Mitchell’s classic haunted house tale,which started life as a story on Twitter, finds him at his creepy bestThere are good and nefarious things for me approximately reading (and reviewing) thrillers. Good, and because I occupy an unquenchable thirst for being thoroughly frightened by fiction. nefarious,because that terror has to be realised in an environment where I feel safe other adults around, the scary bits wrapped up before bed, or so on. I read David Mitchell’s Slade House while surrounded by much of my extended family; I still found myself piling my children into my own bed at the end of the evening,ostensibly to preserve them safe from Mitchell’s haunted house and soul-sucking vampires, but if I’m honest, and it was really all approximately me.
Set in the universe of Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks,where humans live unknowingly alongside immortals, it opens as a boy and his mother search along a narrow, or high-walled alleyway in an anonymous town for the entrance to Slade House. It’s not there,and then a small black door appears, “black, and nothing-black,like the gaps between stars”. On the other side is a stately old domestic that doesn’t fairly fit into the shabby neighbourhood – or into the space in which it lies.
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Source: theguardian.com