compiled a fourteen-story collection of original shorts from genre heavyweights such as Ram- sey Campbell, Michael Marshall Smith, Caitlin R. Kiernan and Richard Christian Matheson, to bring horror back to its vile and frightful roots and away from the “softcore” side that’s taking over the literary scene. Jones stresses that this is a non-themed anthology, but there is a distinct vibe of psycho- logical terror and supernatural maleficum within the pages. Stephen King’s “The Little Green God of Agony” is a master- fully crafted monster story that examines our perception of pain and how we care for those who are suffering; Peter Crowther’s “Ghosts with Teeth” is a lethal and realistically ter- rifying haunted house tale, which offers a much more malev- olent take on your typical poltergeist; Lisa Tuttle explores the villainous and haunting nature of jealous delusions in “The Man in the Ditch”; and John Ajvide Lindqvist’s “The Music of Bengt Karlsson, Murderer” is an atmospheric, supernatural entry about ghosts communicating through the notes of a song. While many of these authors are also huge in the dark/urban fantasy genres, as well as science fiction, Jones stays true to his intentions, and only includes truly horrifying subject matter here.


If you’re looking to kill some time before Halloween with a Pan Book of Horror Stories-styled


anthology, or just find yourself tired of tea-sipping Jane Austen zombies, hopelessly romanti- cized werewolves and vegan vampires, be sure to arm yourself with this monstrous tome. JESSA SOBCZUK


HUSK Full disclosure: I’m a bit biased towards metaphysical zombie comedies set in Toronto, which


Husk just so happens to be. It’s also an absurd and introspective take on the political state of the world and the media from the perspective of a thirtysomething actor, unlucky in life and now cursed in death by zombification. Sheldon Funk wakes up during his own autopsy, after his organs have been exposed and


his heart removed. Immediately, his primal instincts and the need to survive take over, so he flees the hospital and heads back home in order to figure out what has happened to him. He processes his death and subsequent resurrection through the typical stages of loss – denial, bargaining, anger, guilt, depression, and acceptance (also used here as chapter markers) – as he tries to continue on with his life, caring for his obese cat and dementia-ridden mother, while taking another stab at his acting career. From the very start, the reader is brought into a philosophical thread as Sheldon examines


his situation and how it may have come about. He descriptively inventories his organs, attempts to take a bath with his rib cage hanging open and thaws his eyeballs out after they freeze in the cold. Once he gets a handle on the basics, he tries to integrate himself back into society, with surprising suc- cess. Or, at least, about as much success as he had before he died. First and foremost, Husk is a satire. In life, Sheldon is a gay


actor told to “act more gay” and, in death, he is a zombie actor told to “act more zombie-like” – to ham up reality, so to speak. His go-to sidekick is not a friend, but his agent, who tries to help him cope with his newfound deathhood by merchandizing and exploiting the situation. While this is a unique novel, definitely deserving of an audi-


ence, it’s hard to say if author Corey Redekop’s introspective prose and heady anatomical pas- sages will be right for the average genre fan. Husk is ultimately more philosophical humour than visceral or cerebral horror. Cutting out action in favour of sarcastic narration, while still intelligent and calculated, comes across as a bit condescending, and some less patient readers may become frustrated waiting for something to happen. Then again, I suppose you can’t blame a person, dead or alive, for feeling cranky, victim-


ized and distracted when their internal organs are constantly sloshing all over the place. JESSA SOBCZUK


THE DEVIL IN THE GENRE W


hat makes horror fiction and films “evil?” This question inevitably comes up whenever


I ponder the strange, uncomfortable intersec- tion between horror and religion, because the


truth of the matter is that the Bible itself is full of hor- ror stories – from the talking Serpent who tempts Eve in Genesis, straight through to the Book of Revelation. Since I’d already cornered him for this month’s book


feature (see p.58), I decided to pose this weighty question to Maurice Broaddus, Christian, horror au- thor, Dark Faith co-editor and someone who’s much more savvy on the topic of religion than I am. “It goes back to how we view the Bible,” he told me.


“We could object to the individual elements of the Bible, like the supernatural parts involving the sorcer- ers/witches, mediums, and the demons/demon-pos- sessed. We could skip the blood and guts of people being dashed against rocks, their entrails eaten by dogs, mothers eating their own afterbirth and tent pegs being thrust through people’s heads – I once ru- ined a church’s ‘Hallelujah Night,’ its version of Hal- loween, by coming as that guy. We could ignore the bad language. We play down the stuff that would be translated to ‘piss’ and ‘shit’ today. And we gloss over the sex scenes and the rapes. We do all that to make the Bible more palatable and comfortable for us. It’s either that or we’d have to treat it – and, GASP, all sto- ries – not by the individual scenes of a story, but for what the overarching theme of the story is.” It almost sounds like intentional avoidance, but prob-


ably has more to do with our intrinsic human need to label and compartmentalize things into safe, easily un- derstood boxes. Still, it’s a meatier idea than the familar, old, one-dimensional “It’s the Devil’s work.” argument. Broaddus’ DF co-editor Jerry Gordon also weighed


in: “I put a lot of faith in the search for knowledge and meaning in life, and I think dark fiction has some very important things to say when it comes to those sub- jects. It’s disappointing to watch close-minded follow- ers of any belief system – this includes atheists – avoid fiction because they’ve been told it conflicts with their world view. In the end, there’s no arguing with someone that would classify Poe as an instrument of the Devil. Horror, in my opinion, has much bigger prob- lems. I’ve lost count of the number of ‘mainstream’ readers I’ve met that assume the genre amounts to a prose version of the Saw movies.” While religion and horror and the places it overlaps


will likely remain a touchy subject, it’s reassuring to see both genre authors and the faithful willingly step up to start a mature dialogue about it. That’s much more interesting, and ultimately useful in shattering misconconceptions, than some zealot standing on a street corner waving a Bible and screaming that our love of imaginary monsters – and not our actions themselves – will send us straight to Hell. MONICA S. KUEBLER


T H E N I N T H C I R C L E 59RM


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