After studying T. Kingfisher’s novel The Hollow Places, I actually have one thing to mention to Stephen King: Steve-o, you’ve got some stiff competition.
The Hollow Places is certainly one of the most terrifying books you’ll ever read. The story starts offevolved innocently enough. After her divorce, a picture artist named Kara goes to live with her mild and whimsical Uncle Earl (he calls her Carrot). Settled in the returned room of his museum of strange objects, Kara can stay rent-free as long as she allows him categorize his oddities. Next door to the museum is the Black Hen, a coffee store whose barista, a nutty and cute chap named Simon, may also have eaten his twin within the womb. But he’s now not the source of the horror.
The objects in Earl’s museum are what you’d expect. There are statues of Bigfoot and Mothman, a Feejee mermaid and all way of sad, taxidermied animals, along with an eight-foot-long giant river otter. Fans regularly send gadgets to Earl, and at some point an item that Kara finds particularly sinister arrives. But like the whole lot else, she inventories it and puts it somewhere among the oddments. Then, as is the case on every occasion something honestly creepy comes into an already creepy museum, abnormal things start to happen.
Kingfisher’s superpower is her capability to describe matters that cannot possibly be, matters that can’t be there but are—things that the human mind can’t wrap itself around. In this, Kingfisher, the author of The Twisted Ones and Dragonbreath, is just like H.P. Lovecraft. She differs from Lovecraft in that she has a rollicking sense of humor and believes in the electricity of love.
The Hollow Places is one of those books that keeps you up at night, either due to the fact you can’t positioned it down or due to the fact you’re scared to show off the lighting and visit bed. You’ve been warned.