Hardcover, 322 pages
English language
Published by Gallery Books.
In the summer of 1988, the mutilated bodies of several missing girls begin to turn up in a small Maryland town. The grisly evidence leads police to the terrifying assumption that a serial killer is on the loose in the quiet suburb. But soon a rumor begins to spread that the evil stalking local teens is not entirely human. Law enforcement, as well as members of the FBI, are certain that the killer is a living, breathing madman—and he’s playing games with them. For a once peaceful community trapped in the depths of paranoia and suspicion, it feels like a nightmare that will never end.
Recent college graduate Richard Chizmar returns to his hometown just as a curfew is enacted and a neighborhood watch is formed. Amid preparing for his wedding and embarking on a writing career, he soon finds himself thrust into a real-life horror story. Inspired by the …
In the summer of 1988, the mutilated bodies of several missing girls begin to turn up in a small Maryland town. The grisly evidence leads police to the terrifying assumption that a serial killer is on the loose in the quiet suburb. But soon a rumor begins to spread that the evil stalking local teens is not entirely human. Law enforcement, as well as members of the FBI, are certain that the killer is a living, breathing madman—and he’s playing games with them. For a once peaceful community trapped in the depths of paranoia and suspicion, it feels like a nightmare that will never end.
Recent college graduate Richard Chizmar returns to his hometown just as a curfew is enacted and a neighborhood watch is formed. Amid preparing for his wedding and embarking on a writing career, he soon finds himself thrust into a real-life horror story. Inspired by the terrifying events, Richard writes a personal account of the serial killer’s reign of terror, unaware that these events will continue to haunt him for years to come.
Something about this story was compelling. I wanted to read it. To get to the end and find out what was waiting. But jeez, what clumsy writing. What awkward dialog. What unfathomable decisions by so many characters. I don't know. It's a competent serial killer story wrapped in clumsy King-style nostalgia and poor prose.
The writing was great in some places, but used superfluous adverbs and adjectives plus meaningless details and dialogue that didn’t quite feel natural elsewhere, things that journalists are advised to avoid. Creative writing’s impression of journalism is only fun to those who haven’t been journalists.
The concept of the novel was interesting. I thought the photos pantomiming fake crimes and victims to be a bit tasteless, but perhaps that’s because I have the perspective of a survivor of crimes and journalist who worked on real crime stories and feels there’s almost a sacred respect that should be given to this.
Some of the police procedural and journalism work imagined by the author wasn’t at all in line with work then or since, but a good novel needs creative licensing. Some of the details of others’ work or actions would’ve been impossible for the author to know and didn’t really matter …
The writing was great in some places, but used superfluous adverbs and adjectives plus meaningless details and dialogue that didn’t quite feel natural elsewhere, things that journalists are advised to avoid. Creative writing’s impression of journalism is only fun to those who haven’t been journalists.
The concept of the novel was interesting. I thought the photos pantomiming fake crimes and victims to be a bit tasteless, but perhaps that’s because I have the perspective of a survivor of crimes and journalist who worked on real crime stories and feels there’s almost a sacred respect that should be given to this.
Some of the police procedural and journalism work imagined by the author wasn’t at all in line with work then or since, but a good novel needs creative licensing. Some of the details of others’ work or actions would’ve been impossible for the author to know and didn’t really matter as they didn’t serve the plot so much. The breaking of the narrative wall is this way became distracting. I was a little tired by some of the comments and depictions of women which felt stereotypical and/or lacking depth.
The novel was at its best when the author focused on the action of the book and the main plot. The memoir bits have value but went on for far too many pages in too much irrelevant detail, and it made it hard to stay invested. I didn’t feel particularly shoved or supposed by plot reveals, and I wondered if the whole book would’ve done better if written from the perspective like the author rather than the author. Which I know would’ve defeated the genre bending purpose, but ultimately could’ve fixed these issues.
I was shocked the author used the derogatory and outdated term Eskimo, which as an editor I advise writers not to do.
