Category Archives: Uncategorized

Acclaimed horror novelist Glenn Rolfe has released his Best of 2015 list, and He Who Walks In Shadow has made the top 10! Who am I kidding, it actually made the Top 3. Rolfe has one of the best horror novels of the year in his own right, Blood and Rain, and any fan of the genre–especially if you like your horror with some werewolf bite–should check it out. But first, take a look at his site. Here’s what he had to say about me.

He Who Walks in Shadow is author Brett J. Talley’s follow-up to That Which Should Not Be. Do you need to read the latter to get into this new one? No. I think the story is compelling and the characters written well enough to introduce you to them even if for the first time.

In this adventure, taking place in 1933, we follow Carter Weston, Henry Armitage, and Carter’s daughter, Rachel Jones. They are out to prevent the end of the world as we know it. Their number one adversary, Nyarlathotep, is a god of darkness who wishes to vanquish our people to bring forth his own.
Along the way our trio meets others willing to join in the crusade, and are also in a race against one of Carter’s old (human) nemesis, Erich Zann.  Who will survive? Can this ancient evil be thwarted?

He Who Walks in Shadow is one of the best books of 2015. Part supernatural horror, part Robert Langdon meets Indiana Jones, this is a terrific adventure story about a group of people willing to sacrifice all that they love for the greater good of mankind. While not my favorite “horror” story of the year, it is definitely one of my favorite all-around stories.

Looking for a last minute Christmas gift for the Lovecraftian in your life? You cannot go wrong with this beautiful anthology, The Gods of H.P. Lovecraft. I’m in it, but considering the company, I barely make the credits. We’re talking Doug Wynne, Laird Barron, Joe Lansdale, Jonathan Maberry, just to name a few. And the early reviews rave, including a starred review in Booklist who said, “H. P. Lovecraft and his Mythos have seen a resurgence in popularity in the last 10 years, in both popular and scholarly circles, but this collection stands out among the crowd.” And indeed it does. You can say I’m biased–and I am–but I haven’t been prouder to be a part of a project since the first Limbus, Inc. Check it out, and let me know what you think in the comments.

A special treat to close out the month. I’ve been working for a while on my next book, something both different and alike from my other books. You’ll have to wait to find out the details–hopefully not too long–but to get you interested and as my little Halloween gift to you, here’s the first chapter.

Chapter One

The first time I killed a man was just south of Lone Pine, a mile off 395 in a scrub-grass desert that rarely saw the rain. He was a tweaker turned informant who bought meth with cash the cops gave him for his troubles. But it takes a special kind of person to play the rat. You’ve gotta have your wits about you, and maybe even more important, you gotta have luck. Bug—that was what we called him cause of the way his eyes looked and I won’t use his given name here—whatever he was, he wasn’t very lucky. And damn, was he stupid. Still, my mother always said you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. That’s probably even more true when you’re the one who pulled the trigger.

Bug didn’t know it was the last day of his life until it was almost over. The five of us—me, Bug, Sticker, Rondo, and Goat—told him we were going on a run to pick up a package north of Lone Pine. One of the best meth cooks in California worked out of that desert, and Bug wasn’t suspicious. We took the van instead of our bikes. We had a ready-made excuse—the hollow compartment in the back where we stored the meth for transport. The real reason was we didn’t want to leave his bike in the desert when we could strip it for parts.

It was when we turned off the highway that I knew Bug was scared. He’d been what we called a hang around for just three weeks, barely enough time to have learned everyone’s names. But he couldn’t even keep the deception going for that long. They’d pegged him an informant by his second visit to The Abyss, the bar the Sons of Dagon called their own. Then it was just a matter of time.

They strung it out for a while. Kicked his ass a couple of times. Told him it was part of the process. Show he was tough and all. But they were playing with him. They talked loose and free about crimes that were never committed, runs they said they were planning but that were really other gangs’ business. Bug ended up providing not one useful piece of information to the FBI, the ATF, or whoever the hell it was he was working for. I never knew and never cared.

That night, though, Bug finally got it, finally knew just how royally he had screwed up. We rolled down that dusty, pock-marked back road and it dawned on him, like a deer sitting in the crosshairs of a rifle. Right before you pull the trigger, it knows. And that was Bug.

He knew.

No reason he should have, really. The best crank was cooked in places like that, and it was reasonable to think that the road would end at an old trailer, choked with the smell of rotten eggs dipped in ammonia, like a bucket of cat piss had been splashed on the walls. But there wasn’t a cook; we weren’t there for meth. So when we reached the end of the line and there was nothing but a cliff overlooking a dry riverbed, Bug couldn’t have been surprised. But it was that look from Goat that made him absolutely lose his shit.

Goat, International President of the Sons of Dagon. Less grandiose than it sounds, as the Sons had but one chapter out of Los Angeles.  Might seem hardly worth bothering with for the authorities, but the Sons had a reputation for violence and criminal activity that far outshone their larger and more numerous brothers. The Hell’s Angels were still dangerous, but they’d gone Hollywood, and previous investigations had shattered the Vagos and the Mongols. The Sons were next on the FBI’s hit list, but it sure as hell wasn’t going to be Bug that took them out. I knew that, and he knew it too when he saw the look in Goat’s eyes.

Sometimes I think words like “presence” and “stature” were made up to justify a particular man’s power, to grant unto him the ineffable quality that makes some men wolves in a world of sheep, whether they’ve got it or not. Not so with Goat. That man had it, and it didn’t much matter what “it” was. He had a look that could melt steel, and there weren’t many who felt it fall upon them that came out alive.

But that wasn’t the look he gave Goat that night. No, this was something else. Disappointment, tinged with pity, an emotion I didn’t think he was capable of showing.

“Duncan,” he said, never taking his eyes off Bug, “wait outside.” I didn’t hesitate, for hesitation following a command had been beaten out of me during my three months of serving as one of the gang’s hang arounds, the bottom rung of the organization. I slid open the door of the van and stepped out into the still night.

Crisp, dry air rustled my hair, and the cold-light of long dead stars shone down from a cloudless sky. It was so quiet, but not for long.

Raised voices from the van. The noise of a struggle. A cry. The sharp slap of flesh against flesh, bones breaking, teeth shattering. The back door of the van flew open with the sound of metal on metal, the dark mass of Bug’s body ejected into the dirt. Goat followed close behind, leaping onto the ground as Bug tried to crawl away. “Son of a bitch,” he grunted, punctuating the words with a vicious kick to Bug’s ribs, and I cringed as I heard one crack.

“Hold him up,” Goat said as Sticker and Rondo came around the back of the van and Bug begged through a mouth of broken teeth. Sticker and Rondo didn’t listen. Each grabbed an arm and wrenched Bug up and he cried out in pain so pitifully that I even took a single step forward to help him. That’s when Goat noticed me.

“Hang around,” he said. “You’ve been hanging around long enough. You ready to show your true faith and allegiance to the Sons of Dagon?” Goat’s eyes burned in the desert night, while I stood silent. Bug struggled, and Sticker punched him in the stomach. That was enough to remind me that the next few minutes would determine how many more I had left.

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“What you say, boy?”

I stood up straight. “Yes, sir.”

Goat nodded. He reached behind his back and pulled out the silver Colt 1911 that was his trademark. I didn’t move, didn’t dare to breathe. Goat was going to kill somebody tonight, and if I showed fear, if I hesitated, if I pissed him off in any way, he might just decide to add me to the list.

He pointed the gun in my direction and waved me over with it. Bug sobbed, while Sticker and Rondo held him up, his back to the cliff’s edge. Goat was fifteen paces away from me, but those steps seemed an eternity. Goat took his gun by the barrel and slapped the grip into my hand. He grinned. “Time to earn that patch.”

He stepped back. Rondo and Sticker released Bug, easing far enough away to make it clear this was my show while not giving him any hope of escape. Then it was just me and Bug.

He could barely stand, and his left eye had swollen shut. He’d shit himself, and the stench hung thick around him. I looked down at the Colt. I’d held a thousand different guns in my lifetime, but I still never got used to the weight, so much heavier than I had expected when I was a boy. For a couple seconds, I toyed with the fantasy that this was a test, that the gun was just a bit lighter than it should have been because it was unloaded. That I’d point it at Bug, pull the trigger, hear a click, and that would be it. We’d all laugh and head back to the club and get drunk. It wasn’t true, and I figured if you are going to take a man’s life, you should be honest about it. Bug was about to die, and I was about to kill him.

I didn’t say anything. I leveled the gun at Bug. He started to cry, which must have hurt pretty bad. Rondo snickered in the background. We locked eyes. From somewhere behind Goat shouted, “Do it, boy!” That’s all I needed. I pulled the trigger and blew Bug’s brain out the back of his head. The bullet carried it down into the dry river bed below, and Bug’s body followed.

The crunch of Goat’s boots on gravel. He clapped his arm on my shoulder and growled out a laugh as he took back the gun. He spit a line of tobacco juice down into the dirt valley below. “Son-of-a-bitch was a rat and a liar.” He fixed me with his gaze. “Said you were a cop. Can you believe that shit?” Then he grinned and walked away.  “Come on. I’m tired of this place.”

I looked down to the sand below, turning black from the growing pool of Bug’s blood. He had been wrong. I wasn’t a cop. I was so much worse than that.

The iconic song from the best Christmas movie about Halloween ever made. Or is it the best Halloween movie ever made about Christmas?

So as some of you know, I recently took the plunge into marital bliss. It would be hard to describe my wife as a horror fan prior to meeting me, but she’s a trooper, and I’d like to think a convert. But there’s one author whose work she simply loves–Graeme Reynolds, master of the werewolf genre, and author of the excellent High Moor series. I love these books too, but on the assumption that you are all sick and tired of read me this month, I let her take the reins and write the review of the final book in the trilogy, High Moor 3: Blood Moon.

Merciless

Advance review copies of Blood Moon, Graeme Reynolds’ much-anticipated third installment in the High Moor werewolf trilogy have been floating around just in time for this most spookiest time of the year (I received mine just in time for the super blood moon eclipse at that).  Blood Moon starts in the middle of the action, right where Moonstruck left off — if you haven’t read the first two installments recently, go back and read them again while you’re waiting for the official release of Blood Moon.  Reynolds has carefully weaved a complex story with a number of characters and story arcs happening around the world — and they all come together in the end (George RR Martin, take note).

I have a special treat for you today. Earlier in the month, I highlighted Dixie Drug Store, perhaps my favorite horror-themed song. But here’s the thing–there’s a longer version with more verses. Crazy as it might sound, that version was more or less unavailable–for purchase, for streaming, for anything. Until now. I knew the version was included on a promotional CD that came out some 25 years ago. I finally found a copy–in the Netherlands. I ripped it, stuck it on a video with the CD cover as the art, and here it is. Ah, the magic of the Internet. Enjoy.

William Holloway is the best new horror writer publishing today, and recently he released the first novel in his six-part Lovecraftian epic: The Immortal Body. William was kind enough to spend a few minutes answering my questions. Pay attention folks, because soon you’ll only find him in the pages of high brow literary publications that charge an access fee. He’s that good.

Let’s start with the most important thing—tell us a little bit about your most recent book.

The Immortal Body is the first novel of the Singularity Cycle, which is a six part Lovecraftian novel series. The first two novels; The Immortal Body and Song of the Death God have been completed for a while and I’ll be done with the third one in the next few days, then it’s on to the forth. I don’t want to spoil the surprise too much, but suffice it to say that each novel, though part of the same overarching story, are very different creatures.

The Immortal Body is largely told via the POV of the police investigating a series of nightmarish murders. Their real challenge is for them to see the thing that is happening in front of them, to see the impossibility of it and once they have crossed that threshold, to not go mad. There’s a lot happening in this book, and granted, it’s not for everyone. It’s a dark novel, I think as dark as one can be without wallowing in nihilism. It’s bloodier than most of what we see these days from Lovecraftian horror novels, and goes places that most horror will not go. That said, there’s an animation of the gritty and the grimy and the banality of everyday human evil and suffering that contextualizes it into the cosmic.

The word Lovecraftian gets thrown around a lot. But while The Immortal Body has Lovecraftian elements, it is also a mythos unto itself. Do you consider yourself Lovecraftian, and has Lovecraft influenced your writing?

Lovecraft has influenced my writing more than any other writer, and yes, I definitely consider myself a Lovecraftian though I don’t know that I’ll ever do formal Lovecraftian Mythos writing. The Wendigo made an appearance in Lucky’s Girl, but I can’t see myself writing a novel specifically using Lovecraftian Mythos deities. But, who knows? Maybe one day.

Who else?

Clive Barker and Brett Easton Ellis deserve honorary mentions as well. Both of them taught me that there really are no limits.

“Weird Fiction” has always been a genre dominated by the short story. Lovecraft, Blackwood, Laird Barron are masters of that form. But you seem to prefer the novel. Any reason?

I’ve tried, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t seem to write a short story. In fact I seem to be constitutionally incapable of doing so. My stories just aren’t short. It’s a talent I envy.

I know The Immortal Body is part of a series. Do you know how many books are going to comprise that series? Do you have the whole story worked out in your head, or does it come to you as you write?

It’s going to be a six part series. I have the general idea worked out of what will happen in those stories and how the stories link together, but as you know, things come to you while you’re writing. I’ve tried using really structured plans for writing a novel but when the words start to flow, that plan disintegrates. Ultimately I end up with what I want, but the means to get there changes along the way.

Do you have a George R.R. Martin plan? In other words, what happens if you die before you finish it?

Well, without giving a way too much, that particular problem is solved by the very structure of what I’m writing. But, if that day ever comes, I hereby pass the torch to Brett J Talley to complete my work.

You’ve seen the good—and bad—side of publishing. Tell us a little bit about how you got to where you are.

One of the worst spots that you can find yourself in is to have written a book that you know has merit, and then to confront the fact of publishing without a roadmap. That’s exactly where I was with The Immortal Body a few years back. There’s a bit of backstory to this and most of it has to do with naiveté. I wrote The Immortal Body (and about half of Song of the Death God) in in a short frantic blast. I never even thought about publishing it. Eventually I ended up on a friend’s self publishing vanity label. And then, nothing. I realized at that point that no one was buying it because no one knew it was there, so I started mailing out copies to people whose names I found on the Lovecraft eZine. You were one of them. Most of them never responded, but a few did, yourself included. Through you I found out about this guy in England named Graeme Reynolds who wrote a werewolf novel called High Moor. I read it and I loved it. I friended him on FaceBook and he read The Immortal Body and he liked it a lot. Shortly after that I wrote Lucky’s Girl, and sent it to Graeme because Lucky’s Girl had werewolves in it, and Graeme is the King of the Werewolves. I was looking for pointers on what to do with it, not to actually submit it. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d want to publish it, but he did, and of that I count myself very fortunate.

Do you have any advice for new writers just starting out?

You have to find your people! Where does your audience hang out? Is there a website they frequent? A dark alley somewhere? I made zero progress until I found The Lovecraft eZine. And, you also have to remember an important rule; as much as it’s nice to be read by other authors, to be considered that guy that other authors think is super duper, you’ve got to focus on finding and keeping your audience. Other authors are not your audience. What other authors can do is give their seal of approval to your work, but ultimately you’ve got to move past them and carve out a niche amongst paying readers.

Who are your favorite authors working today?

Adam Nevill is the best writer in horror today. That’s a well known fact in the UK, but the US hasn’t caught on to that yet. Then there’s these Lovecraftian guys; Brett Talley, Rich Hawkins, Scott Thomas.

What’s your favorite scary movie?

Probably Alien.

Halloween is coming up. Any traditions?

Sadly, no.

The Immortal Body just dropped, but what should we look forward to next from you?

Six months from now Song of the Death God will be released. This is the Second novel of the Singularity Cycle which will ultimately be a six novel Lovecraftian epic. Again, without give away too much, each novel is very, very different, but they are all part of the same continuum.

And where can folks find you on the net?

Facebook. I don’t have an author page but I’ve been told I should get one.

So we are getting closer to the big day, and some of you–yeah, I’m looking at you–probably haven’t done anything to celebrate. And while it’s still possible for you to catch a movie or two, time is running short for any literary outings. But fear not! Well, do fear, but only in the Halloween way. I digress. Some of the best horror fiction comes in the short story form. Here are five short stories that are guaranteed to satisfy your need for some thrills and chills this season.

1. Hot Tub by Hal Bodner: From the anthology Hell Comes to Hollywood II: Twenty-Two More Tales of Tinseltown Terror, this quirky tale is also the most recent on the list. Hal Bodner is the master at comedy-horror and his talents are on full display in “Hot Tub.” The best piece of short fiction published last year and a Stoker nominee to boot, do whatever you need to to track down this gem.
2. Mourning House by Ronald Malfi: Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I talk about this one all the time. But I can’t help it. I love it. A haunted house story to reinvigorate haunted house stories, Malfi is a master and this is a wonderful introduction to his work.
3. The Wendigo by Algernon Blackwood: A true classic, I was shamefully unaware of this story until very recently, and I put it on the top of my Halloween reading list this year. Magic, unnerving, spooky, “The Wendigo” holds up amazingly well despite being over a hundred years old. Available for free at the link above, I would advise buying the audiobook narrated by Felbrigg Napoleon Herriot. And yes, it’s every bit as good as that name would suggest. Listen to it, and then you too can say that you have seen the Wendigo.
4. The Statement of Randolph Carter by H.P. Lovecraft: I could have put a dozen or more of Lovecraft’s stories in this space, but I wanted to share with you the one that first hooked me on his writing, and my sentimental favorite of his ever since. There is a purity to this story–of horror, of plot, of the final haunting words–that make it one of Lovecraft’s most evocative stories. Check it out, and then let me know your favorite.
5. The Yellow Sign by Robert W. Chambers: The story that, as part of a quartet of works mentioning that enigmatic work, The King in Yellow, introduced us all to a world of madness and insanity that continues to inspire artists of every strip. Read it, but beware the yellow sign!

And a bonus: Nine Yards of Other Cloth by Manly Wade Wellman: The best story by a legend of horror that few know, this story is as melodic as a song and as haunting as the voice of a long lost lover. It introduced me to John the Balladeer and Wellman. Now it’s your turn.

You’ve heard me talking about an amazing anthology I’m a part of–The Gods of H.P. Lovecraft. I think it’s going to be something else, and I can’t wait till it is officially published. But while you wait, check out this interview I did with the Readers’ Advisory Guide for Horror. I think you’ll enjoy it.

The Canal is one of those movies you’ll occasionally see on lists with titles like “10 Great Horror Movies You’ve Never Heard Of” or “Best Horror On Netflix,” and I must say, it lives up to the billing. The Canal is not without its flaws, but the last 15 minutes or so of the movie are worth the price of admission.

The Canal employs my favorite plot device–the unreliable narrator. David catches his wife cheating on him, and he’s never quite right after that. When she turns up dead, suspicion naturally falls on him. David sets out to find the real killer and gradually comes to believe that a ghost may be responsible for the murder, as well as a number of others that have occurred in his very house.

The Good: This movie is creepy and unsettling, in a way that is somewhat difficult to describe. From the start, the director infuses each scene with a sense that something just isn’t right. It’s that feeling you get when you find yourself constantly looking over your shoulder, for instance. That’s what this movie has going for it. The house is creepy. The canal is creepy. The public bathroom–super creepy. So when weird things happen, they are more frightening than they might be otherwise.

The Bad: This is going to sound strange, but the sound guy wasn’t great. There are times where you can’t hear the actors at all and where the sound effects are washed out. This has the added bonus of forcing you to turn up the volume considerably, heightening the effectiveness of the jump scares. But more often than not, it’s just annoying. More substantively, there’s a lot going on in this movie and not enough time or depth to really flesh it all out. Is it demons? A serial killing ghost? A cult of child sacrificing devil worshipers? Who knows? But there’s really no need to have any of that mess involved in the movie at all. Frankly, it just distracts from whats going on and doesn’t add to the plot.

The Takeaway: Here’s the thing, with about fifteen minutes left in the movie, I was thinking three stars. But those last fifteen minutes involved enough crazy to bump it up to a four star film for me. I’m not going to say more, but you’ll understand after you watch. All and all, a good one for your late October watch list.

4 Stars

You know, there aren’t THAT many horror-themed songs out there, and even fewer horror-themed bands. White Zombie was one of the best, and Rob Zombie’s solo-album was deliciously fun. The most famous track from that album is below. I loved it when it came out. I love it now. Enjoy

Trick ‘r Treat is one of those movies where you fall into one of two camps. Either you’ve seen it–in which case you know exactly what I’m about to say. Or you haven’t, in which case you need to go out and see it immediately. A true cult classic, I’ve loved Trick ‘r Treat since my first viewing, and it is now an indispensable part of my October routine.

One story told in four parts, Trick ‘r Treat is a love letter to those who love Halloween. Set in a fictional town that does the holiday bigger than anything this side of Salem, Massachusetts, we begin our journey with a couple returning home after a night of holiday partying. The husband respects the spirit of the season, but his wife, tired and ready for bed, does not. She blows out the jack-o-lantern–a cardinal sin. But someone is watching, and he is one who will punish those who transgress on Halloween night. The story takes off from there, with twists and turns that can only be fully appreciated on a second viewing. Frankly, the movie is worth a watch for Anna Paquin’s story line alone.

I’ve been more vague than usual, and intentionally so. This movie should not be ruined for you. If I’ve ever steered you towards a horror experience you’ve enjoyed, take my advice and watch this movie. Just make sure your jack-o-lantern stays lit till the credits roll.

Watched a neat little horror movie on Netflix recently called Pontypool. The movie tells the story of the eponymous town of Pontypool  and a bizarre virus that is spreading through the community, causing widespread chaos and rioting. But this is not your typical zombie (infected) flick. The vast majority of the story is told from a small, isolated radio station where the station’s manager, production assistant, and star D.J. are hold up, describing to the listeners what they are hearing from reporters in the field. Adding to the interesting take (spoilers ahead), the virus is transmitted by words rather than microbes, a nice twist on the notion that words can induce action in the people who hear them. Good movie. I recommend it. 

4 Stars

Bonus: The first lines may be the best part of the movie. I reproduce them here.

Grant Mazzy: Mrs. French’s cat is missing. The signs are posted all over town. “Have you seen Honey?” We’ve all seen the posters, but nobody has seen Honey the cat. Nobody. Until last Thursday morning, when Miss Colette Piscine swerved her car to miss Honey the cat as she drove across a bridge. Well this bridge, now slightly damaged, is a bit of a local treasure and even has its own fancy name; Pont de Flaque. Now Collette, that sounds like Culotte. That’s Panty in French. And Piscine means Pool. Panty pool. Flaque also means pool in French, so Colete Piscine, in French Panty Pool, drives over the Pont de Flaque, the Pont de Pool if you will, to avoid hitting Mrs. French’s cat that has been missing in Pontypool. Pontypool. Pontypool. Panty pool. Pont de Flaque. What does it mean? Well, Norman Mailer, he had an interesting theory that he used to explain the strange coincidences in the aftermath of the JFK assasination. In the wake of huge events, after them and before them, physical details they spasm for a moment; they sort of unlock and when they come back into focus they suddenly coincide in a weird way. Street names and birthdates and middle names, all kind of superfluous things appear related to each other. It’s a ripple effect. So, what does it mean? Well… it means something’s going to happen. Something big. But then, something’s always about to happen.

I’ve done a lot of new reviews this October, but I don’t want to neglect some films I’ve already reviewed that maybe you’ve missed. So today and tomorrow I am focusing on two of those. Now, Lake Mungo.

For a very long time, I have been on a quest to find a truly frightening, truly unsettling, scary movie. It’s not an easy quest. The last one to achieve that lofty bar was The Ring, a movie that required a high degree of suspension of disbelief, but was pretty horrifying if you were able to accomplish it. I have seen many unsettling movies in the past few years—Irreversible, Inside, Audition to name a few—but these movies, while disturbing, aren’t all that frightening.

When I started Lake Mungo, I wasn’t expecting to find anything that was able to quench my thirst for horror, and maybe that’s why I ended up enjoying it so much.  A movie that was part of the failed and, on my part at least, much missed, After Dark Horrorfest, Lake Mungo was a pleasant surprise, one that stuck with me well after the cameras stopped rolling.

Lake Mungo is a mockumentary, kin to, but not the same as, the recent spate of “found footage” films that have graced the big screen for the last decade. It incorporates many of that sub-genre’s strengths, while lacking its fundamental weakness—would anyone really be filming in this situation? I give you the movie synopsis:

Sixteen-year-old Alice Palmer drowns while swimming in the local dam. When her body is recovered and a verdict of accidental death returned, her grieving family buries her. The family then experiences a series of strange and inexplicable events centered in and around their home. Profoundly unsettled, the Palmers seek the help of psychic and parapsychologist, Ray Kemeny. But as their investigation continues, they soon discover they didn’t really know their daughter at all.

Lake Mungo starts off slow. Real slow. The first fifteen minutes or so were not easy to get through, but I’ll forgive the filmmakers because the relationship they establish with the viewer in those beginning scenes probably does a lot to accentuate the level of tension and the level of participation by the audience.

The acting in Lake Mungo is of a quality one doesn’t often see in a horror movie. The actors are required to portray ordinary people going through the extraordinary pain of losing a child. And let me tell you, they pull it off. It is nearly impossible to watch Lake Mungo and not believe you are watching a real documentary. And that’s what makes the movie so creepy.

There are no jump shots in this movie. There’s very little gore. There’s nothing about Lake Mungo that is particularly scary. But the totality of the experience is decidedly unsettling. By the end of the movie, my hair was standing on end and I was beginning to look over my shoulder, that feeling that I was not alone starting to creep in.

I think the brilliance of Lake Mungo lies in its mid-movie twist. Up until that point, Lake Mungo seems like a pretty standard paranormal haunting film. But then everything changes, and everything gets much weirder, much more interesting, and much more scary. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

I would definitely recommend Lake Mungo to horror fans, particularly those who enjoy paranormal frights. It’s not a perfect movie, and I am sure some people will find it to be boring in the extreme. But if you let it take hold, I can promise you it won’t let go.

4.5 Stars

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