LitfestReading Tom Fletcher’s new novel, I wondered what is the mental equivalent of hiding behind a sofa when you’re reading a spooky book?
I don’t usually read dark and creepy novels so my sensitivity to empty barns that people are unnerved by is very very low. So while the book’s true horror fest is a slow-burn, my jitteriness knew limitations like a crumbling drystone wall.
I am enjoying recognising elements from the short stories he published Before the Rain (Flax007), they pop up as snippets of myth and history in this more expansive novel. And this familiarity adds to their authenticity. It really is ALL true …
The wierdest thing (more so than The Leaping at Wastwater) is that despite thinking every clunk and tap in the house is some mad axeman I have to keep reading. There is a part of me not enjoying being scared at all, but the part that wants to know what next? what next? is far louder. Another fifty odd pages to go and my virtual sofa will be redundant.
