Hmm…..

Oh shit, where’s my wallet?  Oh wait, I got it.  Holy Crap, I can’t find my phone!  Nevermind, it’s over there.  Now where the hell are my friggin’ glasses?  Well how about that, they are on my head. 

I must be missing something, though. Why else am I unable to appreciate Charnel House by Graham Masterton?

Perhaps I’m not appreciative of pulp fiction (aside from The Quentin Tarantino film).  Oh but wait, I like H.P. Lovecraft and he’s a pulpy kind of dude. Hmm…

Conceivably, I enslaved myself to my own expectations.  Sure! I was expecting to absorb some great haunted house literature and instead I found myself inside a story concerned more broadly with evil demons and native folklore.  Yet, I fell in love with many stories that ignored my expectations and gave me not a haunted house but a ghost story in general.

I got it!  I’m not giving this author a chance. That’s it.  I chose the wrong book, that’s all. But this book received an Edgar Award and many people love it.  Furthermore, I am trying but I am unable to garnish enough interest to purchase any more of his  books.  I’ll show you my efforts…Here I go…I am TRYINGGGGGGG!!!  PUSH out some interest! GGGGRUNT!!!!  Alas. Nothing. Inspiration constipation.

I have to face it.  I don’t like Charnel House and I probably won’t like any other books by Graham Masterson

Plot in brief (Heh-Heh, he writes in his underwear)

The book  starts off well enough. A man goes downtown to the offices of blah-blah ( ah, I don’t remember. Some department within the city government) to complain that his house is breathing.  How cool is that shit for a lover of haunted house stories! Alas, it all goes downhill from here.

The guy at the office that receives the complaint takes on the role as the protagonist.  He turns into some kind of wannabe detective and goes on to investigate the situation. He’s smug, he’s sexist; he’s irritating if you ask me. He partners with a native American spiritual Guru, who embodies every stereotypical notion of what a trite person might consider for such a character. Throw in some generic female characters and an awkward romance as a side plot for the hell of it. And then, discover the source of the mysterious breathing. It’s an ancient demon from native folklore named Coyote.  Only Coyote ain’t bogged down in myths. He’s real.  Really, a showdown with the Demon on the Golden Gate Bridge?  

Ho-Hum

At DMRBooks.com, the blogger has this to say about Masterton:

“Masterton has been described as “cheesy” and “pulpish”. He certainly doesn’t write ‘literary horror’. You know what? I don’t care. Here is why.”

I agree.  It is cheesy (VERY cheesy), and it certainly isn’t literary horror.  He doesn’t care, but I do, and these are the reasons I don’t like the book.  What I don’t care about are  the reasons the author doesn’t care.  I don’t care enough to read his reasons for not being bothered by the cheese and the pulp (sounds like some cheddar, OJ dink)   You can if you wish. Here’s the link

I get it though. His style is simple and he’s a master of quick-reading thrills (I guess), and for this people love Graham Masterton.  I don’t. Sorry.   .