Dementia symbolism packaged in the kind of horror novel where the outset is completely obvious: the title is Earthworm Gods. We begin in medias res in a rainstorm that has lasted for 41 days. The forced writing is from the voice of the widower, Teddy Garnett, who is scribbling the book in a notebook on the floor of his home. He’s seen “most of his good friends get old and die. Most of them before the rain started, except for Carl. One by one, they succumbed to Alzheimer’s, cancer, loneliness, and just plain old age.” (17) He writes about Vietnam, about getting old, about feeling overly saccharine about his lost world and overly tragic about his late wife. He recounts the rash of suicides and dissappearances during the flooding that has come with monthlong rainstorm— “Like I said earlier, I am not a writer…” (93). The middle section of book takes on a different, more youthful voice, set in a completely flooded Baltimore. Teddy is based on Keene’s grandfather and the Baltimore section a dedication to one of Keene’s late friends.
This is a wet, foggy book built on a vast foundation of the surface of the Earth, that features horrors our imaginations and our habits have conjured up. Leviathans, Behemoths, sea myths, coal mining, climate change, Satanists. It all befalls the most vulnerable, bread-and-butter of our society: Teddy and Carl Seaton, his best friend, are vietnam vets living in Punkin’ Center, WV. Nowhere USA flyover country that has become a the only dry, high ground. A sinkhole takes Carl’s house and he hides out with Teddy, and Sarah and Kevin join them after fleeing from Baltimore.
Groping for explanations for the slithering forms and smells bursting through the mud and devouring tentacles and white fungus, the characters loose a grip on reality. For the older men, it is questioned as an aspect of dementia— for Earl, Teddy’s neighbor and town outcast, it is a result of “HARP project, a weather control device,” (66); but all the characters keep pining for a consumerist normalcy, which is itself a kind of consumption. They talk about Andy Griffith and The Outlaw Josey Wales; they long for cigarettes and chewing tobacco; they wonder about how the neighbors are getting along; they check in on the livestock (including cows with gruesomely ruptured udders), hum Skeeter Davis’s The End of the World, argue the merits of new country versus old, play Pantera CDs at makeshift burials in makeshift seas and then complain they only have access to hard rock and would much prefer some jazz and blues to listen to, and they discuss all the movies which were supposed to come out, if only they weren't flooded in some hollywood studio basement. Great horror takes this quotidian, banal conversation and then spits a massive gob of spit at the window and gives everyone a few bullets. This is suffering in all its ordinariness; we just want the rain to stop because the weather makes your bones ache, but then these characters will go on consuming the way they always have, giving double meaning to the Bible Verse “The things which grow out of the dust of the earth and destroy the hope of man,” (45).