In "The Sect of the Idiot," Thomas Ligotti wrote, "Life is a nightmare that leaves its mark upon you in order to prove that it is, in fact, real." While the unnamed narrator of his short story writes under the surveillance of a Lovecraftian Them and discovers the meaninglessness of life by way of madness, it's a sentiment that feels just as valid when applied to Laurel Hightower's The Day of the Door, even as her characters reach a more cathartic and far less nihilistic conclusion than Ligotti's own.
At the heart of The Day of the Door is familial trauma, shared tragedy, and psychic wounds that have been inflicted upon the Lasco children by matriarch Stella. The oldest of them, Shawn, died at 17, taken behind the door of a third-floor room of the family home by their mother. Only Stella emerged from that room to bury the truth of what occurred, the authorities ruling rebellious, trouble-making Shawn's death a suicide. Now, 20-years later, Nate and his sisters have reunited with Stella at the haunted home they grew up in to appear in a quasi-documentary being filmed by a ghost hunting crew in the hopes that they can finally wind up their narcissistic, abusive, and cunning mother enough to finally get the truth out of her.
Hightower's latest is an empathic exploration of the relationship between a narcissist and her children and it's one I found uncomfortably accurate. Her depictions of what it's like to be raised by an emotionally unavailable parent with a very loose connection to reality is perfectly rendered and one I found intensely relatable. At times, her passages felt like a personal diary, like the worries the Lasco children possess of turning out just like Stella and how, because they could never understand her behavior toward them as kids, believe they're unable to have control over their own and refuse to allow anyone to become close to them. Or how Nate wonders how deeply they've all been programmed by Stella and how long it would take before pieces of her "stopped seeping from their mouths and minds?" Or how Stella is completely incapable of self-reflection and would "rather turn her back on the truth than for one second have to admit she wasn't perfection itself."
I could relate to Nate Lasco so easily because, in a lot of uncomfortable ways, I am him. My father was a narcissist and only grew worse as succumbed to dementia. He always believed himself to be the smartest man in the room -- nobody ever knew anything, everybody was an idiot and an asshole, and he rarely had a kind word to spare anybody. And, like Stella, if you ever called him out on his bullshit, you were the problem, you were the bully, and you needed to stop being so sensitive and emotional, not him. The world was locked in a massive conspiracy targeting him, and every inconvenience was the work of malign forces hellbent on disrupting his life, from the customer service operator at the cable company up to the President of the United States, except Trump who, naturally, he worshipped. Go figure, right? He rewrote his own reality when confronted with his cancer diagnosis, denying he was sick right on up through his final day, insisting it was COVID-19 and that he'd been infected by a coalition of Arabs and Chinese forces working to eliminate him because he knew too much. And like Nate, I spent an inordinate amount of my time vowing that I would never turn out like him and hating myself every time I heard his words coming out of my mouth or found my reactions to particular infractions mirroring his.
Reading about Stella was like being thrust back into the grandiose delusions of my father. I suspect some more fortunate readers might find Stella too inconsistent and too shallow a character, but I would argue otherwise. There's a deep layer of psychoses inherent in her, and Hightower captures it wonderfully. She's either done a remarkable job at research or invests Stella with her own lived experiences. If we're to take seriously the old adage about writing what you know, then Hightower damn well does know exactly what she writes in these pages, to an uncanny and intimate degree.
The Day of the Door is, obligatorily, about ghosts, but that's all just surface-level stuff. Once you scrape away the pond scum of literalness, it's really about the ghosts of us, living or otherwise, and the past that haunts us, the memories we hold onto and how and why we remember them. It's about the scars cut into our skin and soul by those who should have held us dear but who were too twisted by their own hauntings to do so. Because life is a nightmare, and too often that nightmare is right here at home with us.