Another #vintagehorror book, another drunk uncle story. What do we have in store of us this time ol’ Uncle Courtney? Scottish castles? Escaped mental patients? Redcaps from the Unseely Court? A very pregnant mom who has the patience of a saint? An aloof movie director father who just wants to shoot his fucking movie? And then an adopted kid who just…hasn’t Marty Martin suffered enough? With that name alone? He needs to be tormented by the ghost of his abusive uncle too?
Well the first fourth of the book all takes place in Scotland, in/around a big scary gothic castle near an ominously quiet little village. So you’re made to feel like it’s going to be all folklore and evil ginger entities, right? Yeah no, one fucked up death happens & the family is like NOPE & fucks off back to chaotically evil Florida. I boo’d this rational course of action, what we all would do, but I didn’t grab this book for a demonstration on common sense. Like just start the killing already, right? Well, this sadly (the majority of the book) is when the story just took a nosedive for me. What’s wrong with this baby? Oh no, not the cat, why is it always the cat? Oh ok, so the baby is evil but no one else sees it. Oh that poor babysitter. Wait, the only one who can save them all is also an active morphine addict? Who keeps a syringe of holy water next to his “white lady?” What a way to go.
Well uncle, that was quite a story. Kinda wish it all stayed in Scotland, but spilled Similac right? That was a very ingenious way to use holy water towards the end tho, I’ll give you that. Would I recommend it? Not if you value your time. Maybe if you enjoy a little mindless, murdery fun every once in a while. Ah well, until next time uncle.