“Because every story is a ghost story, even mine.”
October is upon us, my dear readers. There are three little pumpkins sitting on my cookbook shelf and I’ve a few shivery reads on tap to get me in the mood: Mr. Splitfoot, The Wonder, and The Doll-Master. As fate would have it, I read the first first and now I am faced with a challenge: what could possibly excel such a novel? Because Mr. Splitfoot is quite quite wonderful.
The novel is about Ruth and Nat, two foster children who are raised in a cult-like atmosphere for most of their lives. They knit themselves together, skin to skin and soul to soul. Rarely are two characters so close and so believably so. They have slept in the same bed since they were five, two inverted commas. When Nat starts to speak to the dead, Ruth joins him and they begin to sell their services as mediums, acquiring the enigmatic Mr. Bell as a manager along the way and attempting to escape the atmosphere in which they were raised. This story is intertwined with another one, each chapter alternating between the story of a teenage Ruth and the story of her journey fourteen years later with her pregnant niece Cora. There are so many questions, so many moments of suspense where information is slowly dripped from the metaphorical faucet. The suspense is so well-managed that I happily sat back and let the story unfold deliciously.
Samantha Hurt is a wonderful and surprising writer. Perhaps I have read too many mediocre new pubs recently (looking at you The Hopefuls) but I audibly gasped multiple times throughout the book at the sharp writing. She has a taste for description that I have a hard time describing myself without just quoting the book over and over again. There’s a moment where she writes something like “the walls were the color of brains.” That was a gasp moment.
Also, this is a love story. On so many levels, it is a love story. Mothers and daughters, men and women, sisters, brothers, friends… rarely do you find a gothic novel that does its love stories so well. They tend to become plot devices, stereotypes of the pale beauty and the Byronic hero. In this novel they worm their way inside of you; I found myself weeping rather freely at the end, blurring the twisting beauty of the last page so I could barely read it.
This is the first of my October book recommendations, and as soon as I finish the other two I will let you know my thoughts, probably right as I have them. Please read this novel.