Nightmare Fuel / Slade House

Slade House is perhaps Mitchell’s shortest and scariest book that he ever achieved. Just under 300 pages is enough to give your nightmares.

Expect several unsettling and bone-chilling moments.

Spoilers below.

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General

• The summon sequence alone is terrifying and cruel enough. You’re frozed and kneeled, for a long moment. In front, is a candle, the twins; in between them is a mirror of your reflection. You can’t move, breathe or even blink. Cause you’re frozed. The only way to communicate is by using your thought. And lastly; your soul’ll be ripped and devoured by the twins. You’ll feel pain. In the mirror, you’re disappeared.
• The portrait of the guest. One is a portrait of you. Wearing the exact same clothes. But you’re eyes are blank.

Oink Oink, 1997

• Sally’s spine-tingling encounter with Edmonds’ spirit:
  Sally Timms’ narration: Fern’s gone, but sitting a foot away is a guy dressed in a furry brown dressing gown and not a lot else, judging by his hairy legs and hairy chest. Right. He’s not eyeing me up. Actually he’s just staring at the blank wall—I thought there was a bay window there, but obviously not. The dressing gown’s not that old, but he’s going bald. He has sleepless owlish eyes and an almost-monobrow. Do I know him? Don’t see how. It’s strange that Fern would just vanish like that, straight after spilling her guts about her brother, but that’s actresses for you. Maybe she was pissed off that I nodded off. I ought to find her and put it right. Poor Fern. Her poor brother. People are masks, with masks under those masks, and under those, and down you go. Todd must be back in the kitchen by now, but the sofa won’t let me get up. “Excuse me,” I ask the Mr. Dressing Gown, “but do you know the way to the kitchen?”
  • Followed by the spine-tingling conversations:
    Mr. Dressing Gown acts like I’m not even there.
    I tell him, “Thanks, that’s really helpful.”
    His frown deepens, then, in slow motion, he opens his mouth. It is supposed to be funny? His voice is dry as dust and he leaves big gaps between his words: “Am…I…still…in…the…house?”
    Jesus, he’s stoned out of his Easter Egg. “Well, it’s not Trafalgar Square, I promise you that.”
    More seconds pass. He’s still talking to the blank wall. It’s bloody weird. “They…took…a…way…my…name.”
    I humour him: “I’m sure you’ll find it again in the morning.”
    The man looks towards me, but no at me, as if he can’t quite place where my words are coming. “They…don’t…e…ven…let…you…die…pro…per…ly.”
    So far, so loony tunes. “Whatever you’ve been smoking, I’d steer clear of it in future. Seriously.”
    He cocks his shaved head and squints, as if hearing words shouted from a long way off. “Are…you…the…next…”
    I actually giggle; I can’t help it. “What, the next Messiah?”
    The sofa vibrates to the giant bass in “Safe from Harm”.
    “Get a big strong black coffee,” I tell Mr. Dressing Giwn.
    The man flinches, as if my words were pebbles hitting his face. Now I feel bad about laughing at him. He screws up his red eyes like he’s trying to remember something. “Guest,” he says, and blinks about him, Alzheimer’s-ishly.
    I wait for more, but there isn’t any. “Am I the next guest? Is that what you’re asking? The next guest?”
    The man speaks again he does this utterly incredible ventriloquist’s trick where he mouths his words a second or two before you hear them. “I…found…a…wea…pon…in…the…cracks.”
    His sound-delay trick’s amazing, but his mention of weapon triggers a warning light. “Okay, thing is, I don’t need a weapon, so—” but from his dressing-gown pocket the sad, half-naked stoner produces a short silver spike, about six inches long. First I recoil in case it’s threat, but actually he’s offering it to me, like a gift. The non-spiky end’s decorated with a fox’s head, silver, small but chunky, with jewelled eyes. “It’s lovely,” I’m saying, twizzling it. “It looks antique. Is it some kind of a, a geisha’s hairpin or something?”
  • And the spirit disappears:
  I’m alone on the leather sofa. Nobody’s in the corridor. Nobody’s anywhere. Mr. Dressing Gown’s long gone, I sense but I’m still holding his fox hairpin.