His books
usually take a little time for me to get in the rhythm of reading. You know,
that niche you find when you just can’t stop reading. King’s work is heavy; there
are a lot of details to take in. It’s not a turn-off, just takes me a bit
longer, but I always find it.
I can trust
King in the regard.
Bag of Bones was no different. It started off with a slow build; gradually, the
true horror of the story revealed itself and didn’t bother to take a break. At
first, I kept waiting for the good stuff to happen. I wasn’t upset with the
book, I was still compelled to read on, but I felt like King wasn’t dealing out
the terrifying factor as fast as he should be. Soon, (and maybe too soon, now
that I think about it) I realized I was more scared then I have been from a
book in a long time.
I actually put
the book down for a minute to comprehend just how scared I was.
All at once I
was terrified, amazed, and dumbfounded by Stephen King. He’d done it, once
again.
How had he
utterly freaked me out without my knowledge?
(I didn’t even
know that was possible.)
Suddenly, I
found the walk from my bedroom, through our living room, to the bathroom, a tad
more than I could handle without sufficient lighting. I found that I became
nervous if one of my arms or legs happened to be hanging over the edge of my
bed. The last time I felt like that I was 6 years old and my uncle had just
brought by his catch of the day (a ginormous blue shark), ergo igniting my
life-long fear of sharks. Lying in bed, I was horrified a shark would be
tempted out of the floor by one of my dangling limbs.
How had King
re-manifested this fear without me even knowing he was doing it?
Subtlety.
The glorious
act of subtlety.
Bag of Bones isn’t composed of “believable-only-in-context” terrors or over-the-top
horror novelties. It’s strung together by real-life fears and phobias. The
horror of Bag of Bones lies in simple occurrences twisted into a wider
web of overpowering uneasiness. It’s an astounding take on the quintessential
ghost story. Instead of an outrageous monster ransacking a city, King uses
small town secrets, refrigerator magnets, thumps from the basement, and
connections to those who’ve passed to construct a trap where the reader is
progressively (and gently) lured into a fear they can’t escape.
(I don’t even
believe in ghosts.)
Bag of Bones takes place in Maine following a man named Mike Noonan. Mike has made
a living writing novels and has built quite the life for himself and his wife,
Johanna. However, when Jo dies tragically and unexpectedly, Mike is left to his
work. Four years later he decides to break away from his life in Derry and
moves back to his lake house, Sara Laughs, in Maine. While the change of
scenery seems to fix his problems, Mike soon finds himself in that same
inescapable trap of fear.
The intricacy of this novel astounds me. For about two-thirds of the
book I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I was entangled in a story
that unfolded around me, allowing me to see bits and pieces of a great picture
still mostly invisible. If you like a good story that leaves you guessing till
the last few chapters then definitely pick up a Stephen King novel. His talent
for this continues to amaze me.
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