Shortly after I read Cold Moon Over Babylon by this author I made it a point to seek out his other works. Somehow I missed out on reading Michael McDowell back in the 80s. I am now armed with a small collection of his books and this is the second one I have read. I'm pleased to say I enjoyed it just as much as my first venture.

This story takes place in Pine Cone Alabama where there is not much opportunity for work other than the munitions factory. Jo Howell, who is as mean as the Alabama sun is hot, blames the munitions factory and just about everyone in town for the horrific accident that put her son in a vegetative state. She is consumed with thoughts of revenge, and she will have it, in the form of a cursed amulet that causes whoever possesses it to murder whoever happens to be handy at the time, before they themselves also die in freakishly bizarre accidents the likes of which I would not expect to see anywhere outside of one of those Final Destination movies. I do wish there had been some explanation of where the Amulet derived this power from but that did not really detract from the gory good time I had reading this book. ( )

I had high hopes for this one, but I'm afraid it ended up turning me off from reading anything else the author wrote. The writing itself isn't too bad, but the book's story itself feels loose and messy--more an excuse to offer a reader horrific scenes than anything with structure or a story that I could truly engage with. A number of folks in my horror book group have really enjoyed it, but I really just needed more. The story was played out fast-and-loose, without any real build-up of tension once things got going, and although the gossipy/horrid characters were entertaining and there was a certain wry humor to sometimes be enjoyed, that wasn't nearly enough to make me feel engaged. With the end being just as fast-and-loose as the rest of the book, with some resolution to the characters but none of the explanation I'd hoped for, I can't say that I was all that impressed (or even happy I'd finished). It's also worth noting that although the book is somewhat dated and placed in the Vietnam era, the author's writing of race and constant remarks on weight/fat made for some regularly uncomfortable reading (for me, at least), which would have itself given me second thoughts about reading more of the author's work.

I should note that I read this with a horror book club, and many of the other readers enjoyed it or were, at the least, entertained enough to feel it was an 'okay' read they were happy enough to have stumbled on. It seems the hallmarks (from what I've heard) in McDowell's writing are gossipy, great scene-setting, bad people and over-the-top events, all of which this book delivers on. And aside from a ton of scene-setting that made for a slow beginning, there's nothing wrong with the writing here except for what I'd call some underdeveloped/stereotyped characters and an uncomfortable way of dealing with race and weight both. So, I'm sure McDowell will be worth picking up for some readers...just not this one in the future. ( )

While it started off fairly interesting, The Amulet quickly fell into a repetitive pattern of find amulet, go mad, kill, be killed, drop amulet. This wouldn't have been too bad if it happened just a few times, but it happened 6 or 7, breaking only to check in with Sarah's search. Compounded by the amulet's apparent restrictions of power, the climax of the story is nearly non-sensical, if not entertaining. But on the positive side, the conclusion was well-earned and deeply satisfying. It's strange to see a book that fumbles the buildup and sticks the landing, rather than the other way around, but there you have it. ( )

When this popped up in my recommendations, I remembered the cover. I remember I didn't really like it (can't remember why, though). ( )

“The Wiregrass is not a region that breeds tolerance or friendliness, and the more genial of human attributes seem to exist in that place by chance and neglect rather than by cultivation.”

It’s hard to feel or care for most characters in this novel. There are a lot of bad apples. I mean, like moldy and glass-strewn applesauce of the soul. And I get it—you need the baddies so one doesn’t mind or, indeed relishes, the grisly demise of these soon-to-be-crushed humans. But for the occasional good character? They’re grist for the mill, as well, and any attempt at prior sympathy gets tossed in the hopper. The hopper? Well, we’ve got whipping ceiling fans, plunging icepicks, throat-tearing swine, hurtling automobiles (that don’t just pummel a body, but positively pulverize it by propelling that poor soul into a concrete abutment), ad nauseum. Yes, it is sickening. And the mayhem does get predictable once you see the amulet pass from one battered person to another, even if the destruction is inventive. But is that enough? Maybe for some. Obviously for some, since it was picked up for publication after six previous novels had been submitted by the author and rejected (can’t fault the man’s gumption). To me, though, it does read like an 80s slasher film.

What separates this from other savagely grotesque horror of its era is the build-up; a sleepy Alabama town absolutely dripping with gossip; consistent colloquial dialogue; class and racial conflict—all mixed in a sultry Southern Gothic stew. I wish there’d been more of this and less havoc, since the violence would’ve been far more piercing and painful to witness. It did at times feel like a case of “and then this happened, and then this happened, and this . . .” You know, just as slasher flicks usually come off. Some people lap it up. I find it a bit tedious; much like watching pieces rolling by on a blood-soaked conveyer belt; but then, blood on tap is some people’s beverage of choice. However, I’m the type of man who once covered himself in faux blood for promotions on a book release, so . . .

This is number who’scountinganyway? in my parade of horror novels as research for my upcoming short story collection. As Kurtz said through the mouth of Marlow through the pen of Conrad: “The horror! The horror!” And even though 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘵 may not have been the brightest gem on the chain, it kept my interest, nonetheless. Each entry colors enough of the spaces in my brain to facilitate my search for the vacant, the untold, the uncrayoned pockets.

“Sarah dropped her head in her hands. She was crazy to think those things, crazy to sit in the darkness and accuse her invalid vegetable husband of mass murder; out of her mind to see calculated, spiraling mayhem when there was only accident and not uncommon domestic homicide. She was crazy to think it, but there was no way any longer to believe anything else.
She no longer loved Dean. With what she knew about him, how could she? Besides, it wasn’t Dean that had come back to her, but a breathing corpse, a sweating sack of warm lard surrounding a tube that ran from the top to the bottom, from the mouth to the rear end—and that was all. Josephine Howell, she was the crazy one, for sitting there all day talking to such a thing.
Sarah at last admitted to herself that she no longer had a husband. That Pine Cone rifle had done worse than even what Jo credited it with. It had blown away not only Dean’s face, but it had torn off everything that was good in the man, leaving a rotting carcass of single-minded wickedness. Sarah was not even allowed the comfort of mourning the loss of her husband, for legally the man was still there: he had a Social Security number, and he occupied a certain space, and dozens of government forms had to filled out with his name on them. And worst of all, he had the right to demand attention of her. The thing that lay in there on that bed, however, was no more Dean than if Sarah had stuffed a dozen dead cats in a pair of pajamas and arranged them on the bed to look like the figure of a man underneath the covers—and stuck a white gourd on the pillow for the head.” ( )