Incubus

Rating:
Summary: Post-Modern Battle Between Good and Evil
Review: Whatever the larger story, allegorical or not, that Ann Arensberg weaves within the more than competent text of her horror novel "Incubus", her lack of sustaining the suspense and her inability to create an empathic connection with any of the ravaged women in her Hawthornian-cloned New England town, renders that second literary dimension where "message" and "symbolism" may be concealed, too obscure and tedious to determine.

Is "Incubus" on a literary level, a retelling in reverse of one of Hawthorne's dark contemplative tales pitting good against evil? Is it like "Young Goodman Brown", the short story of a psychological journey where middle-aged faithless Cora, wife of an Episcopalian minister has been so inured by the late 20/21st century fascination in all things New Age mystical that her innate skepticism turns her towards finding an explanation for the odd occurrences in Dry Falls, Maine in the realm of aliens and UFOS rather than in believing in an actual manifestation of good old fashioned evil of the-tempting-by-Satan brand? Christianity and its traditions are not strong enough or viable enough to conquer the oddball extra-terrestrial imaginings that it does not define; its function is to save the soul. But what if you don't have a soul to save? What good is Christianity then?

What a great concept for a story. If only it had worked on a purely suspenseful level. But, alas, I must submit to the bewilderment conjurred by Arensberg's mundane style that works when describing gardening hints, recipe advise and disdain over husband Henry's lack of interest in the more intimate realms of married life. Does she employ this same straight-forward technique when describing her coupling with the incubus of the title simply because she wants to appear 21st century jaded, immune to the truely horrific after a steady diet of the likes of Hannabal Lector and Freddy Kruger in all their graphic gory splendor? Perhaps. Or maybe she is just giving a respectful nod to old Nathaniel, imitating his 19th century style.

And how this would have worked, if only the story had taken on big black leathery bat wings and soared into that part of the psyche that shakes weak traditions and the most steadfast of religious foundations. "Incubus" just doesn't go there---and I am not talking about Stephen King territory; throughout my reading of this novel I felt the need to beg for some episode which actually left my skin in a goosebump state on a purely mind game level. All of Arensberg's clever little Hawthorne reversals travel within a medium which doesn't have the clout to deliver any impact. We, the readers, wallow in our own jadedness, we wait for something to happen, some momentous moment where it will all click and allow some back-pedaling insight to wash over the montony of the story. This never happens. Alas.