I wonder if Brooklyn Ann is able to sleep with a clear conscience. Does she have any remorse for invading my dreams with ghostly creatures—monsters with a penchant for apocalyptic violence? No? Well, she sure as hell should.
Personally, I’m a gentle sort. I grew up on American literary fiction: Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Hemingway. Normally, I would shy away from novels like Her Halloween Party. But I heard raves about Ann’s work, so I thought I’d give it a try. I’m glad I did—if I can only shake the images prowling in my skull.
Ann knows how to spin a story, replete with demons, yes, but also with likeable, multi-layered characters—people I cared about and literally screamed at to NOT open that damn door.
Then there’s the setting. Here’s how Ann described the wicked mansion:
“The Raimi House loomed over them, a gray brick monstrosity with multiple turrets, chimneys, and parapets. Arched windows on the upper floors twinkled in the sunlight like suspicious eyes, while the lower windows, boarded up, conveyed a sense of gloom. Multiple wings on the house sprawled on the grounds like a hulking beast, defying logistics.”
Yikes, the vocabulary alone is enough to give you the creeps: loomed, gray, monstrosity, turrets, parapets, suspicious, boarded up, gloom, hulking beasts. And all that in three sentences. But that’s precisely Ann’s style: suck the reader in before he or she has the wisdom to bolt for a sanctuary of flowers, butterflies, and angles on gossamer wings.
Understand, this novel is not for everyone—people with chronic angina should probably stay clear—but if you like your sex steamy and your ghouls beyond your imagination, Her Halloween Party is a cauldron of delights. Just keep in mind this warning: when you read it, keep the lights on. You’ll thank me later—if you survive.
Allen Johnson
Author of Athena’s Piano