The Pet (1986) by Charles L. Grant: The late Charles L. Grant was a much-published anthologist, novelist, and short-story writer from the 1970's through the 1990's. He championed "quiet horror," a choice that set him vocally at odds with the rise of splatterpunk in the 1980's. He's probably most important now as an anthologist, especially as the editor of the long-running Shadows series of original horror anthologies.
The horror boom of the 1970's and 1980's also meant that Grant published a lot of novels. More than I was aware of, frankly. While I was a major consumer of those anthologies back in the day and read a couple of his short-story collections, I hadn't read a Grant novel until I recently finished The Pet.
I'm of two minds about The Pet, though these minds are not mutually exclusive. Wait, does that make three minds? So confusing.
Anyway, The Pet may be a satire of slasher movies and Stephen King novels of the 1970's and 1980's.
Or The Pet may be an attempt to replicate the success of slasher movies and Stephen King novels of the 1970's and 1980's by putting their elements into a blender and pressing the 'On' button.
Or it may be both. It's certainly not of a piece with those Grant short stories and novellas I've read.
OK, that's really three, isn't it?
So we have a bullied, withdrawn protagonist of high-school age. That's Donald 'Duck' Boyd. His parents are both over-controlling and under-caring. He has a dead younger brother. His Mom is sleeping with a high-school teacher who hates Don and keeps marking him unfairly. His Dad is the principal of the school Don attends. This gets Don bullied even more, especially because Don's father doesn't believe him when bullies start framing him for various misdemeanors. His parents both preferred the dead brother. Three years after the death, his Mom still occasionally calls Don by the dead brother's name.
Whew! That's about 35 King stories and novels right there!
A mean chemistry teacher also singles Don out for unwanted persecution. We can tell this chemistry teacher is bad because he's a confirmed bachelor who watches porn movies in his basement.
IN HIS BASEMENT! PORN!
Sorry.
A super-hot, 17-year-old cheerleader seems to be making advances on Don. Ha ha, she's also making advances on his Dad! Yes, a teen-aged girl who is sexually aggressive and makes advances on her teachers. Is this Grant's salute to the Police song "Don't Stand So Close To Me"? Or is it just a really unpleasant part of the novel that has not aged well?
So so unpleasant.
Then a serial killer dubbed The Howler shows up in Don's small town of Ashford, New Jersey. The Howler has killed and partially eaten several teenagers in New Jersey and New York.
You might think this would cause the formation of some sort of police task force or even an FBI presence.
You would be wrong!
Dealing with The Howler in Don's town devolves down to that town's small police force of what seems like three idiots, which does a whole lot of nothing. Boy, is this part of the novel ridiculously unbelievable! And it gets worse!
The town's two high schools are remarkably modest in their response to two students being murdered and eaten in a one-month period. And the police. Really, everyone. Don survives an attack from The Howler and his parents have him back in school within 36 hours. Seriously, Grant is just phoning in this shit.
So, as the back-cover blurb tells us, Don's encounter with The Howler unleashes a supernatural monster that makes The Howler look like a fart in an elevator. And that monster has a connection to Don, targeting those who've wronged Don in some way. It's sort of Carrie by way of Christine, except it's a giant super-horse sprung full-grown from one of the animal posters on Don's bedroom wall.
Oh, yeah. Don loves animals and wants to be a vet. His parents think being a vet is a road to financial ruin, which shows how stupid they are. This is definitely the only novel I've ever read in which parents resist the idea of their son becoming a veterinarian for financial reasons. I mean seriously, parents, you're school teachers. In the United States of America. Your salaries are not that big!
If Grant is trying to emulate King in the next 200 pages or so, he's hamstrung by his "quiet horror" approach insofar as the novel pulls away from the attacks of the monster at the moment of attack, returning to show the aftermath without too much explicit description. Grant also can't bring himself to give the novel a big climax (remember Carrie's death march through school and town?) or even a physical confrontation between Don and the super-horse (remember the garage battle in Christine?).
At one point, Don hears the screams in the town football stadium and believes the monster has attacked the football game. If you think, as I did, "Bring it on!" at this point, forget it. The monster is not there.
Part of the problem with the novel is that Don is an odd but sympathetic figure, with so many problems heaped upon his head by Grant, with Don's tormentors (including his parents) consistently shown to be selfish, brutish, thoughtless assholes.
Another problem lies in peculiar absences. The dead brother is the worst of these: our sum total of knowledge about why Don's parents prefer the dead son to the live one is that the dead one was obedient. OK! A flashback showing rather than telling about the brother never materializes. Even the trauma that would come with a dead son and brother is muted, barely considered by parents or Don.
Once the horse starts killing people -- well, who cares, really? Grant's small town is such an abysmal place that it deserves to get leveled. Other than Don and Don's two best friends, Tracey and Jeff, there are no sympathetic characters. Well, OK, there's an old guy and his daschund. But even Jeff is a cipher, there only to form a potential romantic triangle with Tracey and Don, who also has a crush on Tracey.
Tracey is drawn somewhat sympathetically until the last ten pages or so, when she does something that is completely unbelievable given what she's learned about Don and the supernatural in the previous hundred pages. Unless she's suicidal.
At the end (which isn't even really an end but more of a pause), I"m left again wondering if this was a failed attempt by Grant to write a Stephen King novel, or a failed attempt at parody. Or both. Its flaws, large and legion in number, are fascinating enough to make it worth reading. And frustratingly good moments of tension and character-building keep floating to the surface before being submerged again in the slurry. Just don't expect to feel satisfied at the end. Lightly recommended.
The Ceremonies by T.E.D. Klein (1984): The Ceremonies isn't the greatest horror novel ever written, but it may be the greatest horror novel ever written in which the stakes are the survival of the world. There were a lot of those apocalyptic and pre-apocalyptic horror novels in the late 1970's and 1980's, during the later nuclear-war-fear years. I'd probably give the edge to The Ceremonies over all of them, 1980's or otherwise, though Ramsey Campbell's The Hungry Moon and Midnight Sun would offer stiff competition.
T.E.D. Klein is a Top-Ten American horror-writing talent despite his meager output: this novel; the four novellas collected in Dark Gods (1985); the novella The Ceremonies is based on, "The Events at Poroth Farm" (1973); and maybe 200 pages of ephemera. Horror readers sit and wait, hoping that second novel announced in 1985 will some day see publication.
The Ceremonies looms large for a number of reasons. It's beautifully written. Its allusions, intertexts, and interpolations of what sometimes seems to be the entire history of horror fiction are fascinating, keenly observed, and essential to the unfolding of the plot. The plot itself is expertly machined, building slowly until the climax explodes in the last thirty pages or so. The characterization of players minor and major is deft and witty and occasionally heart-breaking. The novel follows certain tropes and conventions while exploding others along the way. It's structurally and stylistically complex in an unshowy manner -- its use of three distinct, linked narrative streams in three different voices and tenses, for one, has thematic significance that only dawns on the reader gradually as the novel and its voices accumulate in one's head to increasingly disturbing effect. And it's capable of both cosmic uneasiness and gross-out horror, the latter used sparingly but to great effect, especially in the climactic scenes.
To appreciate The Ceremonies fully, one should read at least some of the texts it interacts with. But if one doesn't do so, one of the main characters labours away on a graduate English thesis on horror fiction throughout the novel. Along the way, we get his thoughts on texts ranging from The Castle of Otranto to The Haunting of Hill House. Some of these texts are important to the novel as a whole. All of the observations are, at the very least, interesting. Some are even hilarious. Because one can certainly agree with the protagonist's view that The Castle of Otranto sucks, or that Dracula stops being interesting once the novel exits Transylvania.
The protagonist of the novel, Jeremy Freirs, takes lodging on a farm near the small New Jersey town of Gilead for the summer in order to finish his M.A. thesis. His landlords are Sarr and Deborah Poroth, members of a small Christian sect that settled in the area more than a hundred years earlier. The sect bears some resemblance to the Pennsylvania Dutch or the Amish, though the Poroths have a truck and indoor plumbing. But it's not the Poroths or their sect or even Jeremy that are the real problem.
The real problem is something that waited in the surrounding woods for 5000 years to be born again, something that spent centuries clinging to a tree branch in the distorted heart of a section of the forest initially called by the adjacent Native Americans "The Place of Burning." No one ever lived there or near there until settlers started to encroach in the 19th century. Then the thing's waiting ended, along with its life, and the Ceremonies began. And even in the 19th century, the forested heart of darkness sat only about 50 miles from New York City.
Something beyond all measure fell into or broke through or seeped up into our universe; the novel leaves the thing's means of entry a "mystery." But the novel also suggests that the thing somehow also broke through into human mythology, folklore, rituals, stories, and even folk dances. Fragments of the rituals needed to resurrect the being hide in all these things, waiting to be reassembled and used so that the thing can be reassembled and reborn. Even a Coney Island Ferris Wheel and a grumpy cat fit into the Ceremonies.
One of the keen pleasures of The Ceremonies is its combination of mystery and precision. We're taken through various rituals and preparations and signs and portents. Strange, tarot-like cards are read. Complex ceremonies that must be followed with an anal-retentive attention to detail are enacted. But the mysteries of what awaits, of what will be done to the world and how it will change, remain to the very end of the text. At no time does Klein feel the need to have the ultimate antagonist of the novel deliver an expositional speech.
And even the acolyte of the antagonist remains vague and refreshingly unglib to the very end. And this henchman, Rosie -- this short, fat, seemingly jolly old man -- is one of the novel's many terrific creations. He's awful. He's also pitiful, but only in terms of what he was before he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, nearly 100 years before the main action of the novel takes place. The third-person description of his thoughts doesn't give us the exterior charm of so many antagonists, from Hannibal Lecter all the way back to Milton's Satan. We see Rosie from inside, a manipulative and remorseless engine of death. Well, death for all humanity. If humanity were lucky. Which it probably won't be if Rosie gets his way. There are worse things than death.
The indispensable references for the novel are several late-19th and early-20th-century stories by the Welsh horror-writer/mystic Arthur Machen. The novel's title refers to three sets of ceremonies named but never fully explained in Machen's (mostly) first-person tour de force "The White People"; Machen's novella is also discussed by Jeremy in the novel itself. A short, cryptic Machen piece called "The Ceremony" also adds to one's appreciation of the novel, as do Machen's "The Novel of the Black Powder" and "The Great God Pan." These are all in the public domain, and worth reading regardless of whether or not you read The Ceremonies.
But you should read The Ceremonies. You really should. It's both its own evocative, poetic, ruthless piece of horror and a terrific act of play with what sometimes seems to be every major horror and Gothic work ever written, either explicitly or implicitly. The Ceremonies rewards close and careful reading. It rewards multiple readings. And it has a killer inversion of a horror trope that horror readers will probably associate most with Stephen King's The Shining, as creatures almost never associated with goodness nonetheless ride to the rescue by accident, driven by instinctual fury, even as Nature itself comes under existential assault. Highly recommended.
