Bobby Topin has got it rough. His parents are dead, and at only 12 he has to live with and care for his grandpa who suffers from advanced dementia in a dead-end town. This Thanksgiving, he has only a small chicken to bake with no company with which to share the holiday. And his only Christmas present this year is a pair of socks. And to make things worse, Bobby has a secret that isolates him more from his small community. He knows things that no one else can know. And he knows something evil has come to town.
Out in Pellam Woods, which overlooks Bobby's house, a mansion has just been built. Why this warped and sprawling old place was deconstructed and moved to this isolated location is a subject of much speculation and gossip among the townsfolk. No one lives there, you see. But everyone wants to.
The house draws people like flies to the light, and bad things happen to those ensnared by the charm of the wonderous estate. Only Bobby can sense that the house is a malignant force. An eater of souls.
So that's the basic premise of this unusual twist on the traditional haunted house story. I found the book both very typical of it's time yet also unique in many ways.
It is typical in the sense that it concerns yet another set of child protagonists in another small town in fly-over Americana battling with an invading evil. It seems every horror writer in the 80s wanted to imitate Stephen King, and this is just another in a long line of coming-of-age scary stories. With that being said, I did find this largely effective.
The writing is quite good, by far superior to many it's paperback peers. Dana Robbins' style is very quirky, observant, clever, and sensitive. I only wish the novel had maintained the high standards it set in the first act. It seemed Robbins grew fatigued by the halfway point, and the art woven into the prose faded away. It's not that the writing ever grew bad, but it just ceased to be special, becoming just straightforward narrative that lacked the earlier spark.
I get annoyed easily with child characters, but the little urchins in this one are just fine. I even found their relationships and individual struggles quite moving. For example, Robbins did a fine job capturing the heartbreak and stress of watching a loved one diffusing their identity and losing the one thing that keeps our identity cohesive--our memories.
Also skillfully done was giving the ancillary characters sufficient motives for being attracted to the house in Pellam Woods. A house is more than just a box to shelter you from the weather. It is a macro-sized representation of the personality and psychological functioning of those who dwell in it. And so people imagine that if THEY could call the big house their own that it would say something different about them. They imagine they'd no longer be a lonely nobody living in a meager shack in a mediocre town. The house seems made for visitors, for entertaining, for showing off. It's the kind of place that needs maids, and occasional visits from ambassadors and the governor, and perhaps hosting a wedding reception or a community fundraiser event. So for many in the town of Edgar Falls who have suffered from layoffs at the local factory, who have not amounted to much since their high school athletics days, who realize they are over 50 and are nowhere near where they dreamed of being in their lives, they NEED this house. It is a sad indictment on what happens to the soul of citizens living in a town that is past it's prime, a place where families and manufacturing once thrived, where the American dream was once attainable and real, the kind of town upon which America was built in fact.
Now, let's address how well it delivers the genre goods. Honestly, this is one of the tamest of the paperbacks from hell I've read. There is no gore, no carnage candy, no crazed slashers. This is primarily psychological horror. You are kept guessing as to whether the whole scenario is really supernatural or merely an allegory for the decline of middle class main street. You won't get all the answers, and I respect the book for not holding the reader's hand.
Now don't get me wrong, some awful things happen in the course of this story, especially to children, so let that be your trigger warning. And there are some effective chills in a few places. But for the most part, the novel falls flat in the scares department. In fact, there are moments where I felt it dragged out unnecessarily. For example, almost to the end, we are introduced to a redneck pill pusher only to add to the kill count, but for some reason we linger on his nasty and shallow little white trash thoughts for page after page. He wasn't important at all to the story, his death had no consequence, and his trashiness belittled a story that had been somewhat classy up to that point. It was clear the author was padding the job, but there were some strange choices as far as where to put in the padding.
Another strange choice is the treatment of the House itself. Though clearly the central focus and prime motivator of the characters, it is hardly described. There are only a few scenes that take place within the house and we get no sense of the splendor, or the creepiness, or the vastness of the place. We only know that it's painted white on the outside, is built in funny angles, is full of antiques, and is big. It seems to me that some further descriptive establishing scenes of the house could have helped set the mood and develop it as a character in it's own right, which it is. Yet, if the house were considered the "villain" of this piece, it comes across as quite wooden, pun intended--the equivalent of a mustachio-twirling bad guy who has no personality or motivation other than just being evil. This may have been done by the author for artistic design, to essentially let the reader fill in the blanks, to allow the house to represent itself in the individual minds of the audience, just as it does for the characters in the book. But it left me with no real sense of scale or awe for the very centerpiece of the novel.
The ending was fairly satisfying, but felt rushed. So many authors seem to have trouble with endings. The main character, Bobby, has essentially been put through hell at this point, and so the story earned a much more epic finale. Instead, the book lingers on trailer trash characters, stupid nightmares, and repetitive inner monologue that contributed little. There is a sort of twist in the end, but you can see it coming a mile away even though it also feels forced and contrived. In all, not the greatest way to wrap things up.
"Soul-Eater" is certainly not the feel-good novel of the year, and will not necessarily keep you up at nights with fright. But it is an interesting and quirky read that I do recommend to fans of vintage pop books and paperbacks from hell.