Have You Read This? The Salt Grows Heavy by Cassandra Khaw

There are works of horror that have violence and works of horror that are violent. They are violent with their depictions of a human body’s surgical deconstruction, violent with their brazen exploration of taboo subjects, and violent with their wanton disregard to the fairy tales that remain sacrosanct for many people. This is, of course, a good thing, even necessary, since horror is a genre that often pushes and even destroys boundaries. Cassandra Khaw’s retelling of The Little Mermaid story, The Salt Grows Heavy, is a novella that rejoices in its violence. 

It starts with the tale that everyone is familiar with, that of a mermaid princess who falls in love with a prince whose kingdom is on land and her sacrifices to be with him. What those books don’t mention is how the prince mistreated the mermaid once she was his or how the mermaid’s daughters went on to eat the kingdom. Disney execs would likely be horrified to learn that this mermaid then goes on the run with a nonbinary plague doctor who discovers a village full of murderous children ruled by “saints” who really love performing surgery. 

As a novella, this is a quick read. As a story, it’s a fever dream/acid trip of a fairy tale retelling. This is mostly due to Khaw’s writing. Not content to simply describe events as they happen, she paints a gloriously visceral picture with her words, blurring the boundaries between what is beautiful and what is horrifying. In this retelling, the mermaid who is not named Ariel is no longer a victim; instead she is a force of nature that will tear through anything to get what she wants. 

Graphic Content: Die by Kieron Gillen and Stephanie Hans

 

I may be really dating myself here, but I remember the early 80’s Dungeons & Dragons cartoon where a fantasy-themed amusement park ride takes a group of teenagers to a magical realm where they become the rangers, barbarians, and wizards many kids became on paper. Kieron Gillen has expanded this idea by getting back with these kids after they have escaped their fantasy world and become bitter, disillusioned adults. This premise, the main pillar of Gillen’s fantasy epic Die, sounds like a satirical look at role-playing games, but the subject matter is really not funny.

All teenagers Sol, Ash, and their friends wanted to do was play a role-playing game, one Sol described as a one-of-a-kind experience. That experience forcibly pulled them into the fantasy world of Die, one they barely escaped. Sol never made it out and the rest have meandered through their lives for almost 30 years until they are drawn back in, and these now adult games must come to terms to what they did to the world of Die and the consequences of the roles they played.

Writer Keiron Gillen could have phoned this story in. He could have just created the standard ranger, barbarian, thief, etc., added a few dragons here and there for familiarity, and finished with a few fantasy touches that were different enough to avoid being sued, but he creates a fantasy world that borrows from different kinds of fantastic fiction tropes yet maintains its unique feel. This is in large part due to Stephanie Hans’s artwork, a gorgeously painted world that draws the eye while also allowing for the more subtle details like the expressions of these erstwhile adventurers who are once again trying to get home. Even the classes that exist are different from anything most people find in the typical tabletop RPG, from the Godbinder who calls in favors from deities, to the Grief Knight, whose sadness powers his attacks. Die is a great book for fans of D&D and dark fantasy, and it’s also for people who aren’t too old to remember what being a hero is like.

Graphic Content: Empty Eyes, written by Diego Agrimbau and illustrated by Juan Manuel Tumburús

 Childhood is expected to be a time of innocence, but horror has a great way of subverting expectations. In some stories, there are “childhood things” that we are told we need to put away to become adults. These include toys and imaginary friends are ultimately holding us back from being mature and capable adults. In some horror stories, these childhood things (for example, killer dolls) prevent us from growing up by simply ending us, but some childhood things can also protect us from what awaits us in the very cruel, very real adult world. Such is the case of the graphic novel Empty Eyes, written by Diego Agrimbau and illustrated by Juan Manuel Tumburús.

The story takes place during WWI at the border between Russia and Poland. Near the border is the Nurk Orphanage, which now houses only three living children: young Otto, his older sister Ophelia, and Maurice, who has a psychological hold over the siblings, ordering them to bring back fresh meat to feed Maurice’s cannibalistic tendencies. Otto wants his sister’s protection, especially after all the other children died, but they might still be close to Otto, perhaps looking out at him through the dolls that fill the place.

It is easy to think of Guillermo Del Toro’s work as this story shows the contrast between the fantasy world and a real world ravaged by war, but Agrumbau’s story is less fantasy and more horror, as it deals with child death and cannibalism. Tumburus’s artwork even plays with this dichotomy of childlike wonder and horror in his artwork. The children are wide-eyed (when they have eyes) and cherubic and seem to reference the artwork of many popular children’s books. What this ultimately means for young Otto is that the world that exists outside his is not one of bright, safe fantasy. There is no respite, either in this world or the next, for the ravages of war and the horrors born of the human condition. Readers who are fans of Del Toro’s movies will love this particular graphic novel, as well as readers who know childhood always has a dark side.

 

Have You Read (Listened to) This? Passersthrough by Peter Rock

 (This story was listened to as an audiobook. Fair warning!)

There can actually be ghost stories without ghosts, or at least stories where the ghosts aren’t the focus. As opposed to rattling chains and hooded figures, ghost stories, especially in the modern era, can almost be psychological horror. Yes, the characters in the story are haunted, and there can even be an actual ghost, but the real haunting takes place in the mind and memories of the protagonists, everything from terrible acts they have done to simply, in their minds, not doing enough when they had the chance. Such is the case for Benjamin, the father in Peter Rock’s story, Passersthrough, and he’s old enough to have gathered a lot of memories and actions to regret.

The story opens with what reads like a transcript. Benjamin and someone interviewing him talking about a device that lets him record his thoughts. He seems annoyed about having to use this device, finding it inconvenient, but the situation becomes more fascinating when it’s revealed that the person who is setting up the equipment that will take down his private thoughts is his estranged daughter Helen. They apparently had a falling out when Helen disappeared for a week while under Benjamin’s watch and decades later they are trying to reconnect, but hanging over their attempt to reconcile the past are memories of Helen and Benjamin’s trips to the woods, as well as Sad Clown Lake, a lake full of bones that is never in the same place twice.

The story felt like it could veer off into some very dark territory as more about Ben and Helen’s past is revealed, but simply the promise of bad things happening is enough to keep the reader engaged. Add in a sort of guru figure that helps Benjamin rediscover the world he sought and this story becomes an exploration of life, death, and beyond. There are ghosts and even some possession horror here, but the real treat of this tale is the sentences Rock has constructed and which are beautifully read by Eric Jason Martin, which reveal a darkly beautiful world behind the veil of our reality as well as what’s underneath the veil of this father and daughter relationship. Ultimately, the story isn’t as much a mystery as it is a meditation, a trip through the pathways of poetic language where Sad Clown Lake might reside on the other side and/or in the human mind.

 

 

Graphic Content: Home Sick Pilots, Vol. 1: Teenage Haunts by Dan Watters and Caspar Wijngaard

 

Some might be aware that while I do love horror, I also love the superhero genre. I have written about superhero horror, but there are other books out there that show how seamlessly these two genres can combine to create something truly unique. There are a lot of examples of this blending of superheroes and the supernatural in the graphic novel/comic book format. One such example is Home Sick Pilots, Vol. 1: Teenage Haunts by author Dan Watters and illustrator Caspar Winjgaard, a book that has ghosts that turn its teenage characters into something akin to superheroes.

The book takes place in 1994 and features the band, the Home Sick Pilots, a band that is searching for acceptance in the LA rock scene as well as a few paying gigs. Looking for a truly unique place to play, they stumble upon an old house that turns out to not only be haunted but hungry. Bandmember Ami disappears within the house, but she ends up being recruited by the spirits within to recover other haunted items that hold mysterious powers.

Fans of young adult literature will find a lot to love in the interaction of the kids that make up the Home Sick Pilots, especially in the full-page minimalist trips into Ami’s thoughts as she tries to navigate her new state of being. The book isn’t scary, per se, despite having some very gory moments where the house attacks flesh and blood humans. The story instead focuses on the relationships among these kids, from rival band the Nuclear Bastards to a shady government agency that is trying to collect its own ghosts. The book is a great teen read, but there are great superhero moments where the possessed items within the house transform the user into something roaring straight out of an anime, and that’s not even mentioning the walking house. People might be disappointed if they were looking for a straight-up haunted house horror, but those who like manga, evil government agencies, and the Marvel universe should fly along with Home Sick Pilots.

Graphic Content: Family Tree, Vol. 1: Sapling by Jeff Lemire and Phil Hester

 

The title of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s story “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” isn’t hyperbole or symbolism (that comes later in the story). The subject of the story is an old man with wings sprouting from his back. He crashlands in a couple’s yard and with his arrival flock the pious and the curious, those who see the old man as either a celestial being or an oddity to be put in captivity for our amusement. If the story has a moral, it’s that  when humanity discovers something truly awe-inspiring, we’d probably find some way to ruin it. The “humanity ruins everything” trope has been explored throughout literature, both fantastical and mundane, but there are times where it goes beyond simply that people are intrinsically terrible. Jeff Lemire and Phil Hester, for example, created a story where they combine the fantastic and mundane to  explore familial bonds in the aptly titled Family Tree, Vol. 1: Sapling.

The story centers on single mom Loretta, her angsty teenage son Josh, and her young daughter Megan, who seems to be turning into a tree. What begins as a rash on her skin soon becomes bark complete with branches and leaves. Adding to the drama is the return of the kids’ grandfather/Loretta’s father-in-law Judd, an old man who’s handy with a shotgun. Soon the reunited family goes on the run from a mysterious group called the Arborists that wants Meg for their own ends. As the family flees and tensions between them rise, more is revealed about what the Arborists want and what Megan’s skin-to-bark affliction actually is.

The images of Megan’s skin becoming bark, plus some other spoiler-laden images of what this affliction does, puts it in the realm of body horror, but there’s also a fantastical undercurrent, particularly when Lemire’s story explores what is happening to Megan and many others around the world. Beneath the bark of this body horror fantasy are layers (or rings) of familial relationships that seem to give the title of this book a deeper meaning beyond the obvious pun. These layers include Loretta and grandfather/father-in-law Judd sniping at each other over what happened to the kid’s father or Meg learning more about her father thanks to what’s happening to her. Yes, there’s some graphic skin-to-bark depictions, but Hester shows real skill in depicting the pain in each family members’ expressions from annoyance to anger to terror. This story incorporates body horror, but those expecting a bloodbath with monster trees might be disappointed. This Family Tree is more about the lives of individual branches trying to discover their roots (yes, the tree puns are done). Just like Marquez used a pseudoangel to explore human weakness and a desire for meaning, Family Tree, Vol. 1: Sapling  uses an apocalyptic tree disease to explore how family makes us who we are, for better or worse.