A History of Fear by Luke Dumas

Published by Atria Books on December 6, 2022

Grayson Hale has a history of fear. Perhaps he is afflicted with satanophobia, a condition describing an abnormal fear of the devil, but Grayson might have legitimate reasons to fear the Adversary. Whether the devil is real or in Grayson’s head — and whether the distinction makes a difference — is the question that propels the novel.

We learn in the opening pagesl that Grayson died after he was convicted of murder. He left behind a manuscript, the story of his life. An editor has annotated the manuscript with documents and interviews that shed light on what might or might be true in Grayson’s memoir.

As a child, Grayson’s fear was triggered by Dirt Devil commercials, deviled eggs, or a chance encounter with the number 666. The fear escalated after Grayson began to be plagued by winged creatures with needle-like teeth. Grayson eventually decided that the fiends weren’t real, a conclusion that followed from the inability of anyone else to see them. Grayson believed that one of the fiends scratched its mark into his arm when he was a baby — he still has the scars — but that was Grayson’s only physical encounter with demonic beasts before they vanished from his life.

Grayson’s father was a divinity scholar who doubled as a cult leader, although Grayson did not recognize the fellowship as a cult. Grayson’s father warned him to be wary of the Adversary. His mother threatened to show him the wrath of the Lord if he misbehaved. His brother, with his mother’s tacit approval, tried to beat the sin out of him. His father gifted Grayson with a book about a boy who had an insatiable hunger that was implanted by the devil. The book occasionally returns to haunt Grayson, providing a metaphor for his life that he doesn’t understand.

Grayson angered his father by following him in a park when he should have kept his distance, but he apparently repressed the full memory of what he saw. Grayson’s father either died in an accidental fall or jumped to his death, leaving behind a cryptic note that might provide insight into the true demons that torment Grayson.

The story begins when Grayson travels to Scotland to pursue his studies. Grayson needs to maintain enrollment and find some income to remain in the country. His need for cash seems to be met by D.B., who hires him to write a book about the history of the devil in Scotland. D.B. wants Scotland to remember the devil. The true nature of the book D.B. wants Grayson to write is not revealed until the final pages.

The winged creatures come back into Grayson’s life when D.B. enters it. Grayson comes to believe that D.B. is Satan. The reader might wonder whether Grayson, who blacks out from time to time, blames demons for his own actions. But if the fiends aren’t real, is D.B.? Grayson devotes the last part of his “book” to his search for the truth. He finds answers that tie together many of the novel’s loose ends while contributing to the story’s ambiguity.

Perhaps the supernatural exists, but the narrative offers clues to an alternative explanation of Grayson’s history of fear: his abandonment by a friend in childhood who didn’t like the way Grayson played; his lack of sexual attraction to his girlfriend; his obsessive desire (noticed by others but not by Grayson) to be close to Liam Stewart, a popular schoolmate who denied having a friendship with Grayson. Luke Dumas apparently did not trust readers to piece the clues together. He eventually (and unnecessarily) spells out the truth, a decision that dumbs down the novel. Yet the question of the devil’s reality always lurks.

Dumas emphasizes Grayson’s unreliable narrative and the mechanisms of self-protection that shield him from the truth. Whether Grayson’s perceptions are accurate or delusional, Grayson’s voice is clear even when his thoughts are not. Dumas’ characterization of Grayson as a troubled young man who lacks self-awareness is convincing.

Familiar themes include a son who is desperate for a father’s approval, a mother who is more concerned with appearances than reality, the way abusive behavior is passed from generation to generation, the bigoted condemnation of “deviant” sexual behavior, and the lasting harm that religious intolerance inflicts on children. The novel’s premise — maybe the supernatural is real, maybe it is imagined by ill minds, maybe the supernatural preys on ill minds — is also familiar, but Dumas executes the balance between competing explanations for Grayson’s experiences — supernatural forces and mental illness — with skill.

I’m not a big fan of the supernatural in fiction, but I appreciate stories that build upon the ambiguity that is inherent in unanswerable questions. The final section, reflecting the views of the editor who annotates Grayson’s memoir, purports to clarify the ambiguity but adds to it by making the reader wonder about the editor’s true identity. While A History of Fear might have a greater impact on true believers in Satan, it tells an intriguing story for readers who appreciate how little we understand about the nature of reality and the complexity of the human mind.

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Jackal by Erin E. Adams

Published by Bantam on October 4, 2022

Alice Walker was ten before she realized that her skin color differed from her peers. Alice was killed in 1986, soon after she made that discovery. Her death in the woods was deemed accidental. Alice’s heart had been removed from her chest, an inconvenient fact that authorities attributed to “animal activity.” Keisha Woodson suffered a similar death in the same woods in 2002. Morgan Daniels disappeared in 1994. They aren’t the only black girls who lost their hearts in the woods, but the police in Johnstown fail to notice a pattern.

Liz Rocher’s mother is Haitian. Liz was born in 1985, the year the first black girl disappeared in the woods. Liz had a bad experience of her own in the woods on the day Keisha disappeared. Liz remembers an encounter with a monster in a shadow (or maybe it was a dog), but her mind might have constructed a false memory to protect her from the truth. Melissa Parker helped Liz find her way out of the woods that day.

Liz returns to Johnstown in 2017. She has bad memories of the school where she was labeled an oreo, too white in her manner of speech for the black kids, too black in appearance for the white kids. Her teachers believed black people were “an alien anomaly in white suburban perfection.” Her only friend was Melissa, a white girl who didn’t have the looks or money to fit in with the other white girls. Liz left Johnstown because too many people in town could only look at her “in a way that makes themselves feel superior.”

Liz only returns because Melissa is finally getting married to her boyfriend, Garrett Washington. They have a daughter named Caroline. Melissa’s father was skeptical of his daughter’s decision to have a baby with a black man, but he finally decided to meet his granddaughter after he bonded with Garrett while hunting for deer.

The wedding reception is at the edge of the woods. Liz is supposed to be keeping an eye on Caroline, but Caroline disappears while Liz is getting drinks. Liz looks in the woods when she can’t find Caroline and finds a bloody piece of Caroline’s party dress.

With that setup, the story addresses “missing child” themes that are common to crime novels. The story adds a reasonably creative mix of horror themes (don’t peer into shadows; Liz has bright eyes that signal someone who has been touched by the woods). Racial and historical themes add powerful context to the plot. In 1923, the mayor of Johnstown ordered more than 2,000 African Americans and Mexican immigrants to leave the city. Liz wonders how she could have grown up in the city without learning that fact. It’s the side of American history that white supremacists don’t want schools to teach, but it belongs with the St. Louis race riots and the Tulsa race massacre as a moment in American history that every child should study. Jackal is in part a horror novel, but what happened in those cities is the true horror.

The story offers several suspects who may be involved in the disappearance of Caroline and/or all the other missing black girls, assuming they are missing and the disappearing girls aren’t just an urban lesson. Suspects include Melissa’s father and husband, Keisha’s mother, a cop named Doug who helps Liz develop a map of missing girls, and a guy named Chris who encountered Liz in the woods on the night that Keisha disappeared. Not to mention a shadowy dog monster that might be lurking in the woods. Maybe the killer is supernatural. Maybe the killer belongs to a satanic cult performing one of those annual solstice sacrifices that thriller writers love to imagine.

I won’t spoil the ending, but it’s fair to say that the resolution combines a murder mystery with the supernatural. The explanation for the unsolved (perhaps unnoticed) killings is a stretch. So is the motivation that drives the supernatural entity.

Stories of the supernatural merit the suspension of disbelief only if they are frightening; Jackal fails to meet that test. Liz’s important learning moment at the novel’s end is a bit contrived, although I liked the use of a supernatural entity as an allegory for the racial hatred that divides the nation. I’m recommending the novel for the mild suspense it generates, for Erin E. Adams’ effort to build Liz into a fully realized character, and for the important themes that hold the story together.

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String Follow by Simon Jacobs

Published by ‎ Farrar, Straus and Giroux/MCD on February 1, 2022

String Follow is marketed as “a darkly comic suburban Gothic.” There’s no doubt that the novel is dark. School shootings are as dark as it gets, and the novel’s school shooting is only a small part of the violence that pervades the story. But school shootings aren’t the stuff of comedy. How String Follow can be marketed as “darkly comic” is bewildering.

The characters are teens in Adena, Ohio. The real Adena, a small village at least an hour’s drive from Pittsburg, is more rural than suburban, but a novelist is free to change the reality of locations. The fictional Adena appears to change its size and shape as characters drive through streets that are simultaneously familiar and unrecognizable.

The story is narrated by a lurking presence (marketing materials describe it as a “malevolent force”) that purportedly helps the teens understand their choices “and see their architecture, the brutal structure behind them, as dense and complex and orderly as a blood spray.” The plot culminates in a “Death Party” at the (supposedly empty) home of a character who is presumed to be dead but is inconveniently alive — a party orchestrated by the malevolent force. String Follow is more of a horror novel than a dark comedy. I suppose horror alone suffices to convince marketing departments to describe a novel as “Gothic.” The underlying premise seems to be that it’s pretty horrifying to be a teen.

The characters are lost in their teen angst. Beth “bottled and buried her rage within herself,” instinctively turning her back and retreating from conflict. Her older brother Greg is seeing a psychiatrist who has him on Risperdal. Greg doesn’t tell his shrink about the voice he hears, the voice that begins to dictate his behavior. Beth also hears a voice that tells her what to do, although its not as demanding as her brother’s voice. Beth feels like she’s trapped in a tower and believes she sees colors that she interprets as souls.

Not to be outdone, Sarah spends an inexplicable amount of time thinking about colored lights. Her colors are not necessarily souls, but she sometimes perceives them as bodies. Purple seems to be a guiding light. Sarah can’t have sex without entertaining colorful scattered thoughts: “On the bed, she separated from her body,” a perspective that allows her to notice “the yellow of David’s room to the filtered gray palette of the world beyond him” and the “furious white” sky, an “impossibly dense color of equal violence” creating an atmosphere “as thick as language.” Readers who can decipher that prose might find String Follow to be a real treat.

Sarah is Beth’s best friend until she’s not. Sarah is also David’s girlfriend until they break up, and then his lover when he’s nice to her until she decides he’s not being nice, after all. David is given to “pornographic cult fantasies” but otherwise seems to be living in oblivion. During their breakup, Sarah hangs out with Greg, whose attention she enjoys until she doesn’t. Sarah has a driving need to be popular and to solve other people’s problems, then feels her friends are using her when they allow her to impose her will upon them. It's not surprising that Sarah drives away her friend Claire, a minor character who is embarrassed by her family’s prosperity.

Tyler and Rhea are the other key characters, although Rhea is something of a nonentity unless she’s bleeding. For a time, Tyler and Rhea explore Adena and surrounding communities, avoiding their homes and parents. Tyler then discovers that David left the house unlocked while his parents were taking an out-of-town trip. Tyler takes over the teen cave that David made for himself in the basement, locking David out. David thinks it is odd that the basement door is suddenly locked but his teen ennui prevents him from doing anything about it. Tyler eventually invites Rhea to join him in David’s basement. Using David’s computer, Tyler invites a younger girl named Marcy to join him, promising to fuck her to death if she brings weed, to which Marcy (who calls herself Typhus) responds “when and where?” Inviting Marcy turns out to be a bad decision, one that adds to the flowing blood that eventually drowns the story.

Claire becomes a fan of a teen named Graham, a member of a punk band who is locally famous for self-inducing blinding migraines so that he can express his pain through his music until he passes out. Later, a kid named Adam who suffers the same affliction (did Graham relocate and change his name?) is present during a school shooting that occurs late in the novel. He does nothing after noticing the gun. Adam then obsessively replays videos, watching himself and blaming himself for the bullet that struck one of the victims after he collapsed in pain.

With all these characters, String Fellow produces enough teen angst to power a small country. The malevolent force (self-described only as “we”) might be responsible for the colors that plague Sarah and Beth and the voices in Greg’s head. It is explicitly responsible for the school shooting, for Adam’s migraines, and for the Death Party, among other acts of violence. Perhaps malevolence directed at the reader motivates the narrating force to explain the inner thoughts of insecure teen characters. Too many paragraphs are devoted to internal monologues as characters fret about each new source of anxiety.

The malevolent force might not be a reliable narrator, given that events near the novel’s end involving Tyler and Rhea and Sarah make no sense at all. Near the end, Tyler leaves the basement with his friends in tow, only to return to the house (where he picks up Sarah as she flees from David) without appearing to recognize it as the same house he just vacated. Deliberate ambiguity is built into the story’s conclusion, ambiguity that creates pointless confusion. The force appears to be clouding the minds of the characters. It certainly clouded my mind, giving me an Graham/Adam-like headache as I tried to follow the plot. A lengthy passage in all caps seems to suggest that all possible versions of the story are simultaneously true, while a passage that follows in normal type suggests that alternative versions of the story could just as easily be told. Those passages made me say out loud: “Just pick a story and stick to it.” Perhaps the novel is meant to be experimental. If so, the experiment left me frustrated.

String Follow envisions evil as an external and sentient presence. Many writers have made that suggestion. It might be comforting to attribute teen violence that has no obvious explanation — and there’s plenty of that in String Follow — to a malevolent force rather than mental illness or poor parenting. As a society, we only have ourselves to blame for society’s failure to recognize the symptoms of mental illness or violence-prone kids and to intervene before tragedy ensues. Attributing violence to an amorphous evil seems like copout, although Simon Jacobs does try to have it both ways by portraying Adena as a town where adult supervision of teens is entirely absent.

On a more positive note, Jacobs’ prose is creative and robust. When they aren’t whining about their lives or behaving as if they are characters in a slasher movie, the kids occasionally do something interesting (the idea of taking over a random basement and using it as a hangout is cool). Had the story tried to explore teen violence as the product of something other than an evil force, it might have been compelling. I shouldn’t criticize a writer for failing to write a different book — the kind of book I might have enjoyed more — but I think it’s fair to criticize a writer for making a choice that doesn’t work. The “malevolent forces make kids bad” theme is too banal to succeed, despite offering some stirring moments to fans of gore.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

This Thing Between Us by Gus Moreno

Published by MCD x FSG Originals on October 12, 2021

As Halloween approaches, publishers release horror novels. This one asks the reader to consider whether their Alexa might be haunted.

The protagonist of This Thing Between Us, Thiago Alvarez, has a device called Itza that is obviously Alexa by another name. Itza begins to turn itself on, answers questions it hasn’t been asked, plays bad music, orders unwanted products (including swords and sex toys), and behaves like an unwelcome guest. Mostly Itza wants to be pulled out of the wall, a phrase that only makes sense later in the novel. Returning Itza to the seller seems like a good solution, but Thiago takes more decisive action.

Perhaps it is not Itza that is haunted. Perhaps the former occupant of Thiago’s condo put a hex on the place. The floorboards squeak at night, as if someone is walking on them. There are scratching noises in the walls and spots in the home that are inexplicably cold. Yet Thiago’s worries about Itza and hexes fall to the wayside when his wife Vera is killed after being pushed down a flight of subway stairs by a fleeing criminal.

The criminal is an undocumented alien, a status that sends certain parts of the media into a frenzy while the remaining media devotes its time to covering the frenzy. Thiago writes: “My life was a series of disasters, and the aftermaths only attracted scavengers who picked the rubble for parts they could use for their own means.” Thiago doesn’t want his wife’s death to become a political football, so he says goodbye to his late wife’s mother (Diana) and moves into the woods to hide from his inability to comprehend life or death or meaning.

After that setup, the story ratchets up the creepy. Thiago finds a dog who seems sweet until, perhaps in a reincarnated form, it turns into Cujo. A wall appears in the woods and then moves into the yard. Words appear in books that shouldn’t be there, asking for release from the wall. Someone seems to be possessed. When Diana shows up for a visit, she walks into a nightmare.

This Thing Between Us is written as a communication from Thiago to Vera after her death. The purpose of the communication is revealed near the novel’s end. In the twisted logic of horror fiction, writing to a dead wife makes perfect sense.

Gus Moreno hides the ball for a while. Is this a novel about demons? Is the person wo behaves like a zombie possessed by evil spirits? Have the ghost stories that pervade Mexican culture taken root in Thiago’s family? Is Thiago delusional? The ending leaves most of the reader’s questions unanswered.

Still, the plot is really a device that allows Moreno to consider more important questions. The story asks whether people believe in the afterlife as a way of avoiding loss. At some point, Thiago is invited to join an afterlife that offers the illusion of Heaven, perhaps as a literary suggestion that Heaven is an illusion for all living people who embrace its reality.

Culture and individualism play a big part in the story, from the social schism over undocumented aliens to the cultural knowledge that informs Diana’s effort to exorcise evil from Thiago’s dwelling. Thiago is ashamed that he doesn’t speak Spanish, but Diana was born in Mexico and accepts the supernatural as a given. Thiago is antisocial, a burnout who takes odd jobs in the gig economy, part of America’s culture of loners. He resisted Vera’s preference for social connections, although Vera was also different from her friends in that she preferred museums to clubbing. Perhaps opposites attract, but Thiago feels guilty about “the times we argued because you felt you couldn’t invite people to the condo on account of me hating to be ‘on’ all the time, or me wishing you put half as much effort into taking care of yourself as you put into your job.” He regrets using his mother’s cancer as a tool to manipulate Vera into staying with him when she couldn’t deal with his failings.

I’m not a big fan of horror fiction — reality frightens me more than the supernatural — but I am a fan of insightful writing. Moreno gets into Thiago’s head to explore the universal experience of grief and loss. “In this world we struggle and bitch and fail and hurt and then weep over someone checking out of it all.” “It’s like being at a party and the one friend you knew is suddenly gone.” “When you died I mourned you, but also the version of myself I was with you. So then there were two deaths.”

The story is bleak and the ending is both unhappy and unsatisfying, but it has the advantage of pulling no punches. Moreno blends supernatural horror with the horrible impact that loss has on survivors. I’m not sure that all of the horrific elements make any kind of unified sense, but I am sure that the story would be powerful even without its supernatural foundation.

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Revelator by Daryl Gregory

Published by Knopf on August 31, 2021

As horror novels go, Revelator is creepy rather than frightening. The horror does not manifest as a vampire or demon or any other destructive entity that seeks to enslave or destroy the human race, although the possibility that such an entity might reveal itself underlies the story. For most of the novel, the entity that places Revelator into the genre of horror fiction doesn’t threaten anyone except the series of children who serve it, and it probably doesn’t intend to hurt them. Only at the novel’s end do we learn the true nature of those children and of their relationship to the entity they serve.

Alternating chapters focus on the life of Stella Birch in 1938 and 1948. Stella’s family has long resided in a mountainous area of Tennessee that is about to become part of a national park. Inside the mountain lives an entity Stella calls Ghostdaddy. Others in her family call it the God of the Mountain.

A long line of Birch women, all born to absent fathers, have communed with the Ghostdaddy. They enter the mountain and receive the word of Ghostdaddy. Since they are apparently recipients of the mountain god’s revelations, a religion has grown from the communions. The religion was not founded by the women who actually commune with Ghostdaddy, but by a man who purported to have a better understanding of the revelations than the women who receive them. For each new generation of women, the word of the God of the Mountain has been transcribed in a series of books, accompanied by commentary furnished by a male family member who believes he better understands the god’s true meaning.

Stella is a child in 1938. She wants to read all the books of the women who came before her, but her Uncle Hendrick won’t allow it. Hendrick has appointed himself the current interpreter of the God of the Mountain’s words, as spoken through the Birch women. Hendrick would like Stella to produce as many revelations as possible, but her mother Motty doesn’t think Stella is ready. Hendrick defers to Motty as the oldest surviving Birch woman. Stella has her own mind about things and discovers truths about Ghostdaddy before Motty is ready to reveal them.

In 1948, Stella returns to the mountain because Motty has died. Sunny becomes the next Birch girl to commune with Ghostdaddy. Stella wants to shield Sunny from that experience while Hendrick wants to keep Sunny to himself. He’s moving the family religion to a broader audience and needs new revelations to cement his position. Struggles eventually ensue between Stella and Hendrick, between Stella and Sunny, and between Stella and Ghostdaddy.

Daryl Gregory adds color to the story by giving Stella a role in the family moonshine business with her Uncle Abby. She also has a quasi-romantic relationship with a preacher’s son. Something strange happens when Motty slaughters pigs, but you’ll have to read the book to understand it. All of that background helps Gregory portray Stella as an interesting and sympathetic member of a strange backwoods family.

The backwoods tendency to invent bizarre religions and to sucker others into believing them is a key component of the story. It might also be a thinly disguised commentary on the negative impact that backwoods religions have on their adherents. The backwoods church that most of the characters attend before they learn about the God of the Mountain doesn’t allow women to speak. On the other hand, the God of the Mountains is a real entity that demands a form of worship, even if it isn’t much of a god. Unsurprisingly, all of Hendricks’ interpretations of the god’s “revelations” prove to be completely wrong. Such is the nature of fringe preachers.

Stella views herself as a monster. If people knew what she is capable of doing, others might see her that way too. The reader will more likely view Stella as someone who had to play the hand she was dealt, and who played it with courage and compassion.

If Revelator isn’t particularly scary, the story’s creepiness — the ending, in particular — offsets the absence of chills. The atmosphere is appropriate to a horror novel, the story has a good pace, and the depiction of backwoods religion adds to the story’s interest.

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