Welcome to Freaky Fridays, the day of your doom. When forgotten paperbacks rise from the grave and stalk the living, hungry for their warm, wet eyeballs. Crawling like hell-worms across this apocalyptic wasteland of mud, ruled by the dark vikings known as the Gods of Black Metal.
Downtune those guitars and slow your tempo to a dirge because this week’s book is the most Doom Metal of them all. It’s not just the fact that the Misfits logo is on the cover. It’s not just that it’s about witches. It’s not just that there is no escape from the crushing Scottish sludge of 1980’s The Stigma. No, the reason this book is an avalanche of grave dirt, wet with blood, muddy with the tears of the unborn, is because of its mood of unrelenting gloom, the way every plot twist results in another downer, the way the author seems to be doped to the gills on barbiturates, barely able to lift his heavy hands to reach the typewriter. This is gloomcore at its most pitch black and unrelenting. Ladies and gentlemen, meet The Stigma.