My Heart Is A Chainsaw

February 8, 2022 ~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Last year I read certain horror novels and wondered if I didn’t have a place as a modern horror reader. I could still easily dive into classic horror like Stoker, Machen, Le Fanu, Lovecraft and his literary godchildren but modern horror? Was I too old and cranky? Especially after my disappointment with Grady Hendrix and The Final Girl Support Group. Don’t get me wrong, Grady Hendrix is an interesting voice for modern horror, but he’s been moving closer to almost too precious for words, too all-knowing voice, veering into Horror’s Patton Oswalt for my tastes.

I can’t even with Patton Oswalt. Between this and knowing I don’t do Anne of Green Gables, if this is the final straw and you’ve decided I’m a complete monster and will never read another thing I write, it’s okay, I understand.

Also, it’s been how many months and I still can’t eat pasta or noodles. Damn you, Grady Hendrix.

Excuse me, you might interrupt, but are you going to babble about a book or your stupid food aversions and I’m too different thing?

Hold your horses, I am going to babble about a book, that of course, I found at my local library. Today’s book, My Heart Is A Chainsaw by one Stephen Graham Jones. Now I might be on the fringes of modern horror but even I recognize that name even if I never read one of his books until this month. I read A LOT and it’s possible I’ve read one of his short stories in the past.

My Heart Is A Chainsaw, which does this sound like a long-lost Nirvana album or is my age showing, is the story of one Jennifer “Jade” Daniels, an outsider in the tiny Idaho community of Proofrock. Jade looks like she should be best friends with Nancy from The Craft with her wild dyed hair, more black eyeliner than peek Siouxsie Sioux and battered clothes. She’s smart and obsessed to with horror movies to the point even I’m all “girl please”. Proofrock could be the ideal setting for a 1980s low budget horror movie with a spooky haunted lake legend and an abandoned summer camp with a tragic past. If My Heart Is A Chainsaw was a 1980s horror movie, Jade’s seen it all history teacher Mr. Holmes aka Sherlock or Bear, could only be played by David Warner or Donald Sutherland. But it’s not the 1980s and the modern world is creeping into Proofrock along with a new housing development called Terra Nova catering to the rich and famous.

Of course, being a horror novel, things…happen. Or do they? Jade has a history of instability and has spent time hospitalized after a suicide attempt. Is Jade an unreliable narrator, keeping secrets from herself or are the things happening just occurrences that might happen in any town undergoing a transformation after a tragic past.

Now if you’re curious and want me to spoil the rest of the plot, no. Get your hands on My Heart Is A Chainsaw and read it yourself.

I will say My Heart Is A Chainsaw kept me guessing and reading one handed while making dinner. I don’t suggest this unless you have the spare cash to replace a library book if it falls into the oven or a simmering pot. Note: I did not drop or damage my library copy but hey, it could happen especially when REDACTED SERIOUSLY REDACTED OH MY TULU REDACTED.

Long story short? My Heart Is A Chainsaw is what I hoped The Final Girl Support Group would be. I might not vibe with modern horror as I did years ago but there are still books out there for readers like me.

The Lost Village

September 27, 2021 ~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

I’m trying to expand my horizons and Camilla Sten’s acclaimed thriller The Lost Village (translated by Alexandra Fleming) has hit the American shores. And my right big toe because I managed to drop The Lost Village on my bare foot when putting library books away. Yes, I could wear shoes inside like the spouse suggests but I can’t stand wearing shoes or even slippers if I don’t have to inside. So, my toes are going to be casualties at times. Luckily The Lost Village isn’t a door stop of a book.

Now about The Lost Village as a book not a demonic toe smashing object. This is said with respect. The Lost Village recalls the scariest bits of John Saul. Yes, I know I’m confessing to being a John Saul reader and he doesn’t get tons of respect, but the man had a way with describing religious fervor that struck home. And dark lost places. The titular lost village of Silvertjarn is creepy ruin of a town filled with crumbling houses and dark secrets only you don’t need to wait roughly a hundred years, only about sixty for those dark secrets to be revealed. Tons of creepy stuff though. Creepy stuff good even if I managed to figure out a particular plot twist before our flashback narrator Elsa. But hey Elsa is going through A LOT, so she is forgiven.

Of course, being me, the modern timeline with filmmaker Alice (Elsa’s great-granddaughter) and her tiny independent documentary crew had the harder time holding my interest then the flashbacks with Elsa and that might be because my brain kept trying to figure out how to pronounce Tone between bouts of wanting to smack Alice and Emmy. Gee, I really have a thing for wanting to smack characters, don’t I? Come on, Alice is so evasive and Emmy from Alice’s perspective in the beginning is not a great person.

I didn’t dislike everything about the modern timeline. I liked the details of producing the documentary right down to wanting to kick yourself for not filming certain things. I’ve had those thoughts about my Instagram and I’m not trying to solve a mystery involving an entire ghost town. And the former claims adjuster in me shrieked when a rented van went boom. You do not want to handle a damage claim with a rental vehicle. They are nightmares. Maybe not the nightmares of Silvertjarn but nightmares all the same.

As much as I was caught up with the town’s descent in the flashbacks partly because I was imaging a John Carpenter adaptation, The Lost Village almost lost me completely with the resolution to a mystery. I’m willing to stretch my disbelief and roll with things, including other books that could have benefited with radical slashing and an editor smacking the author’s hands with a ruler when the author goes on a tangent, hello beloved horror writer of my misguided youth, but one reveal had me lifting an eyebrow like a damn Aaron Spelling villainess and finding the reveal totally unbelievable under the circumstances. I’m sorry but really? With the time frame? I would love to know if Camilla Sten’s editors had similar thoughts. And I was just getting to not want to smack Alice anymore too. Pity.

But again, maybe I’m not understanding something in the plot or the translation to English left some key crucial detail not quite crystal clear. The Lost Village is an interesting book, and it would make a terrific Netflix or Hulu limited series. And I will always have the creepy bits even if they don’t quite emotionally scar me like a good solid Laird Barron tale. Camilla Sten is one to watch.

My Best Friend’s Exorcism

September 25, 2021 ~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

My local library is a city library. Sometimes a book is on their site, but the actual book is away with the fairies. Example? Grady Hendrix’s My Best Friend’s Exorcism, in the catalog but AWOL since 2020, which meant a trip to library a half hour away. In my Big Book of Whiskey Tango? This a great way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon.

For those of you who might not be familiar with Grady Hendrix. Short answer for folks like my Dad or spouse. You know all those weird paperbacks I read in the 1980s, the ones with the black covers and lurid paintings? So did Grady Hendrix. Only unlike my corporate cubicle dwelling self, Grady Hendrix has turned his love of those battered paperbacks into a fine living.

I am a huge fan of Grady Hendrix’s Horrorstör and I’ve heard great things about his other books too. My Best Friend’s Exorcism should be perfect Wendy-Marie reading. Horror, 1980s, references to Duran Duran and an author who really can bring the ickkk.

***SPOILER***

This should not be a surprise if you’ve read any review or summary of My Best Friend’s Exorcism but just in case you are new to this book?

Spoilers ahead.

***You have been officially warned***

Okay…so you are still reading.

Great!

Was I the only person who thought Gretchen got her demon friend that night in the woods? Not her period. The actual demon possessing her.

Or did you figure out she got possessed at summer camp?

Because I sure didn’t.

Not sure if I’m feeling ultra-dumb or grabbing my pink FBI baseball cap from Hunter Dog in order to doff it at Mr. G. Hendrix, Esquire.

Yeah…I’m dumb right? I mean I know I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

I don’t hate My Best Friend’s Exorcism. There are truly great parts. The friendship before things go downhill between Abby and Gretchen has wonderful notes I really related to. When dinosaurs, moussed hair and the United Colors of Benetton ruled the Earth, I was the poor friend. It is not fun and it’s a bit challenging to not feel out of sorts when the world smiles on your peers.

And I wonder about Gretchen. Is she chafing against her parents because of their religion, normal teenage growing pains or something darker? Because I always suspect something darker lurking in the corners of life.

Also, I want to smack Glee so hard, enough to leave a little undead raccoon paw print on her cheek-she captures the perfection annoyance of several rich girls I knew in my part of small town Connecticut. I can’t remember Grady Hendrix describes her because my brain can only hold so much information and Bill Paxton’s filmography is more important. Even if I can’t watch more than five minutes of Mortuary or The Colony.

In my head? Glee has thick golden hair and a dainty facial structure. I do not possess a dainty facial structure. Remember when everyone was using Google Arts & Culture app to find their fine art double? Mine was Charles the Bewitched. So, my long-lost Habsburg self can picture Glee’s Benetton outfits, the very precisely flipped up polo collars and the matching Tiffany bean earrings and necklace. I hate Glee.

Now what is stuck in my poor head after putting down My Best Friend’s Exorcism?

One word.

Margaret.

***HI SPOILER AHEAD***

Thanks to consuming enough true crime media the spouse has declared Harold Schechter “my true crime boyfriend”, I suspected arsenic poisoning versus the true body horror. Which is so gross, especially if you know anything about the body horror and well, I might end up a more than a pants size smaller after if I continue reading more Grady Hendrix books. What happens to Margaret has me squirming, unwilling to drink anything I cannot see through. I also can’t eat any noodles or ice cream. Seriously I had enough food aversions and issues before reading My Best Friend’s Exorcism. If I finally sign up for the therapy I most likely desperately need, can I send Grady Hendrix my co-pay bills?

But I don’t love My Best Friend’s Exorcism. I should love it. The main fault is not the book itself. Grady Hendrix came up with an interesting plot and the design team at Quirk Books captures the quintessential 1980s high school yearbook right down to the signed yearbook flysheet/endpapers or whatever you call those pages in a book. The problem is me.

I am not the reader My Best Friend’s Exorcism needs for maximum enjoyment.

2016 Me still deep in my love affair with weird fiction/horror would have loved My Best Friend’s Exorcism. The hopeful me. 2021 Me is not in that same headspace and ultimately My Best Friend’s Exorcism did not hit the sweet spot I need in fiction. Not every book is meant for every stage of life. And there are plenty of readers who will find My Best Friend’s Exorcism their perfect book.

The Final Girl Support Group

September 21, 2021September 25, 2021 ~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

Contrary to what the spouse and my Tubi recommendations might claim, I’m not addicted to horror movies. I do enjoy a good cosmic horror movie but a slasher film? I’ve read more about slasher films then watching them. I’m An Old (Generation X) and we only had one TV. Sure, I might have peered through the stair rails in the late 1970s while my dad was watching the Rock Hudson classic Embryo and been scared out of my tiny wits, but I didn’t have a TV in my room or an older sibling with a TV. And because we had a VCR of our own, I missed out of the classic 1980s experience of renting a VCR and a stack of scary movies for a weekend. I did see some scary movies back in the day, but it was rare, usually involving a sleepover at a friend’s house who had older siblings.

I’m darn near AARP age and I still haven’t seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Friday the 13^th and the like. Which put me at slight disadvantage when I made the genius decision to “just read a chapter or two” of Grady Hendrix’s The Final Girl Support Group. And no prize if you guessed I just kept reading until I finished the book just before 11:30pm. My work shift starts at 6 am.

Like I said, I truly make genius decisions.

You could pick up The Final Girl Support Group without ever seeing a slasher film or even knowing what a final girl is. In my big book of Whiskey Tango that’s a waste of time, energy and resources but you know what the legendary children say, “you do you boo, you do you”. If you don’t have a horror background yet somehow decide oh yes, The Final Girl Support Group is for you. You are not going to get the full experience.

I’m not saying you need be to a horror superfan, listing the different Texas Chainsaw Massacres, Child’s Play, Friday the 13^th, Prom Night, Amityville Horrors like it’s the British line of succession. If you can? Impressive and is Brad Dourif as sweet as he seems in real life because I met Tony “Candyman” Todd and He. Is. A. Total. Sweetheart. I am curious about Brad Dourif. And I might <cue the spouse rolling his eyes> have the tiniest crush on Brad Dourif. Okay I do have a crush on Brad Dourif. Have you seen him in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest?

And yes, the review!

The casual fan/reader might not figure out the titular final girls are named after actresses from the real-life movie franchises lovingly paid homage to. Tiny details like the naming matter. It took longer than I’d like to admit for me to realize Heather, tormented by the Dream King is a reference to the actress Heather Langenkamp from the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. And this is after I kept turning back to the mock “The Slash Franchises Ranked” magazine excerpt before the start of The Final Girl Support Group VI: The Next Generation chapter.

Go ahead, please feel free to laugh at me.

I never said I was a particular smart person.

And another tiny detail that matters are those stark black pages before each chapter. They range from a snippet of a magazine article, a review or even a battered VHS cover. Like my all-time favorite Grady Hendrix novel Horrorstör, these pages really help place you right in the book universe. Without them? I would have had a much harder time staying focused and motivated to keep reading. Would the book live up to the promise in those media snippets?

And here is where I guess I should touch on the plot. How do they say it on TV Tropes? Ah yes, Exactly What It Says On The Tin. In a church basement, the real-life final girls, whose worst tragedies inspired movies, meet in a support group for years until someone starts targeting them again. And stuff goes down. Like a good slasher flick there are several twists and turns. I didn’t regret staying up late to finish the book. The Final Girl Support Group didn’t drag on and on, a visit to a shunned Final Girl is very creepy and honestly the part I felt the most disturbed/scared. Your mileage may vary.

The Final Girl Support Group is a solid book, lots of interesting bits even if I couldn’t warm to our narrator/final girl Lynnette. Sorry Lynnette. It’s not my favorite Grady Hendrix book ever, hello there Horrorstör and Paperbacks from Hell, but unlike other Grady Hendrix novels I read this year, I haven’t developed any more food aversions. Seriously, I am still having issues with noodles and ice cream. Which might be a good thing according to my doctor. Such meanness. So, if you love horror give The Final Girl Support Group a read while I try to sit through Mortuary for more than five minutes without rolling my eyes at Erin Walton as the heroine.

The House Next Door

October 19, 2013January 12, 2014 ~ Wendy-Marie ~ Leave a comment

I’m at the library circulation desk, picking up my usual stack of inter library loans when the Jan the Librarian pauses and asks “so what’s this?” because the book in her hand isn’t one of the Monica Dickens novels trickling in from all over our library system. “I never heard of this one”, Jan continues, passing it through the security scanner, “And I read all of her books.”

At this point am a bit stumped. Just how do you explain a book that Uncle Stevie King himself states in Danse Macabre is one of the best genre novels of the 20th century? Especially when you’ve just come the from fall library book sale you can find tons of Anne Rivers Siddons books with soft focus covers and titles that make you want to head South? “Oh…it’s about a house that might be haunted or possessed or something and the people who live in it”. Lame explanation I know but I was tired and there was a line behind me and telling Jan the Librarian about Uncle Stevie’s ravings about The House Next Door was just a little too much for me.

On the surface, The House Next Door, published in 1976, is a novel of it’s time. There’s the horror angle. The modern haunted house angle (The Amityville Horror is published just a year later), the Me decade lifestyle and it’s trappings. Our narrator is Colquitt (which my brain keeps translating to Clicquot like the champagne) Kennedy who lives an idyllic child-free life with her devoted husband Walter in a very nice and upscale Southern neighborhood in a lovely older home. She works part-time in PR, has cats, can wear painted on Levis and knows she’s hot. In real life? I would loathe her. The neighbors could be the daughters of Mary McCarthy’s The Group or Clare Boothe Luce’s The Women. All is fine and dandy in ~~Clicqout~~ Colquitt’s little slice of heaven until she finds out the wild and gorgeous empty lot next door is going to have a house built on it. And with that news, heaven acquires it’s first hairline cracks.

I don’t know if I hold with Uncle Stevie on the whole “one of the best genre novels of the 20th century” thing. On the surface, The House Next Door, published in 1976, is a novel of it’s time. There’s the horror angle. The modern haunted house angle (The Amityville Horror is published just a year later), the Me decade lifestyle and it’s trappings.

Remember the Dead List I created for The Nightingales Are Singing? That list is nothing compared to whatever lurks in the Lot Next Door. Like Renfield collecting souls, at first the victims are small and then get bigger and bigger and BIGGER. The House Next Door, whose very blueprints take your breath away and makes you think the house is almost alive, chomps through three families in a matter of two years leaving confusion and a new real estate agency’s FOR SALE sign on the front lawn after each family has gone. Our first ~~set of victims~~ family are the Harralsons, a couple from a very small city strong taints of New Money that decide the Lot Next Door is going to be their entry and showplace. Oh do they get theirs. After the tragic departure of the Harralson clan, the Sheehans from New Jersey buy the House Next Door. More tragedy strikes, leaving the neighborhood reeling and fractured. Next to our House Next Door of Horrors are the Greenes, Yankee newcomers or sad victims who give the neighborhood it’s death blow. Finally, ~~Clicqout~~ Colquitt and Walter rouse themselves from the cosy groove of their lives and decide to take action. They break the Old South codes of gentility and keeping things hush and go to People magazine, that bastion of the everyman and spill as much of the story as Joe and Jane Average could handle even though it means their end.

Like Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, The House Next Door has it’s chills but is most fascinating to me as a social document or a snapshot of when it was written. The House Next Door is a fascinating look at the outsider in the New South. Everything about the House Next Door, from it’s contemporary design to it’s occupants are the New South breaking across old barriers. What’s more terrifying to the neighbors? The house itself and the changing times or what happens to the people who live inside it’s walls? And The House Next Door will leave you wanting just that little bit more when you close the covers. Did Pie and her daddy…no…they couldn’t have? How did a particular character go from having drinks and listening to records to their…end? It there really such a thing as “bad blood”? What happens after the book ends, Walter and ~~Clicqout~~ Colquitt sitting in chairs and waiting…a lower novelist (coughcoughJohnSaulDeanKoontzcoughcough) would have told me in endless detail. Maybe the true genius of Anne Rivers Siddons’ The House Next Door is leaving me wanting and wondering…