So Scowler was my first Daniel Kraus book.

It will not be my last.

If you’re a fan of horror — the kind of horror that doesn’t come from specters or werewolves or other creatures outside the world as we know it — then you will want to pick this book up. It is not, and I repeat myself here, it is not for the weak stomached or weak of heart. This book is brutal and depicts some of the most horrific scenes I’ve ever read. The kind of scenes that involved putting the book down mid-scene so I could collect myself before soldiering on. It’s not done to be sensational, though. It’s the reality of the story.

The year is 1981. It’s August. It’s hot. It’s rural Iowa. Oh, also there’s the possibility of large meteorites falling to the earth (does this sound eerie or what?). Nineteen-year-old Ry’s little sister lost one of her teeth and neither of them can find it lying anywhere on their dead family farm.

But the farm wasn’t always dead. When Ry’s father was there, he made sure the place was thriving. He watched over it carefully. He watched over all of them, in fact, with the kind of eyes and hands a man dying for control and power did. Ry’s mother Jo Beth was one subject of Marvin’s need for power: she wasn’t allowed to sew or mend clothing, despite having a talent for it. Marvin didn’t want anyone thinking that he wasn’t being a good enough farmer that he had to employ his wife in another job to make ends meet.

There was more than that, though. Marvin was the picture of an abusive husband and abusive father. Scowler is told in alternating time lines, beginning in those couple of days in 1981 and then flashing back to 1971 and 1972. This was the height of Marvin’s worst behavior. When he did something absolutely terrible to Ry and did something even harsher to Jo Beth. The kind of thing that forced Ry to help his mother. To pull her out of the window and toward freedom.

It was then when Marvin went to jail.

It was also then that Jo Beth pursued her own interest in sewing. When she made the dress that lived in the room upstairs. When she let the farm die.

As readers, we’re sucked into the back story, wherein Ry seeks solace in three of his childhood toys: Mr. Furrington (a stuffed animal), Jesus Christ (a figurine), and the Scowler (the ugliest, most misshapen and disgusting toy to exist). Throughout his therapy sessions and throughout the book, we learn that while these may or may not be real objects — depending entirely on your reading — we do learn that these three objects are aspects of Ry’s personality. More on that in a second.

Flash back to 1981. There’s a knock at the door, and it’s a stranger wandering by. This is odd and unsettling to the Burke family because, well, they live in the middle of no where. It’s not like strangers just wander to their farm in the middle of no where Iowa. But this isn’t any old stranger: it’s a prison escapee.

There was an explosion at the high security jail. He got out.

And so did Marvin. Now, more than one meteorite is about the crash land on the Burke’s land.

Ry’s repression and compartmentalization of his fear toward Marvin manifested after he went to jail, and now that Marvin’s back, it’s coming out again. Where we learned that Ry was forced to rid himself of his three toys, we also discover he needs them to work through the pain and torture about to befall him and his family again now that dad’s back. And while he may not have the objects themselves, he knows he has to tap into those aspects of his personality in order to make heads or tails of what to do to protect his family. He doesn’t want what happened to his mother to happen again, and he certain doesn’t want it to happen to his sister, either.

Enter Scowler.

Much as Ry wants to be a good kid and much as he doesn’t want to employ the same sort of violence that his father relied upon too much to get what it was he wanted, Ry knows he has to channel the spirit of Scowler. It scares him to do this. Even though it’s clear Marvin is still as problematic as he was when he was in jail — especially now that he thinks selling the meteorite that’s crashed onto the farm will be the solution to all of the family’s problems — Ry can’t let himself be angry. He can’t let out the Scowler inside.

That is, until he does. Until it’s become clear that his father will continue to hurt, haunt, and manipulate the family until he gets what he wants. Until he destroys what it his Jo Beth loves. Until he physically destroys Ry. Until he begins to destroy Sarah, too.

Scowler is dark, disturbing, and brutal. There is plenty of blood shed. There is more than blood shed. There is a body count and — spoiler warning — there might be a dead animal in this one, too. Kraus knows horror, so know that going in. You’re not going to be getting anything sappy or anything half-hearted here, which is what makes this a powerful read. There are no shortcuts. Marvin is one of the ugliest characters I’ve read in a long time. It’s so easy to like Ry, too, and maybe what makes him so likable and sympathetic isn’t his situation; it’s the fact he wants nothing more than to not be like his dad. He knows the way that abusive home lives work. He knows the chances are there he could become like his dad. That’s precisely why he’s so hesitant to embrace Scowler.

That’s also why the 1980s setting in this book works. Aside from allowing some of the important plot points to be sidestepped (the jail destruction would have been Googled in a second in today’s world and the police would have been on it), what makes the setting important is the question of whether or not Ry will become a good person or whether he’s destined to turn into the kind of man his father was. We don’t get to know if there is a happily ever after or if there ever will be. There’s only the end we’re given, which isn’t really closed. And that’s the way an ending in a book like this should be. Even if we’re given many answers throughout the story, walking away with as many — if not more questions — is what makes a good horror story successful.

Kraus doesn’t just deliver a great story, though. His writing is strong and solid, and the depictions of horrific events doesn’t make you question how bad things are. You know. You know who these characters are and what they’re going through is palpable. I marked a number of really great passages throughout, but my favorite line is this (it’s a bit of a spoiler but by this point, it should be clear the entire review cannot be written without spoiler): “Being made of liquid and bone, rather than cloth and steel, might make you more breakable, but being breakable, he decided, was a thrilling thing.”

Hand Scowler off to your readers who want dark realistic fiction that could only be best described as horror. Readers looking for books like Stephen King’s will find much to enjoy here. Michael Grant, who blurbed the book, called it the “demon offspring of Stephen King’s The Shining and Hitchcock’s Psycho” and having knowledge of both those reference, I’ll say that’s about as spot on as you can get. I think readers who dig books in the style of Adam Rapp or Blythe Woolston will find much here. It’s all about how ugly we humans can be and are to one another. This is one of the most memorable books I’ve read in a long time.

Scowler is available today through Random House. Review copy delivered personally to me at ALA (thanks, Kristen Kittscher). 

It’s 1986 and Eleanor has just moved. She’s the new girl, and she’s got to sit somewhere on the bus. Park prays it’s not next to him. She’s weird looking. She has long red hair. He’s gotta stay under the radar so that Steve leaves him along. Steve who always loves to torment the person who gives him too much attention . . .

Eleanor sits on the same bus seat with Park. They don’t talk. Day after day, they resent their situation. Until one day, they don’t. Until one day, Park notes that Eleanor is looking at the comics he’s reading. Until he realizes she’s someone he wants to talk to. Until one day they talk. 

Until one day they realize they are mad for one another. Except it’s not one day. It’s the accumulation of days and hours and moments together (and more, the moments apart) when they realize just how much they need one another.

Rowell’s YA debut novel, Eleanor and Park, is excellent. Park and Eleanor are two fully-realized characters who are both dealing with tremendously tough things in their lives. Park lives with a demanding — and at times, demeaning — father who finds him a disappointment to his family and his culture (he’s Asian), but ultimately, Park just wants to get through life. He’s a nice guy and he doesn’t want that reputation marred. Eleanor, on the other hand, has it rough and that’s the only way to say it.  Eleanor’s step father is abusive but in subtle and horrific ways. He makes an effort to make existing as uncomfortable and painful for her as possible through little things that aren’t really little. Their bathroom in their tiny home has no door. Her clothes are never clean. She has no where to put anything except her bed. Eleanor has absolutely no safety or security in her own home. She’s not a romantic, not an optimist, not hopeful for anything because she’s never had a reason to be. Even when she bumps into Park and even as their relationship progresses, she still maintains her distance because she has to. Because that’s how she’s learned to deal with life. 

These characters are real and they are aching. You want them to succeed, and you want them to have the ultimate outcome. I’m not a fan of romances, but the truth is, neither is Eleanor. She’s tough as hell and she has no reason to believe anyone could ever give her the sorts of things she needs and deserves emotionally (and physically). Rowell has a knack for getting to these characters and their insecurities and allowing those things to be what brings them together. Their relationship is strained and cautious, and in that caution, there is tenderness. 

I related to Eleanor on many, many levels. Aside from sharing a lot of her feelings when it comes to love and romance, I related to the relationship she had with her stepfather. It made me so uncomfortable because much of it was my experience with a step parent, as well. I just wanted to give the girl a hug and then tell her that she was worth a hell of a lot more than what she was being given. Park was sweet without ever being unrealistic. He doesn’t save Eleanor, and this isn’t a story about where a girl gives into that sort of trope. And in fact, I believe the ending of the book said it all — the next lines are spoiler, so feel free to skip down if you don’t want it. This was a story of Eleanor being the hero of her own journey. She was just lucky to have had the time with Park that she did and what they had — it could never, ever be taken away from her or from him.

This book will be enjoyed by readers looking for an emotionally mature story — there’s virtually nothing sexual here at all. It’s much more about emotional intimacy with moments of raw physical ache (vs. sex as sex). It reminded me at times of Natalie Standiford’s How to Say Goodbye in Robot and it will have appeal to teen readers who liked Laura Buzo’s Love and Other Perishable Objects. Readers who appreciated the hard-fought romances in the style of Gayle Forman will likely enjoy this book, too. 

Yes, this story is set in the 80s, which is usually a huge turn off for me. Fortunately, the heart of the story is timeless. The only thing giving it that time flavor are the pop culture references which, yes, could have been brought to current references to have had the same impact. But it wasn’t a deal breaker.


Eleanor & Park is available now. Review copy received from the publisher. 

Ever since Sophie’s older sister Nell was found dead in Jerome, Arizona, she’s been grieving. But it’s not simply grieving. There’s something suspicious about Nell’s death that Sophie can’t wrap her head around. Her sister suffered from what the doctors called Schizophrenia — she was hearing voices and they were telling her to do things that weren’t okay. Nell had tried committing suicide with a piece of shattered mirror glass, for example, after she’d been told she had to do that.

Nell was found hanging by her toe from a tree.

Sophie withdraws in school. She doesn’t care. She’s late all the time. She doesn’t care. Maybe she even looks forward to her punishment for being tardy because it means a little time with Evan, the new boy. Evan transferred to her school just six months ago from the other side of Phoenix. And as much as Sophie thinks falling for the new boy is so cliche, well, she does anyway.

It’s possible that Evan’s cousin Deb may have the clues to unlocking what happened to Nell at Oakside Behavioral Institution. He knows Sophie’s story. That’s because it’s his story, too. Together, Sophie and Evan are going to comb through the clues of Nell’s mysterious death, of the suspicious Dr. Keller who runs the Institution, and maybe save cousin Deb and everyone else still under Keller’s orders.

The Murmurings is West’s debut novel, and it’s straight-up horror. There are paranormal elements, but it’s not a paranormal romance. The overarching tone and mood of the novel is horror. Things happen that don’t make sense and that are creepy. Nell’s body was found dangling by a toe. It’s possible there is more than one character whose fate, too, will be found dangling upside down by a toe.

West builds great atmosphere in her novel. This is achieves not only through strong writing, but through great setting. The book takes place primarily in a couple of places: Jerome, Arizona and Oakside. Jerome, for anyone unfamiliar, is known for being the Wickedest City in the West. Weird things happen. Weird people live there. While Evan knows that Sophie’s sister died while being treated for her illness, he isn’t aware that she was found dead in Jerome, and knowing Sophie’s love of horror, Evan wants to take her there for a date because, well, it’s scary. Little does he know how scary, and when Sophie gets wind of this plan, she immediately breaks down and tells Evan about Nell’s death. Of course, he backpedals. It doesn’t stop them from a trip to Jerome, though.

It just makes their trip have a different purpose when they realize that Dr. Keller’s former second-hand man may have the clues to unlocking the truth of Oakside.

Oakside is the second primary setting. It’s here where the true action unfolds. It’s creepy. We know how the doors do and don’t work. We know that Pigeon — one of the heads in the facility — is to be feared. We know that those admitted here as patients all have something off about them. More than anything, though, we know that Dr. Keller isn’t in his right mind either. I can’t explain a whole lot more without unraveling the rest of the plot, but I can offer this much: Keller’s grieving his own loss. And it’s because of his own loss that he lords over his patients. It’s his grief that forces him to behave as he does, and Oakside is his playground. While it’s true Nell may have experienced Schizophrenia, she’s forced through treatment by Keller that comes as a result of his need to control, rather than his need to actually treat his patients.

Where The Murmurings doesn’t work, though, is in much of the execution of the story. It relies heavily on coincidence and on telling the reader backstory, rather than allowing the reader to piece it together. Evan and Sophie’s trip to Jerome allows them to meet Keller’s former partner at Oakside, Adam. Both were aware of Adam prior to their trip because he ran a blog “exposing” the truth of the treatments at the Institution, but when they arrive and find him in an underground bunker, Adam tells them everything. Yes, tells. We learn about Keller’s loss. We learn how his loss created different types of creepy creatures (these being a metaphor for the loss, that is). And Sophie’s fear that she’s becoming like Nell in hearing voices and having issues with mirrors? That’s part of the loss Keller suffered and it’s inflicted upon her because she’s part of Nell by being her sister. While readers are allowed to be skeptical about Adam’s information dumping, there’s not enough loops thrown from this point out to allow questioning. Sure, there are times Sophie wonders if she and Evan were led astray, but it doesn’t quite translate for the readers. Especially as more pieces snap into place.

At times, the story dragged because of the insistence on telling. Lengthy passages of back story of Oakside and of Keller and of the Tellers/Seekers/Insiders were uninteresting. It would have been much more effective for these things to occur throughout Sophie’s journey of discovery, rather than to have them incorporated simply as story explanation. In other words, the hand holding of the reader leads to a less-than-satisfying resolution and weak tension building. So where West is able to offer good atmosphere, her writing fails to conjure the same strength in tension. Since much of horror hinges on both elements working with one another in a story like this, having one of these elements lack impacts the greater whole. It doesn’t mean there’s not tension — there is and at times it’s quite creepy — but opportunities to take it a step further were instead used as opportunities to tell too much.

Likewise, The Murmurings depended a lot on coincidence. Evan, the new boy, of course has the key to unlocking the truth of Nell. Of course his cousin was friends with Nell at the institution. Of course Sophie just trusts him and she just trusts Adam. It was too easy for the characters and too easy for the reader. Had there been more red herrings and more plot twists, then this could have gone from an okay story to a great one.

The exploration of grief in conjunction with horror isn’t new territory, but thematically, it works well here. After letting this book settle for a while, another small element I felt worked spectacularly well was the parallel storyline of Sophie’s interest in and passion for Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. She claims she doesn’t like it. And while that’s likely true, it plays a larger role in her own life than she’s likely to admit. This metaphor was a smart way to bookend Sophie’s own story.

Pass The Murmurings off to readers who want a horror story that doesn’t rely on creatures to tell it. Yes, it’s possible there’s a creature or two here, but it’s not in the werewolf/ghost/vampire/zombie tradition. That may or may not be up to the reader’s interpretation of what’s real and what exists within the mind. This is a story about mental illness and about grief and loss and how those things can tangle, twist, and mangle a person. Readers who want scary will find it here. Even though this didn’t quite capture my attention and didn’t quite deliver on the fear factor in the way I anticipated, West’s writing is strong enough and the potential for going even further in the next story make me eager to see what she delivers next.

The Murmurings will be available March 5 from Simon Pulse. Review copy received from the publisher.