I have a love/hate relationship with horror novels. When a book is so unsettling that you change your movements in the physical world, that’s love: when you have to jerk your foot up onto the bed so nothing grabs it, when you have to look over your shoulder, when you have to put the book in the freezer. I feel like novelists who can produce those moments are some of our greatest talents – as opposed to the movies, when a jump scare is enough to get the blood pumping, readers need to be crept up on and slowly worked into unsettling paranoia. Sadly, a lot of horror novelists lean more toward the cheap thrills of B-list horror cinema than the sublime creepiness of a well-crafted spooky story. I hate feeling like I just waded through a schlocky soup of blood & guts – pages of gory, cartoonish description might put my off my lunch slightly, but they aren’t really scary.
Bentley Little, according to this story of mysterious deaths ( and even more mysterious posthumous behavior), falls in the middle of the spectrum. There were some unsettling passages and creative visuals, but the cheesy gore seemed to drive the plot, instead of punctuate it. And, speaking of plot, it’s never a good sign when, in an effort to illuminate the twists & turns of the story, one of the characters has to say “sometimes there just isn’t an explanation.” NO. TRY AGAIN. That’s not even a Deus Ex Machina, that’s…a Deus Ex Quicquid. Stephen King, don't you ever betray me with a cover quote like that again. Throwing some side-eye at you too, ghost of Bram Stoker.
In sum: I did not put this book in the freezer. I kept it on
my nightstand and slept soundly and restfully with my limbs splayed over the edge
of the bed & the window wide open. Horror fail.
2 overly-gratuitous Saw sequels out of 5 (I heard the first
one is pretty good but I can’t see it – too scary!)
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