Author: Ricardo

I read books. Sometimes I even write about them. It's a thing.

STAY OUT OF THE BASEMENT by R.L. Stine

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Publisher’s summary: Dr. Brewer is doing a little plant-testing in his basement. Nothing to worry about. Harmless, really. But Margaret and Casey Brewer are worried about their father. Especially when they… meet… some of the plants he is growing down there. Then they notice that their father is developing plantlike tendencies. In fact, he is becoming distinctly weedy—and seedy. Is it just part of their father’s “harmless” experiment? Or has the basement turned into another little shop of horrors?

🎃

Stay Out of the Basement is just a lot of classic Goosebumps fun. I love how you can so clearly tell this was written very early in the series. It’s in third person, for one, which R.L. Stine more or less abandoned in the later books. A shame, really, since I think it suits his writing style better, making for much more effective storytelling. But I suppose first-person narration is better for young readers, in terms of immersion and all that.

Another way you can tell this was an early effort is by how delightfully deranged Stine still was. It’s a straightforward “Scooby-Doo” premise, really, about a father secretly fashioning some freaky flora, and his kids trying to figure out why he’s being so weird and mysterious about it. Hijinks, of course, ensue. But then things would get intense out of nowhere: kids slashing at parents with knives! (Plant) people getting sliced in half with axes! Green blood! Someone held captive for multiple days and everyone being all “it’s cool no worries” about it‽ You know. Fun stuff.⠀

The television adaptation of this on the original show was also pretty memorable. It’s one of the few I actively recall watching as a child—mostly because of the climax, which I think was more impactful than the book’s. 

Also! I picked this up before the trailer for the second season of the new television show dropped, but I thought it was a nice bit of cosmic coincidence, seeing as how it seems to be at least partly based on this story. I really enjoyed the first season’s darker, more mature take on these endearingly goofy stories, surprisingly enough, so I can’t wait to see what they do with this bonkers premise. (Ross is going to get wrecked.)

Goosebumps, kids. It’s always been rad.

LUCY UNDYING by Kiersten White

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Publisher’s summary: Her name was written in the pages of someone else’s story: Lucy Westenra was one of Dracula’s first victims.

But her death was only the beginning. Lucy rose from the grave a vampire and has spent her immortal life trying to escape from Dracula’s clutches—and trying to discover who she really is and what she truly wants.

Her undead life takes an unexpected turn in twenty-first-century London, when she meets another woman, Iris, who is also yearning to break free from her past. Iris’s family has built a health empire based on a sinister secret, and they’ll do anything to stay in power.

Lucy has long believed she would never love again. Yet she finds herself compelled by the charming Iris while Iris is equally mesmerized by the confident and glamorous Lucy. But their intense connection and blossoming love is threatened by outside forces. Iris’s mother won’t let go of her without a fight, and Lucy’s past still has fangs: Dracula is on the prowl once more.

Lucy Westenra has been a tragically murdered teen, a lonesome adventurer, and a fearsome hunter, but happiness has always eluded her. Can she find the strength to destroy Dracula once and for all, or will her heart once again be her undoing?

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A handful of years ago, just as I started to become slightly obsessive with my Hallowe’en reading, I picked up Kiersten White’s The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein. I wanted something lofty to read—something Gothic and Romantic—and this retelling of Mary Shelley’s seminal tale seemed to serve the need. I was already planning to read about vampires anyway, so adding another classic monster into the mix felt like the appropriate thing to do. Elizabeth Frankenstein turned out to be a highlight read, not only of that spooky season but of the year as a whole. 

So when White announced she was planning to give the same sort of revisionist treatment to another horror classic, well, I couldn’t help but be excited, even if it was a few years down the line (writing: it takes time). It was well worth the wait, though, because I ended up loving the hell out of Lucy Undying, an elegantly Gothic, gloriously gay, and unapologetically feminist tome.

Like its predecessor, this is also very meandering—a veritable labyrinth of twists and turns that chances upon every conceivable emotion along the way. The winding, saturnine nature of the narrative will no doubt be a point of contention among some readers, as it does border on being exhausting and repetitive at times, but as someone who appreciates atmosphere above most things, I certainly don’t mind when a story takes the long, lugubrious way round in order to allow us to properly take in the sights and sentiments.

And what sights! The timeline and geography of this novel are truly epic in scale, taking us from London at the tail end of the Victorian age to Europe and Asia during the wars that shaped the twentieth century, and right up to North America and our current capitalist hellscape. White manages to cover all this ground and distinct eras while still maintaining an air of Gothic atmosphere, thanks largely to a protagonist who feels perpetually out of place.

Because that’s Lucy Westenra’s story in this rendition: a progressive young woman who holds unrequited feelings for a fellow female friend while living in a conservative, restrictive society during the turn of the century, who is then murdered and becomes, eventually, a revenant. Fate, it seems, has deemed Lucy an outsider in both life and in death. Until Iris comes along, another outcast who helps Lucy reclaim her narrative. 

We see much of this story through Lucy’s vivid eyes, but Iris is just as much a protagonist here, and an equally strong and fascinating presence. In fact, it’s through her that we get this novel’s most interesting conceit: by reading Lucy’s old diaries, she gleans insight that Lucy herself was never privy to. Having the perspective of a fellow misfit help the undead one see is as close to a central premise as this charmingly convoluted novel has.

While Elizabeth was largely a reimagining of Frankenstein, Lucy acts more like a proper sequel to Dracula, shedding new light on established characters and accounts. I’m not at all versed on scholarly studies of Stoker’s work, but I can’t imagine White’s interpretation of what Mina, Arthur and Dr. Seward were doing to the Westenra family is all that popular. It’s undoubtedly intriguing, however, and White tries her damnedest to prove her thesis here. It makes, if anything, for one hell of a yarn. One of my favorite reads this season.

THE BLACK SLIDE by J.W. Ocker

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No one in Griffin Birch’s class could say when the Black Slide showed up on their playground. One day, it was just there, replacing the old one.

Griffin couldn’t tell you why the Black Slide makes him feel so uneasy, either. Maybe it’s the way it always seems to be the same size, no matter how close or how far you are from it. Perhaps it’s  the way it looms over everything else in the playground, like a predator, patiently awaiting its prey. In either case, he doesn’t want to get near the thing.

But the promise of reprieve from constant bullying compels him to go down it one day. The slide seems interminable, with Griffin seeing things inside the darkness of the duct that shouldn’t be possible. After what feels like an eternity, Griffin comes out of the slide with a broken arm and fear deep inside his bones.

Shortly after, students start to disappear. Griffin sees them from his classroom window, walking up to the Black Slide as if in a daze. They climb up its chrome stairs, enter its obsidian cylinder, and they don’t come out. Weirder still, none of the adults around him seem to notice the missing children. 

And it’s only when his best friend Laila is one of those who disappears down the Black Slide that Griffin gathers up the courage to follow. 

What they find on the other end of the slide is a world of pain, inhabited by creatures that revel in it and are all too eager to share their suffering.

🎃

As I was updating my Goodreads profile soon after finishing J.W. Ocker’s The Black Slide, I stumbled upon a comment from the author himself, mentioning how he wanted to push the boundaries of middle grade horror with this novel. Mission certainly accomplished, because this goes places that even I, a huge advocate for children’s horror being no less horrifying than adult horror, was taken aback at times. “Hellraiser for kids” is an apt description indeed, but while that series is more interested in the physical, visceral aspects of horror, Ocker wisely focuses more on the psychological side of things. His characters still go through physiological trauma, to be sure, but the descriptions deal with how their ordeals feel instead of anything that’s overly explicit, which is much more affecting in the long run. Our morbid, reptilian brain can—and will—fill out the rest. 

But it’s a testament to Ocker’s writing that, in a story full of endless torment, the real horror does not come from the creatures whose existence revolves around the torture of children, but from the wanton, casual cruelty that people can—and so often do— inflict on one another. There’s a particular scene here involving Griffin’s estranged, abusive father that’s more shocking and terrifying than anything Ocker’s scaled-down Cenobites could ever conjure up.

Despite a second act that feels somewhat slow and repetitive, I loved pretty much everything about The Black Slide: from its captivating characters to its brilliant and nightmarish world-building (which at times reminded me so much of my own nightmares that I would actually physically recoil), to its themes. This is a story about friendship and resilience. It’s also a story about pain. And while there are countless children’s stories that deal with hardship, I’m hard-pressed to think of many that contend with just how often pain can—for better or worse—play a significant part in personal growth. This is a middle grade novel that faces that notion head-on, and as such isn’t afraid to explore some dark, disturbing places. Ocker navigates these gloomy spaces with tremendous nuance and compassion, all the while respecting his intended audience enough to never be coddling or condescending. Important and necessary.

CLOWN IN A CORNFIELD 3: THE CHURCH OF FRENDO by Adam Cesare

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Quinn Maybrook has been through a lot. She’s lost too much. Seen far too much death. She’s tired and drained and exhausted. But she cannot rest—not when so many of the maniac clowns who slashed her youth away are still out there, evading justice. So, leaving what little remains of her life behind, Quinn Maybrook decides to take matters into her own hands. 

And elsewhere, in a town calling itself Kettle Springs, Frendo’s curse patiently awaits Quinn Maybrook’s arrival.

🎃

I have a deep and abiding appreciation for this series. The first novel was one of my favorite Hallowe’en reads back when it first came out, thoroughly impressing me with its balance between pointed social critique and sheer slasher spectacle. I enjoyed the second book a little less, finding it lacking much of the frivolous, dynamic action that kept the first novel being dragged down by its heavier themes, but I still thought it was a thought-provoking and realistic escalation of those same threads. 

Which makes it all the more unfortunate that Adam Cesare’s Clown in Cornfield 3: The Church of Frendo, the apparent climax to this corrupted clown chronicle, just didn’t do it for me.

Talking about it with a friend who was similarly let down, I likened this series of books to the original Halloween films—although, upon further reflection, the modern trilogy seems a far more apt comparison. In that cycle, we have a relatively simple—if effective—slasher story with its first movie; a sequel that is essentially more of the same, turned up a few considerable notches; and then a largely disappointing denouement that is only connected to the previous narrative by the barest of threads. 

Going with that analogy, The Church of Frendo is definitely the Halloween Ends of this otherwise coherent sequence. Gone is much of the clever cultural commentary present in the earlier entries, abandoned in favor of a drawn-out and ultimately anticlimactic revenge tale that feels more like the secondary plot of a larger story than it does a proper, satisfying finale. Add to that some truly bizarre and questionable choices (a Juggalo love interest? For a teen protagonist? In the year of our Lord 2024?) and you have all the makings of an awkward and underwhelming conclusion. Tragically disappointing.

Even then, I can’t say I totally disliked this book. Cesare can still write a mean set piece, teeming with tension and terror—and while these became increasingly infrequent as the series went on, they are definitely always memorable. And though not enough to be a saving grace, I did enjoy some of the character work—particularly with Tabitha, a truly compelling character in a grueling and heart-wrenching situation. I liked her so much that, in retrospect, I couldn’t help but feel that if this novel was always meant to be such a departure from formula, it would have benefited more from having her as the sole protagonist, with her story—so similar to Quinn’s in the first novel—tying into the broader storyline at the end, thus closing that circle in a much more narratively satisfying manner. 

I think, anyway.

THE CHRONICLES OF VIKTOR VALENTINE by Z Brewer

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Viktor Valentine wishes he were as excited for the start of seventh grade as everyone around him seems to be. Even his one and only friend, Damon, can’t help but seem eager to start the new school year, despite always being the first to complain about their small, boring town of Nowhere. All Viktor wants is for summer to never end—to hang out with his best friend eating ridiculous amounts of junk food and playing endless rounds of their favorite vampire-hunting video game. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

But things insist on changing around him. The school year does inevitably start, bringing with it a myriad of new worries and anxieties. Damon, already a popular kid, seems to want to spend his time hanging out with other people, and Viktor is afraid of being left behind. There are also the mysterious new neighbors, the youngest of whom takes a liking to Viktor—a feeling he would very much reciprocate if only he could find a way to overcome his infinite awkwardness. Most worrying of all, something is apparently going on with his parents, who are acting weirder than usual, keeping odd hours and returning home with deep, dark stains on their clothes and lips….

🎃

The Chronicles of Viktor Valentine was, despite the promise of its excellent cover, just an okay read for me. I was very into the novel for the bat’s share of it, when it was a mostly traditional but charming coming-of-age story about a seemingly regular kid dealing with growth and change and coming to terms with the fact that vampires may or may not exist in his world. Many of the characters were endearing and felt—despite some curiously stylized dialogue—entirely real. In particular, I enjoyed the depiction of Viktor and Damon’s relationship. It felt genuine, with author Z Brewer striking that delicate, bittersweet balance between faithful and fickle that feels so fundamental in youthful friendships. The setting—a small, sleepy suburban town with the appropriate name of Nowhere—felt suitably realized as well, full of familiar and quaint elements. It all came together to form an atmosphere that was cozy and nostalgic, if a little confining. 

Unfortunately, though, most of these charms were thrown away during the novel’s third act, where the story felt as if it was being forcefully shoved into an entirely different narrative. Which seemed, in fact, to be the case, as I found out soon after finishing that Viktor Valentine is supposed to take place in the author’s shared sanguine universe. I had no knowledge of Brewer’s vampiric saga beforehand, so this is not a judgment against it, but I do still expect complete and satisfying narratives from individual installments, particularly when they’re meant to be the launch of a spinoff series. That’s something I felt was taken away here in favor of crossovers, complications, and cliffhangers. Gone was the folksy familiarity of the characters—replaced by stilted, tired archetypes. The most egregious example of this can be found in Viktor himself, whose story of awkward adolescence and self-discovery is suddenly overshadowed by a hero’s quest that was nowhere evident at the beginning of the book. It was a climax filled with baffling choices, and I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. 

Then again, maybe this is all more of a me thing. Fans familiar with the established series will likely find a lot more to enjoy here, particularly in discovering all the interconnected bits and scattered cameos that I surely missed out on. Alas.

BENEATH THE TREES WHERE NOBODY SEES by Patrick Horvath

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Samantha Strong leads a peaceful life in the town of Woodbrook. She appreciates the close-knit community, composed of mostly uncomplicated, salt-of-the-earth folk—folk who appreciate her dependable self right back. They think she is one of their own.

Samantha Strong hears voices. Whenever they get too loud, she heads out into the city, far enough away from her hometown. There, she picks someone to take into the woods, away from watchful eyes. Beneath the trees, Samantha Strong muffles the voices in her head.

And then somebody else—somebody like her—disrupts Woodbrook’s perennial peace, and the ensuing chaos threatens to overwhelm and overthrow Samantha’s cherished comfort and stability. She’s worked too hard—with so much care and so much diligence—to ever allow that to happen.

And so Samantha Strong goes to work.

🎃

Patrick Horvath’s Beneath the Trees Where Nobody Sees is a beastly, brutal, bloody ride—and I enjoyed every page of it. A simple story, really, but told in an effortless and economical way that makes it, despite all the gruesome events that unfold within, a brilliant reading experience.

“Dexter meets The Busy World of Richard Scarry,” goes the elevator pitch for this hardcore comic. It’s perfectly accurate, although it somehow doesn’t entirely prepare you for what awaits. Horvath’s creatures are significantly less cartoonish than Scarry’s own industrious cast, for one, portraying them—with the help of soft, muted watercolors—in a more naturalistic light, making the darker aspects of the story hit that much harder. When the blood starts to inevitably flow, there’s no moment of shocked bemusement; there’s just the stark, sudden, sobering shift into the somber and the grim. 

The choice to go with anthropomorphic animals to tell such a murderous tale is an exceedingly effective one, to be sure, but it’s a testament to how well-crafted and well-executed the writing is that the book could work even without that animal element. Leave just the script, and the book reads like a classic crime drama in the same vein as the work of Ed Brubaker. As it is, though, I’m glad Horvath went with this route. There were scenes here that made my jaw drop all the way down to the floor—something a comic hasn’t managed to do since the early days of The Walking Dead. Stellar, stunning stuff. Everyone, immediately include this in your Hallowe’en reading. You won’t regret it. (Well, only if you’re squeamish.)

SEPTEMBER 2024

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Hello. Here’s what I read during the month of September. Mostly talking about short stories this time around. I did read two other novels, but I can’t write about them here just yet because of reasons. Anyway! Good reading month.

“The Counselor” by Robin Sloan. This was provocatively written, but I’m not exactly sure what it was trying to say. The premise of someone being asked if they were ready to die and replying in the negative despite considerable suffering reminded me of a scene from, of all things, Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, the famous (infamous?) work of fan-fiction, where Dumbledore talks with this world’s pretentious version of Harry about willingly accepting death one day. Harry argues that the premise is absurd, reasoning that if someone really wanted to live today, then they would, barring some truly terrible circumstances, also want to live tomorrow, and beyond, ad infinitum. That always stuck with me, because I happen to think similarly. Anyway, fairly sure this story is more about the ethics of using generative artificial intelligence in the medical field than it is about that, though.

Diavola by Jennifer Thorne. Well, I loved this. So much that I’m now wishing I had saved it for the Hallowe’en season. As it is, though, this was really the perfect read for the summer-to-fall transition. This is touted as Gothic horror, which I suppose it is, but it’s the most thoroughly modern Gothic horror story I have ever read. Sounds contradictory, but author Jennifer Thorne really managed to transport that classic, old-word feel of the genre into the present day, and the result is a veritable thrill ride — in particular, that third act, which stands among the finest I’ve ever read with its relentless, brutal, and inevitably cathartic pace. Anna herself is such a refreshing protagonist, as well — smart and sardonic but never coming across as pedantic or annoying. To say that she’s one of the most relatable characters I’ve read lately feels like an obscene thing to say, given her arc here, but it is also true. But I’m glad we got such a steadfast protagonist who, from the get-go, knew what she wanted, and I’m glad we got a story that wasn’t even remotely afraid to give it to her. A damn good read. This isn’t even mentioning La Dama Bianca, who is a fantastic and terrifying secondary villain. Secondary, of course, because the real antagonist of this story is Anna’s perfectly loathsome family, whom Thorne portrays with perfect contempt.

“Judge Dee and the Executioner of Epinal” by Lavie Tidhar. The latest Judge Dee mystery. This felt… very first draft, let us say. The writing seemed very rushed and somewhat sloppy. Most of the jokes and references didn’t land at all. (There’s a Princess Bride callback that I would have normally loved, that being one my absolute favorite stories, but it just felt forced and out of place here.) Very disappointing. Definitely the weakest of these admittedly irreverent pieces of short fiction.

“It Waits in the Woods” by Josh Malerman. Part of the Creature Feature collection on Amazon. I read a couple of the other entries for the Hallowe’en season last year and they were very hit or miss for me, as these Amazon Originals tend to be. This one turned out to be very effective, though. A little meandering, particularly in the beginning, but with a great, creepy atmosphere throughout. There’s a couple of curious errors here and there, but nothing that took me out of the story.

AUGUST 2024

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August was my birthday month. I reached my Memento Mori Goodreads Reading Challenge goal of 37 books just as I turned 37, which was very apt. That it also turned out to be one of the best reading months I’ve had in a while was just a nice little bonus. I got through a fair bit, so let’s dive in.

The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. The Green brothers have shaped and influenced my life in immeasurable ways. I love them both, but have always had a soft spot for John. Partly because, as a fellow anxious and bookish older brother who is often dealing with one existential crisis or another, I relate to him a lot. Mostly though, I’ve just always admired how he consistently chooses to tell his stories — from his books to the best of his video essays — through the fractured lenses of humanism and hope. The “Thoughts from Places” videos, which were my favorites during their Brotherhood 2.0 era, are excellent representations of John’s reflective style, and this collection of essays is essentially a continuation and expansion of that format. I took my time with this one — I started it back in January — and it’s been a delightful  companion throughout this stressful, hectic year. I give The Anthropocene Reviewed five out of five stars.

Keep Going by Austin Kleon. A re-read. I first picked this up during the pandemic, and it made that oppressive year feel a little less heavy.  This book’s focus is on the creative life, but I find that it’s infinitely more helpful to my personal life. A lovely book that I think everyone should read. Kleon, by the way, is one of the most interesting people you could ever follow online. 

It Came from the Trees by Ally Russell. Already wrote about this one, of course. Let’s hear it for rad friends doing rad things. 

The Good Neighbor: The Life and Work of Fred Rogers by Maxwell King. To be perfectly candid I picked this up because I was tired of reading about disappointing men. I wanted to read about someone decent, who did infinitely more good than harm, and I couldn’t think of anyone better and more appropriate than Mister Rogers. But also I just wanted to read more about this amazing man, particularly after watching A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood at the start of the year. I didn’t grow up with Mister Rogers (to be perfectly honest, I think my younger self would have found him perfectly boring), but he’s someone who I’ve come to deeply admire the more I’ve learned about him through the years. The man was practically a saint, yes, but he was also a flawed individual who, through rigorous discipline and profound courage, tried his damnedest to be a force for good in the world. This expansive, engaging biography does an admirable job portraying this most human of humans.

I also read a bunch of short stories.

“Judge Dee and the Mystery of the Missing Manuscript” / “The Locked Coffin: A Judge Dee Mystery” by Lavie Tidhar. I really enjoy these clever, irreverent short stories. “The Mystery of the Missing Manuscript” is set in an ancient library, and Tidhar has a blast affectionately mocking obsessive bookish types. And I think “The Locked Coffin” might just be my favorite of the Judge Dee stories so far? It’s certainly the funniest — I laughed out loud multiple times. It just felt like a livelier story, with Dee himself seeming downright whimsical. Delightful stuff.

“Randomize” by Andy Weir. Super interesting premise and fun execution. Like a lot of these Kindle Single stories, though, it reads very much like the beginning of a larger, far more interesting story, rather than a thing that stands on its own.

“Emergency Skin” by N.K. Jemisin. Now this was far more like it. Much more complete and infinitely more narratively satisfying than Weir’s effort for this collection of Kindle Singles. Not necessarily the most original concept, but it was perfectly compelling and executed in an effortlessly stylish way, which goes a long way in terms of my enjoyment of a thing.

“The Penthouse” by Helen Phillips. Very effective piece of flash fiction. Enjoyed how downright sinister it felt. The closing line is a veritable banger.

“The Year Without Sunshine” / “Better Living Through Algorithms” by Naomi Kritzer. Kritzer may have turned into one of my favorite short story writers with these two offerings. Both absolutely wonderful in their own unique ways. “The Year Without Sunshine” in particular is one of those stories that fill you with hope and leave you thinking that, contrary to all current evidence, humanity’s going to be just fine, in the end. She deserves every damn Hugo she gets. 

“The Particles of Order” by Yiyun Li. Loved the atmosphere and writing here, but found the ending entirely unsatisfactory.

“A Pretty Place” by E.M. Carroll. I was looking to see if Carroll had any new work coming out. As big a fan as I am of their work, I still somehow managed to miss not only the name and pronoun change, but also this utterly unsettling and gorgeous story from last year. Obscenely good, as per usual.

“Obituary for a Quiet Life” / “The Coded Life of William Thomas Prestwood” by Jeremy B. Jones. These are narrative essays, which I never cover in these wrap-ups, but I was so struck by Jones’s writing that I had to include them. “Obituary for a Quiet Life” is a beautifully poignant piece, and “The Coded Life of William Thomas Prestwood” is just a stunning story that’s simply staggering in scope and so unlike anything I’ve read before. Wonderful, wonderful writer.

IT CAME FROM THE TREES by Ally Russell

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Jenna can’t help but love the outdoors — it’s in her blood. Her grandfather was the first Black park ranger at the Sturbridge Reservation, after all. She’s spent most of her childhood camping outside, with both her family and various scout groups. For Jenna, the woods feel like home. 

And then Jenna sees her best friend, Reese, taken by a strange, massive creature in the woods, and her whole world is shaken. The forests that have been a sanctuary for much of her young life suddenly feel treacherous and sinister. Worst of all, most of the adults around her don’t believe her account, concluding that Reese simply ran away. Jenna will not allow the efforts to find her best friend dwindle, and so she takes matters into her own hands. After weeks of researching the disappearances and strange sightings that seem to plague her precious preserve, she joins another troop, determined to help Reese find her way back.

But the creature in the woods has other plans.  

○○○

Ally Russell understands horror. More crucially, she understands children’s horror. That much has been clear to me ever since I had the privilege to read some of her work in progress (full disclosure: Russell and I are internet pals). She can set a mean atmosfear (a term coined, as far as I know, by her, and one I’ve absolutely appropriated), and her character work is nothing short of stellar. We follow a handful of characters in It Came from the Trees, her debut novel, but she manages to imbue each one with enough quirks and peculiarities to make them feel not only distinct, but, more importantly, particularly in a category where the characters often tend to feel flat and hollow, wholly believable. By the end, you can’t help but cheer for this group of fearless ingenues as they stand up against a singularly terrifying phenomenon.

Which brings me to the thing that came from the trees.

I love the way Russell handles the creature here, treating it like a relentless force of nature rather than this otherworldly, mythical monster. Bigfoot here is less a boogeyman than he is a hurricane, and it makes for a more grounded set of scares, which I’ve always found make horror that much more effective. I also appreciate how Russell goes with the Jaws approach. too, having her land shark off-stage for much of the story, which does a lot to help build the tension and — say it with me — atmosfear. Like in that seminal film, each time the creature explodes out of the ocean of trees it is as memorable as it is terrifying. It’s a beast that feels properly dangerous and lethal, and it’s a testament to Russell’s writing that the fear you feel for this troop is palpable.

And despite all the brilliant scares, it’s this group of kids that truly make this story sing. Jenna is a wonderful protagonist: smart, determined, and resourceful — but still very much a kid. She spends most of the story absolutely terrified, but it never causes her resolve to waver. Saving her friend comes first, being scared has to settle for second. The rest of her troop similarly stands their ground, but I want to shout out Norrie in particular, who’s just an absolute delight to read. She brings a lot of comic relief, but is not without her pointed, poignant moments. 

Most of these characters are people of color, too, which bears pointing out because it’s central to the story’s theme of nature belonging to everyone — a declaration that’s there from the outset: “To the Black, Brown, and biracial kids who love cryptids,” Russell’s dedication reads, “I see you. This story is for you.”

We’re currently living in an era of excellent middle grade horror. With It Came from the Trees Ally Russell has, like the sasquatch of her story, solidly staked out her spooky territory.

JULY 2024

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Hello. Here’s what I read during the month of July:

The Spice Must Flow by Ryan Britt. Books about works of art are one of my favorite things, particularly when they give a behind the scenes perspective as to how said art was made. But this is the sort of pop culture book that is meant to be a primer rather than a deep dive, and so, like the Fremen sandriders, it never really lets the worm go further below the surface. Still, Britt’s writing is punchy and highly entertaining, making this a perfectly fine and fun celebration of the revered franchise. 

This was the only book I managed to finish during the month. Did manage to squeeze in a couple of short stories, though.

“I’ll Miss Myself” by John Wiswell. Lovely little story that’s just a tiny bit too saccharine. Basically a not so subtle commentary on the online hellscape social media and its algorithms have wrought that have done such a number on our collective mental health. If anything, this story serves as a good reminder to check in on both your homies and yourself. You are so needed by everyone to do everything.

“Old Media” by Annalee Newitz. Intriguing story about fondness, friendship, and freedom with some compelling characters, but it never really quite clicked with me, unfortunately. 

And so July was… fine? Things are still somewhat hectic in my personal life, and it’s definitely affected my reading (one whole book) but I’m also not feeling like I’m in any type of slump. It’s tragic to say, but reading just hasn’t been much of a priority lately — because life. Still, I very much want to work on making it one again. Reading is as close to a meditative act as I’ve ever been able to get, and I definitely don’t want to lose that.