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A review by screamdogreads
Ghost Eaters by Clay McLeod Chapman
4.5
"I feel myself plummet into the endless depths, until there's no light from above. Nothing in my lungs. No feeling anymore. There's nothing left of me at all. "
Review updated as of my re-read - (2.7.24–4.7.24)
When an author can shape the ghosts that haunt his story into something far more than mere spectres designed to scare us, when he can breathe life into them, gift them the ability to truly take charge of his novel - not just its characters, but its landscape too, its very being, that's when a book becomes more than just another horror novel. That's when it becomes something truly magical. Ghost Eaters offers up something rather unique when it comes to delivering a ghost story. See, this is far more than a spooky campfire tale - it's something absolutely wild, feral, apocalyptic even. It's a book of nightmarish proportion. Ghost Eaters takes the traditional ghost story, douses it in gasoline and sets it ablaze, creating an entirely new beast from the embers.
Like many a horror novel before it, and many to follow, Ghost Eaters opens with the exploits of a bunch of vapid teenagers getting way too high as they follow along in the footsteps of their all too charismatic leader. From there, however, it plunges into a drug fueled fever-dream, one that will have you constantly checking over your shoulder, because you're sure as shit you saw something lingering in the shadows just then. This is bleak as fuck horror for a decaying generation, it's nihilism tinged, bleach soaked, acid washed brilliance, a true work of art in the horror sphere. This is so much more than a ghost story, it's a haunting, annihilating, horrifically painful tale of addiction. It's a story that's crawled up from the cavernous depths of Hell, intent on showing us something truly terrifying. Visceral, gripping and entirely too vivid, Ghost Eaters is a novel of cataclysmic proportion.
Review updated as of my re-read - (2.7.24–4.7.24)
When an author can shape the ghosts that haunt his story into something far more than mere spectres designed to scare us, when he can breathe life into them, gift them the ability to truly take charge of his novel - not just its characters, but its landscape too, its very being, that's when a book becomes more than just another horror novel. That's when it becomes something truly magical. Ghost Eaters offers up something rather unique when it comes to delivering a ghost story. See, this is far more than a spooky campfire tale - it's something absolutely wild, feral, apocalyptic even. It's a book of nightmarish proportion. Ghost Eaters takes the traditional ghost story, douses it in gasoline and sets it ablaze, creating an entirely new beast from the embers.
Like many a horror novel before it, and many to follow, Ghost Eaters opens with the exploits of a bunch of vapid teenagers getting way too high as they follow along in the footsteps of their all too charismatic leader. From there, however, it plunges into a drug fueled fever-dream, one that will have you constantly checking over your shoulder, because you're sure as shit you saw something lingering in the shadows just then. This is bleak as fuck horror for a decaying generation, it's nihilism tinged, bleach soaked, acid washed brilliance, a true work of art in the horror sphere. This is so much more than a ghost story, it's a haunting, annihilating, horrifically painful tale of addiction. It's a story that's crawled up from the cavernous depths of Hell, intent on showing us something truly terrifying. Visceral, gripping and entirely too vivid, Ghost Eaters is a novel of cataclysmic proportion.
"I always spot the paraphernalia falling out of his pockets - a charred spoon, a lighter with rehab is for quitters printed on its side, burned asteroids of tinfoil with a gummy black tar clinging to their crumpled cores - the totems of his own decline. His addiction shouldn't have come as a surprise to any of us. Silas always wanted to experience everything. That addiction entered the fold was just the natural progression of things."
There exists not a page in this novel that isn't stalked by ghosts. They haunt its buildings and roam its streets, they're woven deep into its history, they swarm its people. As much as, on its surface, this is a horror novel it's also something far, far more sinister, something grotesque and horrifically bleak. You'll find no sunshine, happy fun times here, there's no conclusion in which everyone walks away holding hands and full of smiles. Once you crack open the pages of this imposing monster of a book, you'll be faced with the most brutally distressing, grief soaked exploration of an affliction that affects so many.
In fact, once you peel away the gritty outer layer of this book, and dig just a little towards its core, once you locate the beating heart of this novel, you'll uncover one of the most soul-shattering tales of addiction penned in the modern day. Chapman has so tenderly explored what addiction really means, how it's so much more than simply chasing that next high, how, sometimes, it can manifest as something else entirely. He so beautifully illustrates how the people around us, and the compulsions that drive us can be every bit as damaging.
The best kind of horror has always been, and will always be, something extremely personal, that feeling when a book can become more than the sum of its scares, and Ghost Eaters is exactly that. It's exactly what horror should be - a beautifully rendered nightmare.
"Silas wants me to see this. Experience this. He's showing me our life together, how our existences intertwine. This is his way of telling me that he's here, still here, that he never left. He will never leave me - he loves me, forgives me - as long as I stay inside this house. Two spirits, two souls, communing. It's beautiful. So fucking beautiful. This is better than sex. This is being touched by God."