Book Review: "The Third Corona Book of Horror Stories" edited by Lewis Williams
There may be nothing between the covers of a book that I love more than a well assembled and carefully selected anthology of short horror fiction. I say that without exaggeration. There’s never been a time in my life (after 5th grade or so) that there hasn’t been a collection of dark delicacies sitting on the back of my toilet or within reach on my nightstand. I’ve not counted the exact number on the bookshelves in my bedroom, but it’s a safe bet to say that they take up at least two shelves. Hell, I’ve even had 3 stories of my own published in various anthologies (find them on Amazon here…SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT).
Virtually every horror writer worth their salt has a slew of pint-sized nasties out there for your perusal. The short story is what first turned me onto Stephen King; I happen to think that’s where his finest work is (but that’s a debate for another day). Corona Books, out of the UK, has already built a solid reputation in the horror writing community. This is my first chance to get my bloody little paws on one of their tomes, and I can report that the reputation is well-deserved!
Editor Lewis Williams (who also has a wickedly karmic flash piece inside) has assembled a diverse group of authors from 824 submissions, both in terms of geographic location (UK, USA, Canada, Croatia) and experience (prolific names like Sue Bentley all the way to the first submission of a new author!). The layout of The Third Corona Book of Horror Stories is considerate, too- you’ll find thorough bios on all authors along with their Twitter and website information. I appreciate that level of care; not every publisher will give you that much promotion in logical order. There’s even an Honorable Mention list of authors who couldn’t be squeezed into this edition but still kick ass!
In the tradition of the best anthologies, you get a wide variety: from the dark and ugly (“Lily’s Kids” by Florence Ann Marlowe) to the twisty mindfuck (“A Little Death” by Ryan Harville) to the happy ending you don’t expect (“Luna Too” by Jess Doyle). There’s an expository tale about classic barber shop stylings that will make you say “Fuck that!” and just buy a trimmer to use at home (“The Barber” by A.P. Sessler). Myriad are the surprises contained herein- how in the hell do you make doing the dishes into a nightmare (“Suds & Monsters” by Christopher Stanley)?! Sue Bentley channels the horror of the ancients with “Old Gods”. You’ll get so many back to back shocks from John Haas’ “The Debt” that you might need medical attention.
The joy of The Third Corona Book of Horror Stories is that there wasn’t a legit stinker in the bunch. If you read enough anthologies you know that’s a hard one to pull off. There are some that are predictable stories (“Angel” by Jo Gilmour and “Murderabilia” by Adam Meyer), but that doesn’t mean that the execution and payoff are weak; quite the contrary. Even the closer, “Scythe” by Jeremy Megargee, is light on the scares but heavy on the atmosphere and emotion, a sad and dreadful tale of the close of old age. It’s a bit unfair to even call them the “weakest of the bunch” because the overall quality level throughout is so damn good.
The two major home runs are “The First Circle” by Sue Eaton and “Curious, If Anything” by C.C. Adams. The former is told from the perspective of a wife who buys her husband a carved walnut, an ominous little art oddity with a thousand tiny faces on it. At first she’s repulsed by it, but after being pricked by it she’s drawn into its life-stealing power. The latter is a tale of a Nigerian man who can’t unsee a ghost in his bathtub. What that spirit has to say to the poor bastard who lives with it about death and the inevitably insidious nature of it will haunt you. It’s a beautiful tale that freezes your heart.
Again, there are no bad tales here. I generally take my short story collections in small doses (hence the toilet/bedside location). Once I started The Third Corona Book of Horror Stories I finished it in essentially one sitting. That type of literary gorging should tell you more than all of my verbal diarrhea ever could.
I simply couldn’t help myself.
