Bizzaro Book Review: The Abyss Above Us by Ryan Notch

Many times when I set out to write one of these reviews I worry about how it’s going to impact you guys at the other end. I’m a critical kind of reader, someone who obsesses with stories and how they could be made better. So naturally, its exceedingly rare that I’m going to gush about a story without saying something negative.

That said, I want you all to understand that these days I almost never write a review for a book that I wouldn’t recommend to someone else.

And there are times when the part of me that wants you to read the books I recommend really worries that the analytical part of me making its critiques and criticisms will convince you that they really aren’t worth your time or money. This is one of those times.

The Abyss Above Us has its flaws; and you should read it anyway.

I suppose I should say right from the get go that this is a nerd’s book. That is neither criticism nor praise, by the way. It just is. There is jargon in this book, abstract concepts, references to computer programming and black hat hackers, and — to top it all off — a throwaway reference to the idea that beautiful women only want to date jerks. And yet somehow very little of that gets in the way of the actual story. If you get the computer programming and networking references, great; if not, there’s plenty here to keep your interest. I like to think that I’m a reasonably intelligent individual and even I wasn’t able to follow some of the jargon and technical talk.

That said, it never came across as talking down to the reader. Much like the unbelievably convoluted time travel film Primer you don’t actually have to be able to understand what the characters are talking about, to understand what’s happening. And rather than take away from the story, the use of jargon adds a gripping air of authenticity to the tale.

The tale is this: a young IT professional named Shaw is called in to solve a problem with the local university’s radio telescope. As it turns out the ancient computer network that runs the telescope overrides the whatever the equipment is supposed to be doing every night at one in the morning and points it at the same seemingly random patch of sky. Only it turns out there’s something special about this particular patch of sky: it is dark, utterly devoid of stars or anything else.

Our intrepid IT hero traces the problem through the network until he discovers something amazing. A room with a single computer inside, walled up for years, a thick matt of black hairy mold growing over every surface in the room. And every night at one in the morning, the computer receives a signal from that dark point in space.

The signal becomes the focus of interest among the astronomers and scientists at the college, all of them enthralled by its strange sound, a sound that resonates just on the edge of understanding. And then…

Well I don’t want to spoil too much for you. But suffice it to say that what I just described was only the opening of this story. It gets weirder. Lots weirder.

The greatest strength of The Abyss Above Us is the way it maintains a sense of mystery. There is almost never a moment in which the reader is not compelled to ask himself, “Yes, but what happens next?” I’ve come to believe that mystery is the greatest driving force of fiction — weirdly enough the stories that get this wrong most often are actual mysteries — and it’s clear that Ryan Notch gets it.

Now for the bad. I haven’t mentioned up until this point that this is a self-published book. And I’m only mentioning it now because the problems The Abyss Above Us has aren’t problems that most traditionally published books have to deal with.

For one thing: typos. Now let me moderate that. There aren’t misspelled words on every page, okay? I will not put up with that kind of laziness. It’s clear the author worked hard to make his work look professional. Unfortunately it’s also clear that he didn’t know the difference between the spelling of “dying” and “dyeing”. He gets that one wrong literally every time, and in a story where characters dye left and right it got to the point where I was joking with myself about how this story should have been set in a textile processing plant. That’s not the only mistake, just the most prevalent, and it’s a great example of why authors need competent beta-readers. We all make mistakes. An extra set of eyes never hurts.

The second issue I had with The Abyss Above Us is more fundamental. The first half of the book is phenomenal, but later, particularly the latter part of the second act, the story starts to feel repetitive. More than that, I almost got the feeling that the author was beginning to get tired of the story at that point. The prose grows weaker, “be” verbs water down sentences, the whole thing has this sense of sagging. That’s the best way I know how to put it.

And again, a another pair of eyes could have helped. A decent editor could have helped the author tighten up those sagging sentences, and break up the monotony the plot falls into near the end of the second act.

I want to reiterate: you should read this book. It’s not perfect, no, but it’s fresh and compelling, in spite of any faults it may have. It blends science fiction and horror beautifully, pulling the best traits of both genres together in a way that I’ve seen very few stories pull off.

In the off-chance that Ryan Notch should happen to read this review let me just say, “Dude, “dying” =/= “dyeing”. Do a find/replace and you’re golden on, like, 90% of your typo issues.

The rest of you, go buy The Abyss Above Us. Seriously. It’s awesome.

Of Teeth and Claus

[Here is a little something I have written. Hopefully it’ll help put ya’ll in the yuletide spirit. I had originally intended to present this without comment, but it may help for you to have some working knowledge of the concept of the Krampus before venturing further.]

​The fat man stepped quietly into the room nearly gagging on the overpowering stench of sulfur that hung in the air. A iron-posted bed with yellowing sheets and a sagging mattress sat against the far wall, and under the sheets lay a contorted figure, still as a stone, the rasping of breath the only testament to the fact that it was alive. The fat man sank into a wooden chair that sat near the bed with a sigh, and dropped the bag he carried with a thump. Strange that it seemed so heavy now when it was nearly empty, now when there was only one delivery left to make.

For a long time the fat man sat in silence. It was only after several minutes had passed and the fat man was considering getting up to go that the thing in the bed finally spoke.

“You don’t have to keep coming here,” it said in a low growl of a voice that sounded like nothing so much as the voice of some demoniac hound.

“It seems only right,” the far man replied. “We rode together all those years. Some might say that you’re a part of what I am.”

“Was,” growled the thing in the bed. “I was a part of you. And you me. All that’s past now.”

“Times have changed.”

“Yes, yes they have. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that people think they’ve changed.”

“Perhaps they have.”

“NO!” The word was a snarl. “They’re the same. Underneath they’re the same as they’ve always been. They still need me just as much as they need you.” The thing under the sheets ended the sentence with a long fit of hacking wheezing coughs that tapered off into a gasp for air.

“I didn’t come here to argue.”

“No, of course now. Not you. Not Mr. Nice. You wouldn’t let the stench of conflict foul your eternal air of joviality.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think anyway. It’s not my doing. It was not I who brought you to this place.”

The thing in the bed did not speak for a long time, and when it did it’s voice was gentler, the growl offset by a tone of tenderness. “I do not blame you old friend. We are their servants. We do what we were created to do. And when they have no more need of us… But therein lies the tragedy. Because they do have a need of us. Of both of us.”

“I do the best I can.”

“I’m sure. With your lumps of coal? And how has that worked out?”

The fat man coughed and did not answer.

“I see. So you’ve abandoned even the pretext of punishment.”

“It isn’t me. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“It’s killing them. Or it’s going to.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Yes. And you will remain to see it. Because it will come back to haunt them. They’re trying to enjoy light without darkness, pleasure without pain, joy without fear. But they’re living a fantasy. Because life doesn’t work that way. Sooner or later, life has teeth.”

The thing in the bed turned then, drawing back the covers with one gnarled hand to reveal a hideous face, pocked and pitted with sores, some oozing yellow-green puss. One horn sprouted crookedly from it’s grey skinned head, while a festering bleeding stump marked the place where it’s twin has once stood. In place of a nose there was a rotting hole in the center of the creature’s face, and beneath it withered lips parted to reveal two rows of of teeth, blackened and rotting with age, but still razor-sharp and deadly. But worst of all were the eyes, not because they were monstrous, but because they were human, filled with bitterness and loss.

The fat man winced, but forced himself not to look away. “Some of them still remember you,” he said. “They keep your name alive.”

The thing in the bed waved its hand dismissively. “Hipsters. They don’t mean it. There is no fear in their hearts. And even they do not speak of me as I was: ripping claws, piercing teeth, a howl that could curdle the blood of an ox. I’m nothing more than an amusement to them. They do not believe. They do not fear. Only children have the capacity for that kind of pure faith.”

“Is the fear so necessary? Is the form not enough?”

“The fear is everything. The fear of punishment has power that the promise of reward can never hope to match. You have been there. You know their hearts. You see what they do. Tell me I am wrong. Tell me the hearts of children no longer give place to the seed of wickedness as they once did. Tell me that has changed, and…and I can pass on happily from this world.”

The fat man slowly shook his head. “They are as they always were. Some are still good. But others… The worst of it is that their wickedness is excused, explained away by a people unwilling to see the truth. They have blinded themselves. They are like lepers who have put out their own eyes and convinced themselves that they have been healed because they can no longer see their sores. And it seems the more they convince themselves of their own goodness the worse they become. If they were punished as they once were, you my friend would feast for a year of Christmases.”

The thing in the bed ran a forked tongue over its shriveled lips. “Oh to be out there again. To hunt as we once did. Do you remember the lad from Bavaria? Round about 1593 if memory serves.”

“He had dropped his baby sister into a well,” the fat man said. “He laughed about it. And no one knew.”

“No one but us.”

“He screamed for such a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough. But when it was over I feasted on his heart and sucked the sweet marrow from the hollows of his bones. Tell me you regret that. Tell me you would take if back if you could.”

The fat man opened his mouth as if to reply, but before he could speak the bag on the floor shifted slightly and a moan escaped from within.

The thing’s in the bed leaned slowly forward, a grin spreading across its face, pointed ears pricking up at the sound. “Oh, Claus, you really shouldn’t have.”

The fat man stood slowly and tipped the bag forward, spilling the his final gift out onto the floor. The child stared up at him with wild uncomprehending eyes, but when his gaze lighted on the Krampus he screamed into the gag wedged into his mouth and began to fight against his bonds.

The Krampus leaped down from the bed and looked into the child’s eyes with terrible fascination. “I know what you did,” he said. “I can smell it. And because you showed no mercy, none will be shown to you. Tonight you’re going to learn what really happens to naughty children.”

The fat man stooped to gather his finally empty bag and trudged wearily from the room. He shut the door against the screams, and took the elevator to the roof.

Bizzaro Film Review: Grace

If you’ve seen this poster I think you pretty much get why I watched this movie. I mean seriously, that’s a baby bottle filled with blood. How are you gonna pass that up? And for once, the movie behind the visual lives up to every hint of weirdness and horror promised by the poster.

You can sum up Grace‘s premise in two words: Zombie. Baby.

Here’s the scoop: a mother conceives a child and carries it almost to term, but then a horrific car crash results in the deaths of her husband and the baby in her womb. The mother is devastated, but decides she wants to carry the dead baby to term. And when the baby is born she loves it back to life. Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but trust me, somehow, in this movie, it works.

But as we’ve learned from the master himself “sometimes dead is better.” Because baby Grace came back…different. Outwardly she still looks like a normal human child, but instead of feeding off her mother’s milk she thirsts…for BLOOD.

What, too dramatic? Okay, I’ll back off a bit.

And not just any blood either. Baby Grace needs human blood. Oh, and did I mention that the flies are gathering in swarms around her crib?

But in spite of her thirst for blood, baby Grace isn’t the monster in this movie. She’s just a baby. She’s got no special powers, nothing noticeably unnerving about her nature. She just needs “special food.”

No, the real monster in this movie is motherhood. No you didn’t read that wrong. This film makes mothers in particular and women in general out to be something truly terrifying. The men who appear don’t seem to be much more than pets, weak willed accessories with slightly more status than a handbag, or slimy unlikable opportunists.

But the women…they cheat, lie, kill, lie some more and generally ruin the audience’s perception of an entire gender. With Grace’s mother at least some of this is understandable. She’s doing the terrible things she does to keep her child alive. But the rest? The scheming grandmother who is so obsessed with motherhood that she forces herself back into lactation, or the former lesbian lover who…well she’s a vegan. I mean she kills people too, but that’s not nearly as terrifying as veganism.

I do not know how such an anti-feminist film got made in the twentieth century.  But I’m glad it did. Because it works. It really works. Its that increasingly rare brand of horror that builds suspense through tone and pacing rather than splashing buckets of gore at the screen, a good reminder that little things can still be scary.

Little things like flies. Crawling into a baby’s nostril.

If that sounds like your cup of Earl Grey then give this movie a shot. It will unnerve you. But more importantly it will make you think.

Bizzaro Book Review: The Devil in Chains by Adam Christopher

Today’s book review comes with something of a caveat. I started doing this weekly feature in order to showcase unusual types of stories, as well as quality self published works. However when I read The Devil in Chains by Adam Christopher I was faced with something of a dilemma.

The problem is this. I do not love this book. That’s not a snide way of saying that I hate it. It’s just a simple statement of fact. The problem is I’m a little squeamish about being critical of self published works. After all, these authors don’t have the luxury of a fat paycheck to cushion the blow of criticism. I’ve felt the sting of criticism myself and I know how badly it stings.

I could take the “If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all,” way out, but that feels somehow disingenuous to me. The thing is, there were some things I did quite like about this book, and I want to be able to tell both the good and bad, and let you decide for yourselves. So here goes.

Starting with the bad.

If I had to sum up my main problem with this book in one word it would be this: flat.

The main character for instance seems to be something of a puppet, a mannequin being moved through the various plot points on a track the author had set up for him. He is given a history within the story, but only as an explanation for his knowledge of the dark arts. There is one moment when the protagonist experiences a flashback to a darker time of war and death, but it is a tiny island of color in a still gray sea.

The book is narrated in a very Victorian style of prose which is beautifully executed. However the detached style serves to distance the reader from the plot. For instance when the protagonist is fighting his way through the dark cave to face the eponymous devil in chains he is set upon by a great swarm of insects. While the idea of such an attack is terrifying enough, the calm manner in which it is related feels completely at odds with the true terror of the situation. When reading this passage I found myself wanting to hear the air thrumming with the wings of the cicadas. I wanted to feel a thousand insectile feet crawling across my skin. But instead I was left with a bare description of the facts.

The book is set in a fairly standard steampunk universe which is rendered well enough, but in by end I was asking myself, “Why?” The setting did not appear to be truly central to the plot in any way. In a way it detracted from the terror one might feel if such a story were told in a more familiar and believable setting.

It also had me scratching my head a bit. The story is set in an alternate universe in the year 2001. However every aspect of the culture is a carbon copy of the Victorian era. This left me asking myself, “How is it that the culture could have stagnated for two hundred years while so many technological advances were being made?” I contend that it would have been far more fascinating to see classic steampunk technology set in a world with a society similar to our own.

Now, for the good.

This is not a bad book. I am sure that statement may sound dubious after reading the previous paragraphs, but it is completely true. The author’s command of his prose is both masterful and polished. Despite my problems with the detached feel of the Victorian style prose, the fact that the author was able to slip into that mode so completely is a testament to his skill.

Likewise, the story was enjoyable on the whole. In spite of my earlier complaints about flat characterization, I found the actual events of the story to be completely engrossing. In particular I found the supernatural antagonist’s ability to create an army of facsimiles from the bodies of the newly dead villagers to be terrifying on a very primal level. One of these facsimiles, the Lambert-thing, may be one of the most unsettling villains I have yet encountered in literature.

In summary, in spite of its failings, The Devil in Chains is a truly unique variation on classic horror themes and it deserves to be recognized as such. At only 25,000 words it is a fast and engaging read. And since it is available for free download from the folks over at Smashwords, the price in unbeatable.

I give it ^ of ! stars. Go and check it out and decide its merits for yourself.

Blind Spot

I had an odd experience today. I was writing with a tool I use that lets you set a goal for how many words you want to write in a given amount of time, and beeps at you if your stop typing for longer than a few seconds. Obviously this kind of thing is great for forcing the old creative juices to flow if you’re feeling a bit constipated mentally speaking. Of course it also forces you to pay complete attention to the screen and what you’re writing. But as I was writing I began to wonder if someone might be standing behind me. It was only a notion at first, but I had the window open a little and a little later I felt a breeze coming in and it reminded me of someone breathing.
I didn’t look.
You may not believe that, but it’s the truth. I stayed focused on my work the whole time, but a little piece of my mind wouldn’t stop wondering how I would know if someone was standing behind me. And maybe not someone. Maybe some Thing. Maybe if I wrote the wrong thing I would feel fingers that weren’t really fingers at all but claws at my throat crushing my neck, squeezing the wind out of me as the light fades from my eyes. Maybe not.
Then again, maybe it’s still there, still watching me as I write this. Or maybe it’s gone elsewhere. Maybe it watches right now as the light of the screen plays in your eyes while you read these words, completely unaware of the dark world just outside the edge of vision. Probably not. But you’d better look. Just in case.