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Some while ago I reviewed The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, as recommended by Stephen King in Danse Macabre, and pretty much slated it. Having read another of King’s favourite ghost stories, I can say that he’s chosen a really good one this time.
The book in question is The House Next Door by Anne Rivers Siddons, first published in the late 1970s. It’s an unusually modern ghost story, in that there’s almost nothing paranormal at all in it: no spectres, no ominous mansions, and only one incident that has to be supernatural rather than the product of a disturbed mind. But it’s still a ghost story, and a very unsettling one.
Colquitt and Walter Kennedy are successful professionals in a suburb of very similar people. They’re vaguely progressive and liberal without really being left-wing: in Britain, they would read The Guardian; in modern America, perhaps The Huffington Post. A young architect designs a state-of-the-art home on land next to theirs, and then the trouble begins. Anyone who moves into the new house is systematically humiliated, driven mad or killed. And, slowly, the house begins to spread its influence.
I have said that there are no traditional ghosts here, and there are no traditional ghost story deaths, either. Most of the horrors come from accidents or dreadful co-incidences, and although people do die (horribly), the ghastly events are often social in nature, revealing the hidden lusts and hatreds under the neighbourhood’s placid exterior. Everyone gets exactly what they didn't want. A bereaved mother starts seeing her dead son on the house’s television; a doting housewife throws a party for her neighbours, only for them to stumble on her husband and his best mate having gay sex on the pile of coats; a social climber is driven half-mad with disgust when a power cut showers him in – well, I don’t want to spoil the fun.
And fun it is, in a terrible way. As I read The House Next Door, I felt both dread for the characters and a kind of sick glee at seeing what the house would do next, as if I was watching a sadist playing The Sims. In a way, this is a horror story for grown-ups, which plays on the fear of getting violent diarrhoea in public as much as being dismembered by some unstoppable loon in a hockey mask. That sounds like something from a Ben Stiller film, but be honest here – which is more likely to happen to you in your lifetime? Quite.
Eventually, Colquitt and Walter realise that in order to fight the house, they will have to lose their friends and their status – and in doing so, lose almost everything they’ve worked to achieve. If they seemed vain and empty to begin with, by the end their struggle to protect other people from the house comes across as genuinely heroic.
I often feel that ghost stories lose their punch when the reason for the haunting is revealed. Only re-bury the wronged servant’s bones, and she’ll disappear for ever, perhaps appearing to say thanks before she goes. Siddons avoids this very simply. The house is totally malignant, and, although theories are advanced, nobody ever quite gets to the root of the problem. This seems so much more chilling than having a problem to be solved to make everything better, or name-dropping the Necronomicon to explain it all.
So I would strongly recommend this book. It ditches the gothic trappings of old ghost stories, the kitschy, Addams-Family stuff, and pushes the ghost story into the modern day whilst keeping the elements that genuinely do disturb. I’d like to say that The House Next Door shows that the ghost story is alive and kicking, but that doesn’t sound quite right. Dead, then, and cunning, and hungry.
8/10
The book in question is The House Next Door by Anne Rivers Siddons, first published in the late 1970s. It’s an unusually modern ghost story, in that there’s almost nothing paranormal at all in it: no spectres, no ominous mansions, and only one incident that has to be supernatural rather than the product of a disturbed mind. But it’s still a ghost story, and a very unsettling one.
Colquitt and Walter Kennedy are successful professionals in a suburb of very similar people. They’re vaguely progressive and liberal without really being left-wing: in Britain, they would read The Guardian; in modern America, perhaps The Huffington Post. A young architect designs a state-of-the-art home on land next to theirs, and then the trouble begins. Anyone who moves into the new house is systematically humiliated, driven mad or killed. And, slowly, the house begins to spread its influence.
I have said that there are no traditional ghosts here, and there are no traditional ghost story deaths, either. Most of the horrors come from accidents or dreadful co-incidences, and although people do die (horribly), the ghastly events are often social in nature, revealing the hidden lusts and hatreds under the neighbourhood’s placid exterior. Everyone gets exactly what they didn't want. A bereaved mother starts seeing her dead son on the house’s television; a doting housewife throws a party for her neighbours, only for them to stumble on her husband and his best mate having gay sex on the pile of coats; a social climber is driven half-mad with disgust when a power cut showers him in – well, I don’t want to spoil the fun.
And fun it is, in a terrible way. As I read The House Next Door, I felt both dread for the characters and a kind of sick glee at seeing what the house would do next, as if I was watching a sadist playing The Sims. In a way, this is a horror story for grown-ups, which plays on the fear of getting violent diarrhoea in public as much as being dismembered by some unstoppable loon in a hockey mask. That sounds like something from a Ben Stiller film, but be honest here – which is more likely to happen to you in your lifetime? Quite.
Eventually, Colquitt and Walter realise that in order to fight the house, they will have to lose their friends and their status – and in doing so, lose almost everything they’ve worked to achieve. If they seemed vain and empty to begin with, by the end their struggle to protect other people from the house comes across as genuinely heroic.
I often feel that ghost stories lose their punch when the reason for the haunting is revealed. Only re-bury the wronged servant’s bones, and she’ll disappear for ever, perhaps appearing to say thanks before she goes. Siddons avoids this very simply. The house is totally malignant, and, although theories are advanced, nobody ever quite gets to the root of the problem. This seems so much more chilling than having a problem to be solved to make everything better, or name-dropping the Necronomicon to explain it all.
So I would strongly recommend this book. It ditches the gothic trappings of old ghost stories, the kitschy, Addams-Family stuff, and pushes the ghost story into the modern day whilst keeping the elements that genuinely do disturb. I’d like to say that The House Next Door shows that the ghost story is alive and kicking, but that doesn’t sound quite right. Dead, then, and cunning, and hungry.
8/10
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