I received a free review copy of The House of Dust from NetGalley in exchange for a fair and honest review - my sincerest thanks to both the author and the publisher. :)
This is Southern Gothic at its absolute finest. This book creeps and oozes around you, eventually swallowing you whole, much like some folks in the story.
Mr. Broyles weaves the vivid tapestry for you to tread upon, unravels part of it out from under you, pulling a loose thread slowly until abruptly hog-tying you with the loose strand and stuffing the rest into your mouth as a gag. By this point, you are a hapless victim as the story consumes you while it unfolds towards its inexorable climax. The old is new, the new is old, and we are just caught in the middle; the snake consumes its tail, history repeats. To quote a song from a much-loved band out of Tennessee '10 Years' "Days pass, time flies, you don't realize, today you waste."
He does such an excellent job of bringing these characters to life, building the impending sense of doom and destruction then shattering it with a flash of light, "hope" you think as you read and try to convince yourself, lying to yourself as you know the storm clouds are just boiling out of view. The darkness builds again and rushes through you sweeping you away longer each time until the next patch of light. About halfway through, I realized I was caught up in the town's cycles.
I grew up in the Deep South, and this quote from the book sums it up perfectly:
"The South is a ghost, and so am I. Wandering the ways of the night, we return and return to find the place where we died. Walking circles, running cycles, never reaching beyond, never breaking free. Traveling through time orbiting a black star."
I never grew up elsewhere, but I can attest that it seems there is a nearly constant theme with folks growing up in the South. There is an endemic affecting people who cannot escape the towns, cities, backwaters they were born in, their parents were born in or buried in, their great grandparents, and so on. It doesn't matter if you were born in a place sporting one traffic light, with barely patched, faded roads roiling with heatwaves and maybe a Dollar General, or born in a bustling metropolis into a family of means.
It's impossible to deny the cycle of the South; something about it grips and holds, trying to drag you down into a malaise where you talk about leaving but always put it off until tomorrow. Tomorrow finally comes, except you join your ancestors in the same soil, once again the earth feasting on a bloodline it already knows, welcoming you to your actual home.
Mr. Broyles takes these cycles, centuries-old, and brings them into horrifying life, something almost tangible. This is a triumphant freshman debut.