I took far longer than usual to finish this book, not because it resisted me, but because I kept circling back. Each novella demanded a second reading, sometimes immediately, sometimes after a pause to recover my bearings. This was
not a book to be consumed in a forward rush; it insisted on rereading, on scrutiny, on being held up to the light from multiple angles. By the time I reached the final page—late last night—it had already settled into me in uncomfortable ways. Few books in recent memory have disturbed me so thoroughly, not through excess or shock, but through a slow, accumulating unease that deepened each time I returned to the text.
This slim but ferociously concentrated collection unsettles by insinuation, by logic carried one step too far, by the quiet realisation that the systems organising your life have already rehearsed your disappearance. It is horror that doesn’t lunge. It documents. It files. It smiles at you while taking notes.
Bulkin has long been adept at writing stories where power behaves like an atmosphere rather than an antagonist. If her earlier work suggested a writer interested in global unease and ideological decay, ‘Issues With Authority’ sharpens that interest into something almost surgical.
These three stories—“Cop Car”, “Your Next Best American Girl”, and “Red Skies in the Morning”—form a triptych of coercion, devotion, and bodily trespass. They are not sequels to one another, nor do they share characters or chronology, yet they speak across the gaps like officials passing a dossier from hand to hand.
What binds them is not plot but pressure: the sense that authority is less an institution than a habit of thought, a learned reflex that teaches people where to kneel, what to desire, and when to volunteer themselves for harm.
At first glance, this anthology looks almost modest. Three stories. No framing narrative. No overt manifesto. Yet the restraint is deceptive. Bulkin understands that horror, like governance, works best when it is precise.
Each story occupies a different arena of obedience—the state, the market, the family—but the governing logic is consistent: power does not merely command; it persuades. It teaches its subjects to want the very mechanisms that will unmake them.
This is political horror in the most literal sense. Not allegory dressed as genre, but genre deployed to expose the mechanics of compliance. Bulkin’s monsters rarely bare fangs. They issue instructions, offer incentives, provide processes. What makes the book unsettling is how recognisable those gestures feel. Nothing here requires belief in the supernatural so much as familiarity with paperwork, branding, and ritualised care.
The opening story, “Cop Car”, is arguably the least immediately visceral of the three, but it establishes the collection’s moral climate with unnerving clarity. Its central figure, Carly, is raised within an isolated religious group and later extracted—rescued is too generous a word—by a shadowy government apparatus that discovers she possesses a formidable psychic ability. Carly can enter minds. More importantly, she can rearrange them.
What follows is not a predictable tale of exploitation or rebellion. Bulkin is far more interested in how seamlessly Carly is absorbed into institutional logic. She is not chained or threatened; she is categorised, praised, and deployed. Her lack of moral hesitation is treated not as a flaw but as an efficiency. The story’s most chilling idea is that Carly does not need to be dehumanised by the state—she arrives already fluent in obedience.
Stylistically, “Cop Car” keeps its distance. The prose is clean, procedural, almost antiseptic. Then, at carefully chosen moments, the narrative voice slips sideways into something stranger: a non-human consciousness, watching, cataloguing, commenting with unsettling intimacy. The effect is dislocating, as though the story itself has developed an observing intelligence. This shift will not be to every reader’s taste—it lingers, deliberately—but it reinforces the sense that authority is not merely external. It watches from within.
Compared to classic government-horror narratives—Le Guin’s bureaucratic nightmares, the cold paranoia of ‘The X-Files’, even the ethical puzzles of early Crichton—Bulkin’s approach is more intimate and more ruthless.
There is no whistleblower here, no heroic refusal. The horror lies in how willingly the machine and the gifted child adapt to one another.
If “Cop Car” dissects institutional power, the second story turns its gaze towards cultural authority—the tyranny of visibility, aspiration, and sanctioned desirability. “Your Next Best American Girl” centres on Veronica, a beauty pageant competitor whose entire sense of self has been shaped by rehearsal, presentation, and the disciplined pursuit of an ideal. She does not question the system; she perfects herself within it.
The body horror arrives quietly. Small lesions appear. Then more. They are painful, unsightly, and—crucially—fashionable. What begins as a personal crisis metastasises into a trend, a new form of distinction in an environment where sameness has become the default.
Bulkin is devastatingly precise in showing how quickly harm becomes aesthetic when it promises attention.
Unlike many satires of beauty culture, this story refuses easy mockery. Veronica is not ridiculous. Her coach is not a caricature. The pageant world is rendered with a strange tenderness, which only deepens the unease.
These are people who believe, earnestly, that commitment is a virtue. That suffering, properly managed, is proof of seriousness.
In literary terms, the story sits in conversation with works like ‘The Stepford Wives’, ‘American Psycho’, and more recent feminist body-horror, yet it avoids both nostalgia and didacticism. The question it poses is not simply “how much will you sacrifice to be beautiful?” but “what happens when sacrifice itself becomes the standard?” When damage is no longer a cost but a credential?
The ending resists catharsis. Some readers may find it withholding. Yet that restraint feels appropriate. Trends do not end with revelations; they fade, mutate, resurface. The horror here is not the knife or the wound, but the algorithmic calm with which the culture absorbs both.
The final story, “Red Skies in the Morning”, is the emotional core of the collection, and the one that lingers longest after the book is closed. Set against a backdrop of lethal “paracontagions”—fatal phenomena transmitted through images or recordings—it follows Selene as she searches for her missing sister, Hannah.
The premise echoes familiar horror territory, yet Bulkin quickly steers it somewhere quieter and more devastating.
In this world, governments have responded to supernatural threat with systems: designated centres, legal frameworks, processes of transfer.
Death is no longer random; it is administered. What Selene confronts is not only the possibility of loss, but the procedural neatness with which loss is managed.
What makes this story exceptional is its attention to the mundane. The sisters’ shared memories surface in fragments: games, meals, arguments, half-jokes. These details do not interrupt the horror; they sharpen it. The impending catastrophe is not abstract. It is personal, scheduled, and suffocatingly polite.
Where earlier stories interrogate authority through institutions and markets, “Red Skies” examines it through inevitability. No single villain orchestrates the disaster.
Responsibility is diffused across systems, habits, and risk assessments. The red-lit presence haunting the narrative feels less like a monster than a policy outcome.
Comparisons to pandemic fiction are unavoidable, though Bulkin avoids topicality for its own sake. What resonates is the emotional truth: the way crisis turns intimacy into logistics, love into triage. Selene’s grief unfolds not as melodrama but as a series of tasks, each one a small act of resistance against erasure.
The ending is restrained, devastating, and deeply humane. It refuses consolation, yet it honours connection. Of all the book’s horrors, this one hurts because it is so recognisable.
Taken together, the three stories articulate a bleak but compelling thesis: authority perpetuates itself by shaping desire. Carly wants belonging and purpose. Veronica wants distinction and validation. Selene wants answers, closure, time. In each case, power offers a framework that appears to fulfil those desires—while quietly redefining them.
Bulkin is unsparing about complicity, yet she is never cruel. She understands why people comply. She understands the seduction of clarity, the relief of instruction, the comfort of being told where one stands. Her horror does not scold; it exposes. The terror lies in recognition.
Stylistically, the collection balances clarity with strangeness. Bulkin’s prose is economical but loaded, capable of sliding from report-like precision into moments of mythic unease.
She trusts the reader to connect dots, to sit with discomfort, to notice what is not being explained. The effect is cumulative and corrosive, like reading documents you were never meant to access.
The originality of ‘Issues With Authority’ is undeniable. Each story could have been expanded into a novel, yet their concision is part of their force. The worldbuilding is exact without being showy.
Characters are sketched with just enough depth to make their choices feel inevitable rather than contrived.
If there is a weakness, it lies in emotional temperature. Some readers may wish for more overt interiority, particularly in “Cop Car”, where the intellectual chill can feel distancing. Yet that distance is arguably integral to the book’s project. Authority, after all, thrives on emotional abstraction.
This is not a collection that seeks to frighten in conventional ways. It unsettles by erosion. By the time you reach the final page, you may find yourself scanning your own life for small acts of consent you no longer remember agreeing to.
‘Issues With Authority’ is a lean, intelligent, and deeply unsettling collection. It confirms Nadia Bulkin as a writer of rare control and moral ambition, unafraid to implicate her readers alongside her characters. These stories do not ask what power does to people. They ask why people keep stepping forward to receive it.
This is horror for readers who understand that the most frightening systems are the ones that work exactly as designed—and that the scariest monsters are often the processes we learn to trust.
You might finish this book quickly. But you’ll think about it for much longer.
Discturbing, but recommended.