Scattered thoughts written under the influence (of this book, which I just finished): I loved this. Tore through it in days. Read it at night, on breaks, when I should have been working, whenever. It might not be for you, being weird as shit and dark as hell; but it's certainly for me.
I've been vaguely aware of Ballingrud's first book for years. North American Lake Monsters has lived in my wishlist for ages, in part because everyone else seemed to love it, but also because the cover drew me in immediately: it looked delicately strange, somehow, but distinctly classy; the kind of detached weirdness you might find at the outer edge of NYRB's catalogue. I knew nothing about Wounds before I stumbled across its Amazon page, but I quickly realized it was by the same author. The cover here suggested something entirely different, something distinctly horrific; the tension between the presentation of the two books somehow grabbed my attention, and I couldn't tell you why. On a whim, I bought it and immediately dug in.
True to its cover, Wounds is very much a collection of horror stories. While it's plenty literary in its aspirations and execution, there's a willingness to plunge past the barriers of good taste and reader comfort, which casts it more squarely as genre fiction, more so than I expected. If you warped back to Borders in 1991, this would definitely live in the "Horror" aisle, maybe with an Abyss logo on the spine. Genre or no, Ballingrud's prose is off the charts. And there's a depth of invention that burrows into your skull and bursts out the back, upending genre conventions and shitting on expectations, all in the best way.
Yes, the theme is Hell. As in the home of Satan, the Burning Prince; land of the damned and undying; unintended destination of many, promised land for a few twisted seekers. This unifying thread loosely binds the stories together, with a smattering of reoccurring elements and ideas spread throughout the book, particularly in the first and last stories. Despite the theme, there's an insane range of styles and tones on display. We have deadly serious modern horror, absurdist kitsch, gothic horror, surrealistic nightmares, even a touch of bizarro fiction. At times I found myself thinking of Laird Barron, Clive Barker, Paul Tremblay, Brian Evenson (just a whiff), and maybe even Jeremy Robert Johnson (whenever we swerve deep into the weird). If all that sounds disorienting and disjointed, well... it would be if Ballingrud didn't have such a deft hand.
There's an overstuffed novella about pirates and cannibals and angels at the gates of hell that I can't even begin to describe. There's one about a Louisiana bartender who finds a cellphone, and it could be from an entirely different author, like a Koji Suzuki story smothered in southern decay; it's told with a steadier cadence, reining in the excess but delivering a sharp thrust to the gut by the end anyway. Some of these tales roar like a blast furnace. Others yawn wide, letting the horror swirl like an intangible force before swallowing every last shaft of light, and you with it.
My favorite story by a mile shrugs all that aside to take a different turn. It's at turns the silliest thing here, the most lovingly stylized, and perhaps the darkest of them all. "Skullpocket" feels like Mervyn Peake gone pitch black, left to moulder in his grave until Brian McNaughton unearths him for a graveyard feast in October Country. We get history overlaid with loss, a non-linear mystery built off a macabre caricature of horror, all given a loving glow by the magic of actual feeling. Imagine Gormenghast-ly delights with the epic rot of Throne of Bones, and if that sounds absurd, it absolutely is--and it will still break your heart.
Speaking of heart: that's what brings it all back home. There's a richly beating heart at the core of every story, a penetrating melancholy that suffuses even the most ridiculous imagery with emotional weight. The imagery is fantastic, yes, but the pain is real. Gather round, ghouls and boys: it doesn't get much better than this.