“Some years ago, never mind how many, I started to fish. I’ve been fishing a long time, now, and as you might guess, I know a story or two. That’s what fishermen are, right? Storytellers. Some I’ve lived; some I’ve had from the mouths of others. Most of them are funny; they bring a smile to your face and sometimes a laugh, which are no small things…Some of my stories are what I’d call strange. I know only a few of these, but they make you scratch your head and maybe give you a little shiver, which can be a pleasure in its own way. But there’s one story – well, it’s downright awful, almost too much to be spoken. It happened going on ten years ago, on the first Saturday in June, and by the time night had fallen, I’d lost a good friend, most of my sanity, and damn near my life…”
- John Langan, The Fisherman
John Langan’s The Fisherman is a novel that makes no claims to absolute originality. To the contrary, from its very first lines – which are borrowed and repurposed from Moby Dick – Langan shows a willingness to borrow liberally from the stories that came before. Aside from Melville, he also utilizes – to good effect – the upstate New York setting and Dutch mythmaking of Washington Irvin’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. In terms of theme and plot mechanics, specifically a supernatural entity willing to give you back what you’ve lost, for a price, this contains more than a few echoes of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary.
What makes The Fisherman unique is how those elements are fashioned into something fresh and unexpected.
Before we get to that, a brief plot recapitulation is in order. And when I say brief, I mean it. The Fisherman is about two widowers – Abe and Dan – who end up having one unforgettable fishing trip in the waters of Dutchman’s Creek, located in the Catskill Mountains. Things get weird, then they get super weird, then they get bad, and finally they get worse. To get into many more particulars would be to risk saying too much.
Rather than focus on what happens in the book, I want to talk about its structure. What makes The Fisherman so interesting to me is the way that Langan has it unfold. Specifically, he divides the proceedings into three very different acts.
The first – narrated in the first person by Abe – tells of the growing friendship between himself and Dan, a fellow IBM worker who, like Abe, has lost his wife. Firmly grounded in real life, without a horror element in sight, Langan does a better-than-solid job evoking the complexities of grief and loss, and how the death of a person can leave the survivor in an unmapped world that only vaguely resembles the one they’ve left behind. The relationship between Abe and Dan develops through fishing, and Langan is perceptive of the way that certain people – especially men – bond through shared actions rather than shared words.
Almost the entire second act is a story-within-a-story. Spurred on by Dan, the two fishing buddies head to the Catskills, where they intend to do some angling on Dutchman’s Creek. They stop at a restaurant during a rain storm, and in a scene that is half-parody, half-homage to a standard trope, they are made to listen to the restaurant owner’s meandering tale about the dangers that await them if they venture any further.
Frankly, I abhor the nested narrative. It’s one of the main reasons that I can barely stand Joseph Conrad, even though his concepts and storylines are so great. When I read fiction, I want to be in the middle of the action. I don’t want to be held at a distance, caught in some meta-nightmare where I’m passively reading a story about a guy passively telling a story. Thus, I was initially pretty annoyed with this setup, wherein we leave Abe and Dan for an extended monologue given by a guy who heard it from another guy who heard it from a gal.
Somehow, despite my basic incredulity – how long did Abe and Dan just stand there, listening? – the substance of the restaurant owner’s soliloquy won me over. It deftly builds a mythology while also creating an atmosphere of gradually accumulating dread. Things eventually got too strange for my taste, but it can’t be said that Langan has not attempted to devise a workable supernatural system for his characters to deal with.
The third act – which jumps back to Abe as the narrator – uses the second act’s stage-setting to show what happens when Abe and Dan get to Dutchman’s Creek. Unlike the wide-ranging first section, this one mainly covers just a single day. Like I said up top, it’s fantastically bizarre, exceptionally violent, and even a little sad, though the mournful notes are overwhelmed by everything else.
Generally speaking, this is my kind of horror (though horror is not really my thing), because it is built outwards from the characters. This is not the kind of book where people exist just to die. With that said, Abe and Dan don’t necessarily make for the most memorable protagonists. Langan tries his best, but they simply didn’t make a strong enough impression on me to achieve the emotional resonance that Langan was clearly aiming for. This also hurts the ending, which is otherwise well executed.
Characters aside, the writing is very good, especially Langan’s ability to create a tactile sense of place. There were moments when I really sensed that I was out fishing with Abe. New York State is a proven commodity as a horror locale, and Langan gets the atmospherics exactly right.
The best horror I’ve read – an admittedly limited amount – doesn’t give me jump scares, or have me checking the locks and peeking under the bed. Instead, my favorites of the genre fill me with an existential dread. I’m talking about the aforementioned Pet Sematary, as well as Scott B. Smith’s The Ruins.
Inciting that kind of dread was clearly Langan’s intention. Unfortunately, for me, he fell a bit short. I liked and respected The Fisherman, but it is more an appreciation for Langan’s craft – the way he put his interlocking pieces together, how each of the three acts inform each other – than anything else. Still, if you’re looking for some minor chills, you could do a lot worse than this competently handled, professionally written account that proves there is such a thing as a bad day fishing.