Then I got to Ghoul by Brian Keene.
I started it. I’m not going to finish it.
I got as far as the ghoul keeping the teenage girl in his underground lair so he could rape her repeatedly with the goal of impregnating her, and I said, “Nope. I’ve read enough.”
The book is set in the 80s, and the writing feels more dated than the setting.
I’m tired of the big bad monsters coming to town and wreaking havoc on humanity by especially targeting the women. I’m tired of weak men who can’t say no to feeding the monster, or meeting all of its demands. I’m tired of a bunch of 12-year old boys (one must be overweight and one must be physically abused) being the only ones in town with the ability to notice anything about their surroundings.
For crying out loud, at least King addresses the phenomenon when he talks about Derry. He describes the mental malaise that falls over the adults so they can’t see as clearly as the children.
But here? The adults are just so wrapped up in their own heads that they don’t notice several gravestones have sunk into the ground — even when they’re IN the cemetery to attend a funeral.
The second to the last straw was when the ghoul realized he hadn’t spoken to humans in several centuries, and didn’t speak the language that the man he captured was babbling. Very next line, he addresses the man in English. Not much later, he leaves the man a note. Grammatically correct, too.
The people in this fictional town seem to all be monsters of their own making. Perhaps that justifies a monster coming to roost among them.
I’ll never know.