"Don't you know what they say about that place?"
"What place?"
"Dread's Hand."
"What do they say?"
"That it's cursed," said the woman. "That terrible things happen to people who go out there. They lose themselves. Spiritually, I mean. Their souls get corrupted... You look into that woods and something looks back at you."
This is a great horror novel. I'm unsure how to describe it: part Stephen King; part Silent Hill; part The Thing; part The Village. Maybe this is unfair to Malfi, he has crafted a wonderful book here - which I'd like to think is not just an amalgam of spare parts.
Very creepy, very atmospheric - we are in rural Alaska - and full of extremely bloodcurdling situations. I liked it a whole lot.
And you don't really know where the story is going to go or what Malfi is driving at. I like that, too. I hate predictable horror books.
The book starts out with an old loner wandering out of the woods after not having been seen for years. He promptly admits he has slaughtered eight people and buried their bodies in the woods, and shows the police exactly where.
But is that what the book is about? A serial killer? Or is it about Silent Hill Dread's Hand, a place plagued by horrible occurrences, disappearances, and an extremely high rate of both murders and suicides? Or is it about Paul, and the bond between twins?
Paul's brother went missing up in Dread's hand. Paul wants closure, so he decides to do some poking around. How strong is the bond between identical twins? Will he ever discover what happened to his brother?
The book is crammed with horror tropes and cliches. I'm not saying this in a bad way. The book is genuinely creepy and a great one to read on a cool October night. We have:
Doppelgangers
"They're apt to think you're him, coming through the woods like a ghost."
"You've got to be shitting me."
"They say that's how old Mr. Splitfoot gets you. He holds up a mirror image of yourself to confuse your spirit. That's when he moves in, replacing your soul with evil. There've been folks who have claimed to have glimpsed themselves out there in those woods. My daddy told me of a man who shot and killed his mirror-double, but when he went to collect the body, it was a dead sheep."
Seeing someone behind you in the mirror
Then he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Carved into the glass at the bottom of the mirror was the phrase:
YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE
"No shit," he muttered. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw Danny standing over his shoulder in the mirror. He didn't turn around, but instead wiped an arc through the steam. Danny was gone."
Seeing things in the woods
When Paul glanced up, he saw a pair of pine boughs swing as if disturbed. He listened, holding his breath, and thought he could hear the inimitable sound of footfalls crunching down on a thin layer of snow close by.
Evil people/things standing at the foot of your bed and watching you sleep
He was lying in this very same bed, staring toward the foot of the bed and at a dark figure who stood there, masked in the shadows, staring back at him. Despite the fact that the figure was human, Paul had the sense that it was actually some animal - maybe a wolf, maybe a horned ungulate - crouching in the darkness across the room, watching him. The figure's eyes glowed green.
And
"He'd defecate on the floor of his bedroom," Gwen said.
Ryerson cocked her head. "What?"
"It was to be spiteful. He claimed that he'd started sleepwalking, too, and that he wasn't in control of himself when he'd do these terrible things. But I could tell that he was lying to me. It was one of his... his changes. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and he'd be standing at the foot of our bed. Just standing there in the dark, staring at us. Watching us sleep."
Humans wearing animal masks - and sometimes animal heads
He was just about to pull forward when a figure stepped out in front of the SUV. Paul jumped on the brakes and the vehicle bucked, the seat belt locking against his chest.
"Jesus," he gasped, unclenching his fingers from the steering wheel.
The person turned and looked at him, and Paul felt his whole body shudder at the sight. The figure was slight enough to be a child, although Paul couldn't be sure, because the person was wearing something over their face. It was a mask of sorts, though one crudely fashioned out of some animal's hide - or so it appeared - with ragged eyeholes cut into the grayish-brown fur.
They stared at each other through the windshield for several seconds, neither of them moving a muscle. Paul could see the small, wet eyes behind the eyeholes cut into the furry hide. Then the child - for it was a child, Paul was now certain, his mind having pieced together all the aspects of its physical character to arrive at this deduction - ran to the opposite end of the street where he or she joined two other children, both of whom wore similar masks over their faces. On the smallest child, Paul made out a single rabbit ear protruding from the side of the mask and drooping like the whisker of a catfish.
Parents murdering their children
"In 1967," Keith went on, "Lunghardt, a trapper who spent weeks on end up in the White Mountains, murdered his entire family with an ax - just chopped them up like kindling while they were still inside their home. His middle son made it out of the house, but old Lans brought the kid down with a swift drop of his ax between the boy's shoulder blades, killing him right there in the backyard."
Driving alone at night but feeling like someone (or someTHING) is in the backseat
A few times, and despite the utter desolation of those secret byways and twisting, serpentine passages, he'd be convinced that he was not alone. There had been a joining presence, like warm breath on his neck, as if someone was leaning toward him from the backseat. There had even been a few occasions when he had slowed down and peered over his shoulder while driving, terrified that he might find the silhouette of another person propped up back there. But, of course, he never had.
Something (someONE?) staring at you through your bedroom window at night
The woods looked as black as a coma.
Someone was standing outside his window, blending among the dark line of trees.
Paul felt his body flush cold. He stood there staring out the window, trying to discern further details of the figure. But it was impossible to do so given the snowy darkness on the other side of the snow-wetted glass. He could make out the dome of a head and the slope of one shoulder. Paul tried to convince himself that it was a trick of the light coupled with his frazzled state of mind - that it wasn't a head at all, but one of the tumor-like burls that bulged from the trunks of the Sitka spruce - but the longer he stared at it, the more that dark silhouette was undeniable. Still, he might have been able to convince himself that his eyes were playing tricks on him and that there was no one there if a cloud of respiration hadn't been expelled from the figure's mouth, creating a blossom of fog against the outside of the windowpane.
Shit.
THE WRITING
Daylight broke like an arterial bleed.
The writing in here is spectacular.
Blink and you'd miss it: a town, or rather, a memory of a town, secreted away at the end of a nameless, unpaved roadway that, in the deepening half light of an Alaskan dusk, looks like it might arc straight off the surface of the planet and out into the far reaches of the cosmos. A town where the scant few roads twist like veins and the little black-roofed houses, distanced from one another as if fearful of some contagion, look as if they'd been excreted into existence, pushed up through the crust of the earth from someplace deep underground. There is snow the color of concrete in the rutted streets, dirty clumps of it packed against the sides of the houses or snared in the needled boughs of steel-colored spruce. If there are ghosts here - and some say there are - then they are most clearly glimpsed in the faces of the living. No one walks the unpaved streets; no one putters around in those squalid little yards, where the soil looks like ash and the saplings all bed at curious, pained, aggrieved angles. There is a furtiveness to most of these folks, an innate distrust not just of outsiders, but even of each other. Fear has reached across generations until it is in the eyes of every newborn expelled from the womb.
There's a lot of good, evocative, atmospheric writing in the book. Malfi also does a decent job of describing disease, injury, and delirium.
Another thing I really enjoyed about Malfi's book is his use of humor. Even though this is a horror book, there were some genuinely funny passages in here. Far from detracting from the horror, I find this kind of occasional brief levity actually enhances it. For instance, here's a scene where Paul is waiting in a room full of people who have lost loved ones. A grief-stricken woman is showing an awkward Paul an album of photographs of her missing daughter.
Paul felt ill. Was this where it ended? In some police station in the middle of goddamn Alaska waiting to get his cheek swabbed? Was he now a member of some morbid, soul-draining club, in which he'd suffer through the rest of his life showing strangers pictures of his brother and asking if he looked familiar?
Genuinely laughing out loud here! And it's even funnier, because later in the book that is EXACTLY what Paul becomes, and it's so funny because you remember his little aside here. :D
Malfi slips in other little jokes, and I found myself laughing out loud more than once. Here's Paul, calling a worried friend/colleague/lover from Alaska:
"You think I'm foolish, but I am praying for you, Paul."
"You're too kind to me. You worry too much."
"I have never had to worry about you before. Ever. Until now."
"Why now? What's to be worried about?"
"You have your Manipura and I have my Ajna."
"Are you talking dirty to me now?"
LOL LOL I was just dying laughing. :D
Making Paul a professor of (literature?) was also a good move. I felt he was just the right amount of skeptical (although he did veer into 'stupid' territory a few times). A professor would be the perfect foil/tool for what's going on in this book. Smart choice on Malfi's part. I also didn't think Ryerson, the female cop, was written poorly, and that's quite a feat. Malfi didn't fuck it up, so credit where credit is due.
He also sticks the landing. Making a good horror novel is reliant on being able to write a good, credible, non-stupid ending. It's hard to do.
Tl;dr - I have to say I was impressed and surprised by this book. It was hard to put down. Moreover, it was both creepy - I read it at night with the windows open while all alone, I highly suggest you do that if you want to up the creep factor - and also gave me the occasional chuckle. Malfi has an impressive vocabulary, I learned at least two new words. His writing is fantastic. I would definitely check out another book from this author, and I am going to be lending this to a few people.
I'm not scared by books. Well, let me correct myself and say I am not afraid of supernatural things. I don't believe in ghosts, demons, vampires, werewolves, or what-have-you. So I was able to highly enjoy this creepy book - reading it at night was certainly exhilarating - and then easily go to sleep. My worries of a demon coming for me in the night are zero.
People who are more sensitive to this stuff are cautioned.
I highly recommend this book. Horror is one of my favorite genres, and it IS October, after all. :)
Read with Dan 2.0, Ginger, Erin Proud Book Hoarder,... yell at me if I forgot anyone. :)