Don’t be fooled by the retro, schlock-horror cover, Darnielle’s not travelling into Amityville Horror territory. Although if anyone does fall for the ruse, the Ivy Compton-Burnett epigraph should be a tip-off that Darnielle’s heading somewhere else entirely. His central character’s a true-crime writer Gage Chandler. Chandler’s version of events that fuelled an urban legend in his hometown, has done so well, it was turned into a movie. Now he’s ready for his next project. Its focus, an unsolved, double murder dating back to 1986 that took place in a sleepy, Californian town: two bodies found carved up, in a building decorated to look like a nightmarish, Satanic workshop. Gage buys the house where the murders took place, moves in and begins to reconstruct events. But Darnielle’s novel’s less a novel, than a series of arguments questioning the foundations of the true crime genre: how it’s written; how it’s interpreted; the ethics and impact of drawing on actual people; the notion of reaching “the truth” of something without bias, embellishment or harm. Through a series of embedded, overlapping, sometimes contradictory narratives, Darnielle throws up a number of concerns about whose story he’s telling and why, and the nature of knowledge itself.
Darnielle shifts from Gage to Gage’s earlier book featuring Diana Crane, the white witch, but the extract provided immediately casts doubt on Gage’s claims about method and objectivity. Then Darnielle inserts passages from Gage’s work-in-progress, Devil House, set in the town of Milpitas. In 1981, Milpitas was the setting of the real-life rape and murder of Marcy Renee Conrad, an infamous crime that spawned a Hollywood retelling River’s Edge: all of which Darnielle expertly weaves into Gage’s discussion of his process. The white witch and devil’s house crimes are convincingly conveyed, both cleverly tied to the "Satanic Panic" of the time – elements reminded me of Berlinger and Sinofsky’s documentation of the West Memphis Three case in Paradise Lost. But at the same time, I found it difficult to fully engage with these stories within stories, Darnielle’s emphasis on the artificiality of storytelling made their constructedness almost too obvious and intrusive.
It’s an ambitious piece and Darnielle’s evidently skilled, I’m just not sure he quite pulls everything off. I thought he was effective at highlighting the ways in which true crime narratives trade in stereotypes – “the good student”, “the disaffected youth” – and clichés, that order and classify according to a society’s priorities and an era’s mythologies. And I was intrigued by Darnielle's addition of more and more layers within layers, some startling, some less so, taking us further into the murky ethical practices of true crime. But, from my perspective, he makes a lot of his key points too early on. Darnielle’s variety of styles’s mostly persuasive, and the result’s inventive and highly readable, but it sometimes felt a little too much like an academic exercise for my taste.
Thanks to Netgalley and publisher Scribe