I tried to make a face like the one on the nearest carving. Its lower jaw was distended like a snake about to swallow and its eyes bulged. “See, ’ook…” I opened my eyes and mouth as wide as I could and wider, wider, wide enough to eat the sun this is the one that puts the stars out when the shadows go over them this one’s eyes can see in the gray that’s left behind after even the darkness is eaten. Oh shit. I tried to close my mouth and it didn’t want to close. [loc. 1210]
Melissa, known as Mouse, heads off to the wilds of North Carolina after a bad breakup, with only her dog Bongo for company. Mouse's grandmother, who nobody liked, has died, and Mouse's dad isn't up to clearing out the house. Turns out Grandma was a hoarder -- there is, for instance, a whole room full of creepy dolls, and the porch is stacked with an intricate tetris of furniture, appliances et cetera -- and the house is not a pleasant place to be. Mouse's phone is playing up (a software update will be available soon!) and she has only the radio, Bongo and her own imagination for company. She has not loaded her e-reader (rookie error!) so ends up reading the journal she finds in a drawer, which belonged to her grandmother's husband Cotgrave. This does not soothe her, because Cotgrave's wild tales of a hidden 'Green Book' and strange folk in the woods are corroborated by the folk from the more-or-less-abandoned commune down the road.
This is a genuinely terrifying novel, where the terror comes from Mouse's growing understanding: oh, so that's what those knocking sounds were; oh, that isn't just an injured deer; oh, here's a message pleading for help ... To be honest, the house itself also unnerved me (I grew up in a hoarder's house, though not to that extent, and still have bad memories of the post-mortem clear-out).
Against the terror, Kingfisher sets a lot of strong positive relationships. Foremost is Mouse's bond with Bongo, who she won't abandon even when it might mean her own sanity. There is also her growing friendship with, and reliance upon, the colourful Foxy, a weathered lady with a penchant for bright colours, who lives in the commune and won't let Mouse face the terrors alone. (Thinking about it, the bright colours probably help a lot.)
And there are several layers of story here. First, obviously, is Mouse's narrative. Then there's the 'Green Book' alluded to in Cotgrove's journal, which Grandma has allegedly hidden somewhere in the house. Cotgrove writes down what he can recall of this book: genre-savvy readers will recognise Arthur Machen's The White People, though I did not make the connection until Kingfisher's afterword. And Mouse is an editor and proof-reader, so she's criticising the story -- the stories -- even as she encounters the horrors. "... my job was to know the shape of stories and help other people hammer them into place, and I guess I thought on some level that when I got to the last room, there’d be some kind of reward for it." [loc. 2818] That meta-narrative gives her some leeway in rationalising and explaining actions which belong in the 'do not do this' column of genre convention: 'don't go back for the cat or aliens will eat you', et cetera.
I enjoyed this, in a shivery way, because Mouse is a likeable and vulnerable heroine who prioritises her dog's well-being, doesn't pretend to have loved her grandmother, and is horrified by Cotgrove's grammar. It's a darker novel than Swordheart or Paladin's Grace, and there's less humour: but Kingfisher's inventiveness, characterisation and unpredictable plot twists make this more than just plain horror.
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