The Influence

I'm done. I have now abandoned the second of the five Ramsey Campbell novels I read -- or didn't read as the case may be.

Lured in by the fact that the Oxford Companion to English Literature refers to him as "the most respected living horror writer," I gave him my best shot. Perhaps the stories neither age nor travel well.

This time out, the scary great aunt dies and attempts to take over the soul of her young grandniece. If this had been a made-for-tv movie now making the rounds of Chiller Network, I would have watched it assuming I had it on saved on the DVR and could fast forward the commercials. But as I book, I quit half way through.

Perhaps purchasing and reading this 1989 Tor paperback was a form or ritual humiliation. It sports exactly the kind of packaging I snorted at in derision for years in the used book trade. The black cover has an embossed silver mansion and embossed silver title outlined in gold and uses a a font that once advertised all night horror films at the drive-in. The cover is die-cut, and a spooky little girl looks out the attic window. Open the front flap and the that same spooky girl stands in in a big spooky hand with long fingernails. I'll go ahead and make those "long, spooky fingernails." This clearly comes from a period in publishing when looking as much like a V.C. Andrews' novel as possible was a wise commercial choice. A year or so ago, a fairly convincing article in The Believer suggested it is was time to re-evaluate V.C. Andrews. I am going to let some one else take the bullet on that one.