The Mist in the Mirror

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moving in front of my eyes all the time - the mist is impossible to grasp. This seems to reflect the shifting and unstable nature of the place and ultimately of the effect Jennet Humfrye's ghost has on men's minds.

His quest leads him eventually to the old lady of Kittiscar Hall, where he discovers something far more terrible at work than he could ever have imagined. And for most of the book that's what happened to this reader. I settled down in bed with just the low glow of the bedside lamp and intended to just read until I got sleepy. And I finished the story before that ever happened... An amazingly intricate and ambitious first novel - ten years in the making - that puts an engrossing new spin on the traditional haunted-house tale. Yet, as Thomas Ligotti points out in The Conspiracy Against the Human Race, all life is vain/Vane, and Monmouth struggles with the vanity of his existence.The tale begins, typically, with a chat about ghosts in a private club where gentlemen don’t take the matter of phantasms too seriously. Their collective attempt to pass the time telling ghost stories fails, and one of the company finally declares: “We had better leave the telling of them to the professionals.” Disappointingly, Hill never fully develops these existential themes. For want of meaning, Monmouth works, and researching Vane, he uncovers the mystery of his past and of the hauntings he has been experiencing. The manuscript tells the story of Sir James Monmouth. Monmouth has lived abroad all of his adult life, and he has little recollection of his childhood or his parents. When his guardian passes away, swept by the passion of youth, Monmouth travels in the footsteps of his hero, one Conrad Vane. His journeys take him to the Far East, to Africa. The name Conrad may or may not be an allusion to Joseph Conrad, but the story of Monmouth’s return to England in his middle years reads like the inverse of Heart of Darkness. In the most exotic locations, Monmouth was fine; it is in England where he suffers a sort of existential malaise. And now we come to the ending. Throughout the book, the tension and suspense are built to a terrifying and thrilling crescendo, all ready for the revelation of– nothing. Without spoiling the mystery, I think it’s fair to say that there really is no mystery. It seems a shame to weave such a perfect scenario with words and then just allow it to sink. There’s nothing like a goodold-fashioned ghost story, and the masterful Hill authentically channels such giants of the Gothic genre asPoe and Doyle in this eerily atmospheric yarn of restless spirits, both temporal and corporeal.”

I was startled - the verb 'startled' makes us feel nervous and anticipate more sudden ghostly happenings. I still highly recommend Susan Hill’s work — it’s atmospheric, enthralling, and pitch-perfect. Read it for the mood and quality of the prose rather than waiting for the exciting plot revelations. The Mist in the Mirror has its flaws, but as with any Susan Hill novel it goes perfectly with a slow weekend of drizzling rain and several cups of tea. Fans of the genre will find plenty to please them here, because horror fiction is not so dependent upon plot resolution. What makes for good horror, again according to Ligotti, is atmosphere: that is the horror writer’s signature–not plot, not character, but atmosphere. The horror writer shows us that “behind the scenes of life there is something pernicious that makes a nightmare of our world.”It felt like some of the 'creepy' scenes were there just as an effort to try to be 'creepy' rather than to play any actual part in the story, which made them feel forced. enveloped everything - this alliteration emphasises how completely the mist has descended and creates a sense of entrapment. Rain, rain all day, all evening, all night, pouring autumn rain. Out in the country, over field and fen and moorland, sweet-smelling rain, borne on the wind. Rain in London, rolling along gutters, gurgling down drains. Street lamps blurred by rain. A policeman walking by in a cape, rain gleaming silver on its shoulders. Rain bouncing on roofs and pavements, soft rain falling secretly in woodland and on dark heath. Rain on London's river, and slanting among the sheds, wharves and quays. Rain on suburban gardens, dense with laurel and rhododendron. Rain from north to south and from east to west, as though it had never rained until now and now might never stop.

Thanks to Hill’s deceptively simple plots and straightforward prose, you won’t even notice the noose she’s slipping around your throat.” Unfortunately, I found this book very flat. It's a very intriguing premise and having the story presented as the 'main character' reading James Montouth's letters is very well done. I love the idea of a character trying to reconnect with his ancestors, whilst also being haunted by them. However, the execution just wasn't very interesting. The first half was very engaging, but the second half was simply not interesting at all. Monmouth's journey starts off so well, but there are too many inconsequential characters and chunks of useless description. It makes Monmouth boring to follow, and makes me realise this book could probably do with some trimming down even though it's already relatively short. As to the overall story - we, along with the protagonist, are left in the dark as to why things are happening. Unfortunately, we sort of end the story in the same predicament. We find out a bit of what *is* happening, but, alas, the why is left unresolved. Which reminds me, I was ironically annoyed with our hero both for ignoring warnings and portents, despite his continuing experiences, and yet also annoyed when he finally heeds them. Not only did I not really get a sense of the terror of the story, I didn't get any kind of resolution or closure, either.

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I settled into my chair, turning off all the lights save for one shaded lamp beside me. I suppose that I intended to read for an hour at most, expecting drowsiness to overtake me again, but I became so engrossed in the story that unfolded before me that I rapidly forgot all thought of the time, or my present surroundings.” I]went to the spiral staircase nearest to me, and began to climb, my steps echoing harshly in the stillness of the room. The narrator of The Mist in the Mirror is Sir James Monmouth, whose tale begins as a simple attempt to write a biography of his boyhood hero, the famous adventurer Conrad Vane. Events rapidly become strange beyond all reason, and Monmouth is given several chances to abandon his quest for knowledge, but consistently refuses. He knows he could save himself — though he never thinks of it that way — but the compulsion to learn more goads him onward. It wouldn’t be a proper ghost story without free will leading someone merrily into Hell, would it? The focus on mirrors got to me in particular because I’ve always had a little bit of a fear of mirrors and reflections for some reason. When I was a kid and my mum went on holiday, I used to cover all of the mirrors in the house with bedsheets so that I didn’t get too creeped out while she was away. Susan Hill is a born story-teller of considerable talent. She can take a trope such as a mysterious, malevolent curse, mix it with her carefully described turn of the century London, plus the evocative North Yorkshire moors, imbue it with a feeling of doom and torment — the draughty, musty library, the sinister and threatening church — and a dash of something else.