The Church of the Dead Girls by Stephen Dobyns (1997)

           Post 911, small town hysteria seems like an interesting topic for social commentary to use as the backdrop for insanity and murder.  However, The Church of the Dead Girls was written well before the planes flew into the towers or the pentagon or dove into a field in Pennsylvania.  So while the reaction to the deaths in Aurelia, NY seemed plausible given the natural fear human beings have for the unknown, especially when the unknown is the identity of a killer on the loose, the book spends an extraordinary amount of time building the town and its inhabitants at the expense of a real story. 

            The novel begins with a prologue (which is really a flash forward) describing the entombment of the three missing dead girls in our killers attic.  As hooks go, sentence one is awesome: “This is how they looked: three dead girls propped up in three straight chairs.” (pg. 1)  For me, it doesn’t get much better than that.  The prologue (flash forward) goes on in great (by great I mean really great) description of the condition and location of the three dead girls.  By the end of the prologue, I’m like a heroin addict who has waited too long for a fix.  My skin is crawling wanting more. 

            I extend my arm and tie off my vein as I read the first sentence of chapter 1: “Afterward everyone said it began with the disappearance of the first girl, but it began earlier than that.” (pg. 9).  I think, here it comes, and it does for a while.  I feel the tingle and the warmth, but soon, my high dissipates.  This ain’t the good shit I was promised. 

            Chapter 1 and most of the chapters that follow are not bringing me closer to ecstasy but further away.  Sadly, it isn’t long before I begin to skim pages, index finger extended, searching for a verb to latch on to.  I was being told so much about everyone I don’t care about anyone. And it goes on and on, chapter after chapter that way.  My mind draws doodles in the margins.  99 bottles of beer rings in my head.

            Soon I’m wondering who the hell is telling the story.  I get this idea I’m reading a twisted version of a Claymation Christmas program narrated by a disembodied Fred Astaire and the town is really the island of the misfits.  Old Fred knows what everyone does and thinks and feels.  He knows their fears and their prejudices.  He sees through their eyes and hears what they hear.  HE IS GOD.  And like GOD his name is unknown.  I guess to speak it is to burst into flames.  The narrator mocks me “I am that I am” is a booming Cecil B. Demille Moses burning bush voice.  For those who may not converse with the almighty, the phrase translates into “shut up and accept it.”  So I try, but now my heart is filled with blasphemy. 

            Finally, some 300 pages later we get to the meat or what is supposed to be the plot.  I will not spoil it for those still wanting to read the book, but let’s just say that as a southpaw I was truly insulted.  As a reader, turning the pages with my right hand fingers, my reaction was more like, REALLY? IS THIS ALL THERE IS?  Yes, my reactions sometimes are in caps.  Talk about cliché plot!  OMG!  What Ever Happened to Baby Jane comes to Aurelia.

            Listen, who am I to criticize, right?  The writing is poetic in word selection and usage and description of the town and it’s beautiful the way Dobyn’s builds the community and you feel like you’re there and blah-blah-blah.  I was setup to read a scary suspense story and I didn’t get one.  Call me jaded.  Call me unsophisticated.  Call me slug.  Call me a victim of too many Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies or Children of the Corn viewings, whatever.  Hell, I’m not even going to go into the issues with POV anymore than I have already.  Sadly, for me the best parts of the book began and ended with Steven King’s blurb.  I would have like to have read that book.  This was no Needful Things. 

            My name is Dwight Jolivette and I approve this message.