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"��� ����� �� ����� ���� ����� ��������, ��� ����� ��� ��� �������. �� ��� ���� �� ��� ����� ����� ��� ������, �������� �� ��� ��� ����. ���������� ������ �� ������ ��� ��������� ��������, ������ ���� ������, ������ ���� ������, ��� ��������� �� ��� ����." - Zapffe.


Those of you who watched "The Matrix" probably remember the scene where Morpheus offers Neo the choice between illusion and reality in the form of red and blue pills. After re-reading ��� ���������� ������� ��� ����� ���� by Thomas Ligotti, I realized that in a way, Ligotti's vision is a reminiscent of "The Matrix", where the world we inhabit is revealed to be an illusion, a construct designed to keep us in a state of ignorant bliss instead of recognizing a harsh truth.


In this labyrinth, consciously set on fire, we are being taken into a place where truth and illusion are equally hollow. If Ligotti had a pill to offer, I assume it would've been black. One that dissolves in the mind like ink in water, spreading tendrils of darkness that reach into the deepest corners of consciousness, which, according to Liggotti, is a cruel trick of nature that has doomed us to suffer. Our awareness, according to him, is an evolutionary misstep that has cursed us with the ability to reflect on our own futility. To swallow the pill is to awaken from the dream of significance, to peel back the layers of comforting delusions that tell us that our existence means something and that our suffering is not in vain. It is to confront a stark whisper from the void that tugs at the thin veneer of reality, telling us we are ����������� ������� - puppets dancing on strings of DNA, driven by blind impulses, destined to return to the void from which we came from.


I love the way this thought-provoking book draws deeply from the well of philosophical pessimism as well as horror in fiction, channelling the thoughts of Schopenhauer, Zapffe, Nietzsche, and even Lovecraft. Ligotti doesn't just reference these thinkers. He builds upon their ideas, crafting a philosophy that is even more unrelentingly dark. Nietzsche's declaration that "God is dead" is given new meaning here, not as a cry of liberation but as a lament for the void left in its wake. Lovecraft's tales of unspeakable entities lurking at the fringes of reality find a kindred spirit in Ligotti's exploration of consciousness itself as the ultimate horror. Where Lovecraft imagined monstrous beings indifferent to human suffering, Ligotti posits that the very act of being alive is the true monstrosity. Horror fiction is more than mere entertainment. It is a mirror reflecting the deepest fears of our species.



Despite its density, the book's genius lies in the ability to articulate this dread with beauty, even when you don't agree with it. Ligotti's exploration isn't the mere academic exercise of a philosopher tucked away in a study, but the anguished cry of a soul entangled in the very fabric of existence, a soul that has stared too long into the abyss and found it staring back with a knowing grin. Can someone give this guy a puppy to hug?


So, which pill is it going to be?


Sure, there's something compelling about stripping away the layers of illusion, about facing the darkness head-on without flinching. In accepting the void, there's a clarity that allows to live authentically, without the burden of false expectations or imposed meanings. If everything is meaningless, there should be no fear of living freely, right? However, for all its intellectual rigor and emotional power, there's something about Ligotti's philosophy that feels incomplete to me. His insistence on the futility of all things, while logical within its framework, leaves no room for the nuances of the human experience. Yes, life is often brutal and chaotic, but is still filled with moments of beauty, connection, and wonder, fleeting though they may be."

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It’s been said that those who can make you believe absurdities can also make you commit atrocities. The Salem witch trials were not merely a pyre for human flesh but an inferno that devoured reason, where truth itself swung from the gallows. I always imagined it as a grotesque symphony of screams and silence, ignorance, and iron. Robert McCammon’s ������ ��� ��������� takes this haunting score and transforms it into an epic, strangely alive aria of paranoia and courage, or perhaps it's more of a heavy metal requiem (enter King Diamond). 

Before cracking the spine, I’d heard the raving chorus of how brilliant it is. Honestly, it’s a good thing I ended up loving it. If I hadn’t, I imagine die-hard fans might have come to hunt me Salem-style with torches lit and pitchforks gleaming. (A tempting fate, but I digress.)

I didn’t just read this 800-page behemoth. I drifted into its depths like a lost traveller and soon enough found myself in the swampy gloom of 1690s Fount Royal, a colony on the edge of civilization and madness. A place where the air is thick with suspicion, where every shadow brimming with menace and reason stands on trial alongside Rachel Howarth, the accused witch whose fate becomes a crucible for the entire town’s soul.

McCammon’s gift isn’t just world-building. It’s world-breathing. He doesn’t just write settings - he creates ����������. Fount Royal, a town rotting from within, isolated, and festering with fear, is a sentient being, alive with rot and resentment as witchcraft hysteria spreads. The characters are intricate, flawed beings whose fears and desires propel the story forward with gripping tension and hilarious moments. At its heart is Matthew Corbett, whose relentless pursuit of truth slices through hysteria like a scalpel. Corbett's character is probably one of the best leads I’ve encountered.

������ ��� ��������� is more than a tale of witch trials. It’s a meditation on fear’s corrosive power, humanity’s impulse to judge the inexplicable, and the fragile yet essential fight for justice. Partly historical fiction, partly detective thriller, and wholly unforgettable, this stunning opus plays on long after the record stops spinning, and as the wild drum of the pulse hits its last notes, you're being reminded that while reason may flicker, it must never be allowed to die, and should you ever forget, Matthew Corbett will be waiting in the next series' installment to remind you again.

"�� �� ��� ������ �� ���� ��� ���������'� ����. ��� ���� ���� ���� ��� ���������. ��� ��� ���� ���������� ���� �� ���� ���� ��� ����� ������.""

Susan Kay is on page 382 of 739 of Empire of the Vampire