I wanted to love Wendy Webb’s “The Vanishing”, because I was all in for a Gothic haunted house story a la Shirley Jackson’s “The Haunting of Hill House” or Daphne Du Maurier’s “Rebecca” (two books that I love and that were referenced several times in the blurbs on the back of the book). I wanted to love it, but it never really clicked with me.
I merely liked it, which isn’t a bad thing. I could have, for example, hated it and subsequently excoriated it viciously in this review, but I didn’t, and I won’t.
I wanted to love it, but I was disappointed. Webb is clearly a talented writer. Her prose is butter-smooth and her pacing is perfect. She tells a good ghost story/psychological thriller, but here’s the problem: it’s not scary.
Not that there weren’t a few decent moments in which a goosebump or two popped up on my arm, but, overall, I felt that the story wasn’t terrifying enough. It had all the elements to make it extremely frightening, but something fell flat for me.
Maybe it was the fact that the story seemed too polished, too edited. Julia Bishop, the protagonist, seemed too willing to go along with what any rational person would see as a ludicrous and highly questionable proposal: walk away completely from your old life and come live in a huge mansion in the middle of nowhere to take care of an old woman. Granted, the life she would be walking away from was not great. Her husband was an investment banker who had bilked hundreds of people out of their life savings and then had the audacity to commit suicide. Now, Julia was being hounded by the media, the IRS, and hundreds of angry people looking to exact their pound of flesh.
Maybe it was the cliche-ridden haunted house itself: Havenwood, with its closed-off east wing, its mysterious paintings that look eerily like people that Julia almost recognizes, the whispers of children singing nursery rhymes in the hallway, its secret history that holds the ever-elusive key to solving the current problem. It’s almost a paint-by-numbers haunted house story.
Maybe it’s the fact that hidden within the haunted house story is a needless budding romance between Julia and the ruggedly handsome and compassionate descendant of the original owner of the house. If there’s anything more annoying within a haunted house story than a completely unnecessary love story, I don’t know what it is.
Maybe it’s the almost-too neat and tidy ending that ties everything up in a pretty bow.
Webb’s haunted house story reminded me of a young musical prodigy who has the ability and the technique and everything it takes to make a successful musician except for the one absolutely necessary requirement: a soul.
I didn’t feel emotionally invested enough in the characters to care about what happened to them, which isn’t to say that I didn’t like them. They were likable characters, for sure. But I didn’t want to just like them. I was hoping to love some of them, maybe even hate a few of them. I was hoping to feel an edge-of-the-seat thrill or fear when they were confronted with danger. I was hoping to feel a wicked sense of satisfaction when a character I despised got what was coming to them, but, alas, no. I didn’t get any of that.
It was simply a decent enough albeit somewhat forgettable thriller that grabbed my attention for a few hours and then ended.