Dracula. Owen is explicit about the connection. The Quick is set in the same decade as Stoker’s masterpiece, and in a number of the same places, right down to the London-Yorkshire axis. There’s even a reprise of the sweet-cowboy-turned-vampire-hunter (duly embittered, thank goodness).

These connections with Dracula only enhance the originality of Owen’s much darker vision. On every score, this brilliant young novelist (now pursuing her Ph.D. in English Literature at Durham University) trumps Stoker in nightmarish excess. As a late-Victorian author, Stoker could barely touch upon the grisly anatomical facts and sexual overtones of vampirism. Owen wallows in all these unsavories. What is most disturbing about the novel—and thus most satisfying for dedicated fans of horror—is the fragility, astonishing painfulness and absolute contingency of every human and creaturely emotion.

Yes, that’s right: The creatures have feelings, too. The ordeals of the quick (“human”) can have all the more purchase on the reader’s imagination in contradistinction to the acute sufferings of the undead (or “undid”).

A long gallery of beautifully drawn characters makes the many pages of The Quick turn as swiftly as those of a Wilkie Collins novel (Collins is Owen’s obvious and acknowledged stylistic model). The loving ties that bind the quick and the undead—like the heroic Charlotte and her brother, James—are all clotted in blood. The final image of the novel promises a sequel. Let it come quick.

 

This article was originally published in the July 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read an interview with Owen for this book.

Warning to the reader: It is impossible for this review to proceed without a number of spoilers. In case anyone still holds the charming belief (as I do) that the mechanics of plot have a bearing on our enjoyment of a novel, the reviewer feels obliged to perform his task up front. I shall do it The Quick (pardon the pun) way: If you are a fan of literary Gothic—think Susanna Clarke or John Harwood—buy this book. You won’t regret it.
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In this fascinating and deeply creepy novel by South African author Sarah Lotz, four commercial flights go down on the same day. Everyone on board perishes except three children: a British preteen named Jess; an American boy named Bobby; and a Japanese boy named Hiro. The children are uninjured, but their personalities have changed.

Just one other person survives, albeit briefly: Pamela Donald, a middle-aged Texan who lives long enough to record a mysterious message on her phone. Her pastor, Len Vorhees, who has been trying to break into the big leagues of televangelism, uses the message to start a new cult of “Pamelists,” who believe the three surviving children signal the apocalypse. Rapture Fever is soon spreading around the nation.

Trailed by religious zealots and under intense media scrutiny, the orphans and their new caregivers are forced into seclusion, even as the children’s behavior grows more unsettling. Is it the result of surviving a harrowing disaster, or something else?

The Three is nifty in part because it is a book within a book. Investigative journalist Elspeth Martins has searched out everyone remotely connected to the crashes: the paramedics who responded to the crash in Africa; the prostitute sleeping with Pastor Len; Bobby’s grandmother, who suspects that Bobby has somehow eased his grandfather’s severe Alzheimer’s. The novel is at its eerie best with the transcription of voice recordings by Jess’ Uncle Paul, who slowly descends into madness as he tries to determine what’s wrong with his niece.

Lotz has honed her writing skills as a screenwriter and YA author, and here she spins a tail of disaster and fanaticism that is both entertaining and scarily realistic. The Three is the real deal: gripping, unpredictable and utterly satisfying.

 

This article was originally published in the June 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

In this fascinating and deeply creepy novel by South African author Sarah Lotz, four commercial flights go down on the same day. Everyone on board perishes except three children: a British preteen named Jess; an American boy named Bobby; and a Japanese boy named Hiro. The children are uninjured, but their personalities have changed.

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It is a cool October night on Falstaff Island, about nine miles off of Prince Edward Island, and Scoutmaster Tim Riggs is enjoying a sip of scotch. He can hear his five 14-year-old scouts talking and laughing in the next room, most likely telling ghost stories before they fall asleep. All six are completely unaware of the horrifying turn their annual camping trip is about to take.

The familiar comfort of their night is interrupted by the sound of a motorboat approaching the island. The boat’s sole passenger is a grotesquely gaunt, obviously very ill man who’s so frantic with voracious hunger that he’ll eat anything, even a moth-eaten chesterfield sofa. Tim, a small-town doctor, at first tries to help the man—and keep him away from the naturally curious boys. Tim soon discovers, however, that the stranger is infected with something more dangerous, deadly and contagious than he could have ever imagined. And so begins the terrifying thrill ride that is Nick Cutter’s The Troop.

Cutter’s decision to alternate perspectives between chapters is a wise one. Not only does it allow readers to get to know each character (and their backstories), but it also keeps us guessing as to who—if anyone—is going to make it through the ordeal. They’re a ragtag but close-knit group: Kent, the arrogant jock, most popular guy in school; Ephraim “Eff,” the troubled, anger-prone youth; Eff’s best friend, Max, earnest and loyal; Newton, overweight and socially awkward; and Shelley, a loner with some unsavory interests.

Reminiscent of Scott Smith’s The Ruins and with shades of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies and Stephen King’s “The Body” (on which the film Stand by Me was based), The Troop is brutally visceral, pulling readers right into the action, tapping into our most primal fears: isolation, hunger, survival. Cutter is at his best when describing the ooey-gooeyness of infection—the stench, the sounds, the texture—and in articulating the abject and utter terror of the characters unlucky enough to witness, or experience, these ooey-gooey happenings. The book isn’t for the faint of heart, but if you’re intrigued by what you’ve read so far, then chances are you’ll enjoy succumbing to the thrills of this highly entertaining page-turner.

It is a cool October night on Falstaff Island, about nine miles off of Prince Edward Island, and Scoutmaster Tim Riggs is enjoying a sip of scotch. He can hear his five 14-year-old scouts talking and laughing in the next room, most likely telling ghost stories before they fall asleep. All six are completely unaware of the horrifying turn their annual camping trip is about to take.

Christopher Golden’s Snowblind is a supernatural thriller that transcends the ghost story genre. While this spooky story will not disappoint readers who relish all things creepy, Snowblind is also a well-observed tale populated by a cast of characters whose Recession-era lives are portrayed with poignant authenticity, offering up a 21st-century landscape of tract homes, strip malls and fast food joints inhabited by ordinary folks.

Not surprisingly, given Golden is an award-winning, best-selling author of novels including The Myth Hunters, The Boys Are Back in Town and The Ferryman, his latest effort will grab readers from its opening pages, where a contingent of residents of the small New England town of Coventry are devastated by a deadly blizzard.

After portraying the effects of the past storm, Golden then deftly fast-forwards 12 years, to find Coventry once again about to be snowed in. But this time, the chilling winds and falling snow are accompanied by a horrifying, communal sense of déjà vu for all those who lost loved ones in that first icy Armageddon. For TJ, Allie, Jacob, Joe and Doug, this latest blizzard conjures far more than bad memories.

Alternately redemptive and unnerving, Golden’s Snowblind will hold readers in its icy grip to the very last page, which offers up one last, unexpected and devastating literary chill. 

Christopher Golden’s Snowblind is a supernatural thriller that transcends the ghost story genre. While this spooky story will not disappoint readers who relish all things creepy, Snowblind is also a well-observed tale populated by a cast of characters whose Recession-era lives are portrayed with poignant authenticity, offering up a 21st-century landscape of tract homes, strip malls and fast food joints inhabited by ordinary folks.

BookPage Fiction Top Pick, February 2014

“The first time I saw a sleeper, I was nine years old.” Best-selling author Jennifer McMahon (Promise Not to Tell) opens her new novel, The Winter People, with a sentence that offers a tantalizing glimpse of the horrors to come in this marvelously creepy page-turner. 

Set in on a rural farm in West Hall, Vermont, this multigenerational paranormal tale alternates between the early 19th century and the present. In 1908, Sara Harrison Shea and her husband, Martin, are blessed with a little girl, Gertie, after many years of failed pregnancies and loss. Sadly, Gertie perishes in a terrible accident, and Sara seems to be out of her mind with grief. She believes that Gertie is still with her, appearing in strange places, whispering to her, even holding her hand—that is, up until her own untimely death.

More than 100 years later, Ruthie and her sister, Fawn, are living in Sara’s farmhouse with their mother, Alice. One morning, Alice is gone without a trace, and Ruthie and Fawn stumble upon Sara’s diary while searching for clues about their mother’s disappearance. It gradually becomes clear that Alice’s disappearance is related to Sara’s sad life and tragic death—and to her belief that Gertie had returned from the grave. Using Sara’s diaries, they embark on a journey to find their mother and, in turn, discover shocking truths. 

In The Winter People, McMahon gives readers just what they want from a good thriller: can’t-put-it-down, stay-up-until-dawn reading. In addition to being downright creepy, this novel is also a poignant reminder of what grief can drive humans to do. Lock your doors, check under your bed and soak up The Winter People, a legitimately chilling supernatural thriller. 

BookPage Fiction Top Pick, February 2014

“The first time I saw a sleeper, I was nine years old.” Best-selling author Jennifer McMahon (Promise Not to Tell) opens her new novel, The Winter People, with a sentence that offers a tantalizing glimpse of the horrors to come in this marvelously creepy page-turner. 

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