A Book A Week

Last year, a coworker recommended Hildur Knútsdóttir’s The Night Guest, and I devoured it in a single sitting. I loved the tightly wound suspense, even if the ambiguous ending left me with more questions than answers. Despite some unevenness, the novel intrigued me enough that I knew I’d give Knútsdóttir another shot. That opportunity came with her newest release, Dead Weight, kindly provided to me by the publisher.

Unnur has built a life that is, on the surface, perfectly comfortable. She throws herself into her work in pursuit of a promotion and spends her free time traveling with her boyfriend, who also happens to be married. It’s unconventional and undeniably lonely, but it’s a life she’s convinced herself is enough.

That fragile routine begins to unravel when she discovers a black cat sitting on her couch.

At first, Unnur brushes it off as a strange inconvenience, shooing the cat from her apartment. But when it returns the next day, she tracks down its owner, a troubled young woman named Ásta, who asks Unnur to care for the cat temporarily while she gets her life together.

What follows is the beginning of an uneasy and increasingly complicated friendship. Ásta’s situation proves far more dangerous than Unnur initially realizes, and like the black cat that wandered into her home, darker omens begin to follow close behind. Before long, Unnur finds herself caught between Ásta and her abusive boyfriend, forced to confront just how far she’s willing to go to protect someone else and herself. 

With Dead Weight, Hildur Knútsdóttir delivers another quick, twisted little tale that quietly lulls readers into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out from under them. At first, the story feels almost deceptively ordinary, and I found myself wondering where exactly it was headed. Then suddenly, the darkness I’d come to expect from Knútsdóttir’s writing crashes into the narrative with full force.

Content warnings for domestic violence and abuse are absolutely warranted, and some moments are genuinely unsettling. Even so, I was glued to the story, unable to stop turning pages as the tension escalated.

And yet, once again, I found myself conflicted by the ending. The climax itself is dark and unsettling, but there’s very little aftermath to the events that unfold. Instead, the story seems to simply stop, cutting away just as I wanted to sit with the consequences of everything that had happened. There’s a brief epilogue that offers a little more context, but if anything, it only raises additional questions. Ultimately, that ambiguity left me feeling torn. I admire Knútsdóttir’s ability to create atmosphere and unease in such a compact space, but I can’t help wishing the novel had given just a bit more resolution to match the intensity of the journey getting there.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2026, 42)

I've always had a penchant for horror. There's an undeniable allure to the spine-tingling excitement of a good scare, especially when experienced within the safe confines of the pages of a fictional book. Throughout the years, I've delved into numerous titles that claim to be among the most terrifying reads out there. Yet, more often than not, these tales fail to live up to my lofty expectations. Perhaps that's why it's taken me so long to finally pick up Ania Ahlborn's Brother. This book has garnered a prominent place on countless lists of top horror novels, sparking curiosity and anticipation. Could it truly live up to the hype?

Nestled deep within the dense woods of Appalachia resides the Morrow family. To outsiders, their secluded lifestyle may appear idyllic, shielded from the outside world by the thick foliage. Yet, this isolation serves a darker purpose. You see, the Morrows are anything but ordinary. They are twisted individuals, more akin to characters from the most horrifying slasher films than members of civil society. Picture Leatherface of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre settling down to raise a family, and you'll grasp the essence of their depravity. The true extent of their atrocities remains shrouded in secrecy, known only to themselves, and they have no intention of exposing their dark deeds to the light of day.

Nineteen-year-old Michael Morrow feels a growing divide between himself and his family. Despite his upbringing amidst the chilling echoes of terror, Michael yearns for a life untouched by his family's malevolence. Encountering Alice, a local girl from a nearby town, deepens his longing for normality. Drawn to Alice's innocence and the possibility of a different path, Michael dares to envision a future beyond the shadows cast by his family's sinister legacy. As Michael grapples with his desires for a conventional life, he confronts the harsh reality that his family's monstrous nature may forever deny him the happiness he seeks. In a world where darkness reigns supreme, the notion of redemption feels like little more than a fleeting dream.

Reading Brother feels like peering into forbidden territory, offering an intimate glimpse into the minds of monsters typically relegated to B-movie horror fare. Ania Ahlborn crafts a narrative that latches onto your psyche, leaving you wary of the shadows as you turn each page. While the narrative brims with gruesome acts, it's Ahlborn's portrayal of Michael that truly chills to the bone. His quest for normalcy shines through, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. Micahel's resilience in the face of horror is both haunting and captivating. This complex character study elevates Brother beyond mere shock value, leaving readers pondering its depths long after the final chapter. For those brave enough to venture into its pages, Brother is a horror experience that lingers, demanding contemplation and reflection.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2024, 37)

"What do you call it when someone can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not real?"

Dustin Tillman's life is in a crisis. The sudden death of his wife to cancer has left him with little control of his actions and emotions. This is particularly troubling because Dustin's work as a psychologist sees him guiding patients through their own difficult situations. Without the support and better judgement of his wife, Dustin has taken a particular interest in his patient Aqil.

Aqil is a former police officer who is obsessed with a series of drownings. In each instance, a young college-aged man disappears after a night of binge drinking. They turn up days later, drowned in local waterways. All of the investigative authorities have concluded that these deaths are accidental and unrelated, but Aqil has other theories. Blinded by his grief, Dustin willfully encourages Aqil to explore the case and even joins in the investigation. Is Dustin on the heels of a serial killer who has evaded any notice by the authorities, or is he simply supporting the delusions of a madman?

To add to Dustin's emotional stress, we learn that his childhood was no walk in the park. Along with his twin cousins, Dustin stumbled onto the bodies of his murdered parents, aunt, and uncle. We learn that his older adopted brother, Rusty, was convicted of the crime and sentenced to life in prison. Dustin's descriptive testimony of  both Rusty's abuse toward him and participation in satanic rituals played the largest role in the conviction. Now, 30 years later, Dustin receives word that Rusty has been released and exonerated of all crimes. Dustin is sure that Rusty is guilty, but he can't recall specific details of that horrific night. Has he repressed these gruesome memories from his mind? Did all of the things he testified even happen?

"In the end it is the mystery that lasts and not the explanation."
                                                            - Sacheverell Sitwell, For Want of the Golden City

Ill Will is told from the shifting perspectives of various characters in the novel. While the central focus surrounds Dustin and his ironic descent into the kind of madness his profession fights against, the supporting characters are also allotted time to develop. By moving to different characters and times within the story, author Dan Chaon disorients the reader and creates a murkiness to his consistently suspenseful narrative. In a device that is as equally unique as it is satisfying, Chaon presents portions of the novel in columns. This allows different pieces of the story to unfold concurrently across perspective and time.

The subject matter is extremely grim. If you are looking for a "light" read, this may not be your cup of tea. Chaon writes of sexual and emotional abuse, drug addiction, and mental breakdown with a clarity that brings the characters to vivid realization. Despite the difficult subject matter, I was immediately sucked into the story and wasn't released until the very end. Ill Will works as both thriller and character study, shedding light upon dark situations. Chaon's dexterity with the material and inventive methods of presentation make Ill Will a disturbingly riveting read.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads.

(2017, 10)

"She defines and eliminates problems. She's practical in an evil way."

Gillian Flynn, author of the bestselling Gone Girl, returns with The Grownup, a novella that features her signature suspense with a dark flair. The story centers around a young woman who has spent her whole life conning people out of their money. She spent her formative years on the street with her mother. Over time, she learned how to read people and to devise the perfect sob story to convince them to hand over some cash. As soon as she was old enough, the woman ventured out on her own and began to make a comfortable living off of her various crimes.

Now our unnamed narrator finds herself "servicing" men in the back room of a bogus fortune teller establishment. When carpal tunnel prevents her from effectively executing her job, she uses her natural intuition to earn a spot at the front of the building as a psychic. Susan Burke seems like an easy target for the narrator. She instantly gives the impression of a woman who is unhappy with her marriage and life at home. On her first visit to cleanse Susan's Victorian mansion of whatever is plaguing it, the narrator soon discovers that there may actually be some truth to Susan's claims of an evil presence. For the first time in her life, the narrator may be the one who is blindsided by the reality of the situation.

At less that a hundred pages, The Grownup is a quick read that easily held my interest. There is a genuine sense of dread that permeates the pages of the work, even when the story gets a little too overblown to be taken seriously. Flynn really plays up the genre to the point where it becomes unclear if she is intentionally making the situation outrageous or not. Just when I thought I had her end game figured out, Flynn turned the story on its head with an ending that completely caught me off guard. There is clearly a larger moral to the work that pertains to the narrator's special ability, but the short length doesn't allow this lesson to come to a convincing fruition. Ultimately, The Grownup is an enjoyable distraction that should whet appetite of Flynn's fans while paling in comparison to her other novels.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads.

(2016, 16)