It's a windy, cold, spooky day in Seattle at this particular moment. The sun is setting, the bare limbs of trees are moving oddly, and some random limb is scraping the side of my house. Perfect, actually, because I'm about to start reading John Ajvide Lindqvist's new book, Handling the Undead. I bought it because I loved his novel, Let the Right One In, a terrifying and strangely moving work. And I'm a sucker for well-done terrifying books.

What is it about these Scandinavian writers, and their dark, evocative books? It seems that lately that's mostly what I've been reading, with the exception last week of Anita Shreve's Testimony (very good, very depressing). I recently finished reading Norwegian-writer Jo Nesbo's Nemesis, which was terrific and complex, and the other day I started re-reading Henning Mankell's Faceless Killers, one of his best Inspector Wallander books (I've read them all, and loved them--though my least favorite was The Dogs of Riga). And of course I've read Stieg Larsson's trilogy--though I find the author's story so sad: He turns in three novels, then boom, dies of a heart attack before knowing that his books will enthrall the globe. So tragic. And, somehow, so Swedish.

Anyone who craves more dark Swedish winters and deeply contemplative detectives should try out the books of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, who together--back in the 1960s--wrote a series of novels featuring Inspector Martin Beck and his colleagues. The books are quietly satisfying and for the most part have aged well, provided you can put aside temporarily the fact that no one in the books has a cell phone. My favorite: Roseanna.

I feel somehow that I should run out now and buy a bottle of aquavit and maybe a jar of herring before I settle down for my new Lindqvist book. Or maybe some lefsa and a little lutefiske.

Actually, like any sane human being, I'll take a pass on the lutefiske. Here's the best way to prepare it: Buy a jar, remove the fish, then eat the jar.

Onward.