This story is just damned uncomfortable. To the point that I don’t even know how to shelf it – it was kind of funny, but mostly just… well…. Uncomfortable.
I have a mother who is obsessed with Elvis Presley. Actually, everytime I hear him I think of Christmas because that is the only time of year my dad can tolerate listening to it anymore. Somehow, Elvis Presley has become our Christmas music. Which is weird to say the least. So reading this gave me a weird feeling of Christmas. Even though it had ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with that time of year…
I laughed at this. So much. And so hard. Maybe a little harder than I needed to. It was late at night, so sue me…
You could kind of see how this story was going to end in the first few sentences. For starters, the title is Typecast, it implies the fitting of certain roles to an idea. Specifically when you are introduced to a casting director in LA. And one that is hunting for the perfect serial killer…
This is an incredibly short story. And when I started reading it, I was wondering what part of painting an apple would make it part of a blood thirsty collection. When I figured it out, I was honestly a little grossed out and freaked. Which is why I gave it a slightly higher rating than I probably would have normally… it surprised me and made me feel weird.
I’ve seen dementia and short term memory loss used as a humorous anecdote, as a sad trial, as a hurdle that someone has to challenge or overcome. I have never read about it being used in a horror story. I’ve also never been so freaked out by the idea of someone with short term memory loss. But, Pyle has definitely managed to change that for me.
I read this short story before going to bed. Mistake! I hate dolls, mannequins and anything generally humanoid that doesn’t quite make it. Mannequins are kind of at the top of this list. So a horror story about mannequins coming to life… yeah, it was not a good idea to read before turning off the lights.
I like the way that this tale is set – as though it’s a documentary of a reunion tour for a band. Except that this band is the four men of the apocalypse. And the tour is taking place in a hotel where everyone is dead.
This short story made me feel sick. To be fair, it could have been me getting car sick. Because I was reading this in the car. On windy roads. Late at night. But, I’m pretty sure that I felt sick because this story kind of freaked me out.
The harsh critiques of editors and readers is something that I think we all fear. So what happens when there is a horror of a writer and the editor is forced to constantly deal with her ghost?