Witches, Ghosts, and Graves, Oh My!

A quartet of spring/summer books that aren't very sunny at all. Instead they take us into cursed villages, haunted houses, haunted sleepovers (really!), and graveyards. Not to mention dungeons. And watch out for the terrible, horrible bra shopping!

The Brixen Witch by Stacy DeKeyser

This is actually a Pied Piper retelling, with the Pied Piper being an assistant to the dreaded witch who lives on the mountain. Our hero is a boy named Rudi Bauer who makes the mistake of picking up a gold coin high up on the mountain that belongs to the witch. When he gets home to his little village, he is followed by a curse. The coin sings to him and he dreams strange things. His grandmother knows the old ways. Rudi denies taking something from the witch, but his grandmother cleverly cautions him just the same:

Then Oma shook a finger at him, and the fire flared on the hearth. “But I’ve seen her messenger. And by the saints, to this day I wish I’d seen the Devil instead. That thing you did not take? Get rid of it. Carry it back up the mountain and leave it there. Do it today. Better yet, do it now. The weather is turning, and once the snows begin, no one will be venturing up that mountain until spring. You don’t want to be haunted every night from now until spring, do you?”

A chastened Rudi tries to return the coin, but loses it in the snow far up the mountain. When the dreams stop, he thinks he’s okay, but then the village is invaded by rats. The villagers pay a rat catcher whose work is overturned, and next a creepy guy with a pipe shows up demanding the very gold coin Rudi used to have as payment for his work. Now what will Rudi do?

One of the most interesting things about The Brixen Witch is the different villagers and the way they interact. For example, we learn that the village has spent all its money paying an ordinary rat catcher, which is why they have trouble coming up with the gold the Pied Piper demands. Another nice twist is the strange piper's relationship with the witch.

DeKeyser includes some authentic historical rat catching details, which may engage young readers or make a few of them gag.

This is an uncomplicated, very much middle grade tale, a relief from the many angst-ridden YA fairy tale retellings of recent years, to tell you the truth. I was a little thrown by the climax and events surrounding it, but overall, I found the book quite likable. Just right for the third through sixth grade crowd as a late summer or back-to-school read.

And it sounds like Rudi will be back for another fairy tale-based adventure in DeKeyser's next book!

Watch this very nice news interview, in which author Stacy DeKeyser explains that she wanted to give the old story of the Pied Piper a happy ending.

The Whispering House by Rebecca Wade

A ghost story that starts out scarier than it ends, which is probably just as well for its middle grade audience. Or rather, this is a mystery that’s also a ghost story. Apparently the two main characters, Hannah and her friend Sam, have teamed up before, in a mystery called The Theft and the Miracle. Now Hannah’s family has temporarily moved into an old, hard-to-rent house across town, and the creepy happenings start piling up.

It seems a little girl named Maisie used to live in the house, and she died as a child, perhaps killed by witchcraft. Locked rooms, an old calendar page, a book of fairy tales, bad dreams, a weirdly marked doll, poltergeist-type activities, and Hannah’s own drawing of the dead girl combine to make Hannah jump and worry—and try to solve the mystery of what really happened to Maisie. The weirdness escalates and escalates until Hannah and Sam have their own haunted encounters with Maisie. Then they really do figure out what’s going on and lay the ghost to rest. Here’s a description of the doll:

The blue ribbon was a problem, however, and it took a lot of coaxing before the tight little knot yielded at last. Then Mom unfastened the dress and gently pulled it over the doll’s head. “Oh!” The exclamation came from both Hannah and her mother at once. They stared at the cloth body, naked save for the black boots. “What’s happened to her?” asked Hannah. “Don’t ask me!” All over the back, stomach, arms, and legs were dark yellowish-brown stains. Each was roughly the size of a small coin, and they were evenly spaced.

As I mentioned, the pacing of this book is intriguing. The tension builds and builds in a truly shivery way. I was well and truly creeped out as a reader, and then the author took the story in an unexpectedly sweet direction. The story works, certainly, just not the way you think it will. And Wade draws on an intriguing bit of history in creating her resolution.

A nice ghost story for kids who like to be scared, but ultimately comforted rather than left scared. And an early Halloween contender, though of course you can read it any time of the year. I can see looking for Hannah and Sam’s first adventure and watching out for their next one.

Small Medium at Large by Joanne Levy

A rollicking story about a girl who is struck by lightning and can then talk to dead people. No, it’s not Meg Cabot’s 1-800-Where-R-You series, it’s a middle grade book from newcomer Joanne Levy.

There’s a lot to enjoy about this cheerful story. For one thing, main character Lilah Bloom and her BFF are Jewish, as is Lilah’s crush, Andrew Finkel. For another, in many ways this is a middle school story about the daily adventures of an ordinary girl. It just happens to have a few ghosts thrown in.

Levy has some clever ideas about what to do with her premise. There’s Lilah’s grandmother, Bubby Dora, who brings along a fashion designer from the early twentieth century. The funniest scene in the book is when these two ghosts insist on taking Lilah bra shopping. And of course, she winds up dropping her bag o’ bras on the mall floor right at Andrew’s feet.

We wind up getting experiments in kissing from Lilah (no tongue, we're assured) and experiments in dating for her hapless father. Apparently Bubby has mostly stuck around to play matchmaker to her depressed divorced son.

You’ll find that this book sometimes reads like a TV sitcom, as in the following scene:

“Dad!” I said again. He turned back toward me, abandoning the juice. “What is it, Lilah?” It was like he had completely forgotten what I had said. “You do need to be dating. I hate to be mean, but look at you, Dad. You’re thirty-eight, single, and you spend every evening at home, drinking your tomato juice and either playing Scrabble with your daughter or watching TV by yourself. You’re in a rut. You need to get out there before it’s too late.” “I like playing Scrabble with my daughter.” He almost sounded pouty. But it was a good thing; it meant he was actually listening.

A more poignant part of the book is that Andrew has lost his father, and he’s not about to believe Lilah when she starts hearing from Mr. Finkel and trying to pass the guy’s messages on to his son. Lilah also runs into trouble with a mean girl and then a mean ghost, but friendship, sleepovers, and girl talk solve these problems in the lead-up to a school fashion show.

So yes, there are ghosts, but mostly Small Medium at Large is a fun girl book for middle schoolers. This upbeat tale will probably go over well with readers in grades four through seven. Oh, and do keep an eye out for a clown ghost. Because who wouldn’t like to have a ghostly clown making balloon animals at her birthday party?

Check out the author's book trailer!

The Grave Robber’s Apprentice by Allan Stratton

This book reads like a fantasy adventure. And in fact, Canadian author Stratton throws in allusions to the Greek myths, Shakespeare (at least two plays), The Wizard of Oz, Oliver, and even the New Testament. Though there are very few actual fantasy elements in that Everything Is Explained, the story feels picaresque, macabre, and fantastical throughout.

We begin as we should, with a baby adrift in a jeweled chest:

Years ago, in the Archduchy of Waldland, on a night when the wind was strong and the waves were high, a boy washed ashore in a small wooden chest. The chest took refuge in a nest of boulders at the foot of a cliff. It swayed there for hours as the surf crashed on either side, threatening to sweep it away to be gobbled by the deep. The boy in the chest was a babe, scarce a year old. He wore a white linen cap and nightshirt, and was bundled tight in a fine woolen blanket. The sound of the waves was a comfort to him after the screams he’d heard before the chest had been sealed. Now, as the surf threatened to destroy him, the infant dreamed he was rocking in his crib.

 The baby even has a birthmark shaped like an eagle on his shoulder. But the man who finds him shrugs it all away. He is inclined to leave the baby to die and just take the chest. But instead it occurs to Knobbe—scavenger and grave robber—that this child can grow up to work with him and then care for him in his old age. Knobbe won’t admit that the baby has won his soft heart. And so the baby begins a new life as Hans, the grave robber’s apprentice.

Hans makes an okay grave robber’s helper when it comes to digging and all, but he balks at actually touching the bodies. Knobbe, who feeds, clothes, and yells at the boy, tells him it’s time for Hans to rob the graves completely. Hans is torn.

Meanwhile, we read about the trials of a girl named Angela Gabriela von Schwanenberg, “the Little Countess.” She loves to put on plays, and she includes Hans as a character called “the Boy.” But she is horrified when she and her parents are thrown in a locked carriage and taken to Archduke Arnulf’s castle. The man is a regular Bluebeard, marrying young wives and then having them murdered after a few weeks or months. Angela is next on the list, and her parents are supposed to give Arnulf all their wealth as a dowry. Naturally.

In planning her escape, Angela introduces us to a villain who’s just as bad or worse than Arnulf—the Necromancer. He is blind and looks like he’s half dead. He surrounds himself with a herd of awful little boys he calls Weevils. When push comes to shove, he will take care of himself first, betraying anyone who gets in his way. Including Angela.

Eventually Angela and Hans go on the run together, with Arnulf and the Necromancer hot on their heels. They meet the Wolf King, the Hermit, and a band of circus performers and their bears. Angela is determined to rescue her parents from Arnulf, while Hans is determined to help Angela.

This book is written by a guy, and it includes a lot of gruesome stuff that 10-year-old boys are likely to relish, such as the following:

The Necromancer floated into view, feeling his way with a long wooden staff. A wraithlike creature, hairless and pale, his willowy frame was draped in a dirty velvet shroud. His wears were withered; his nose and lips rotted. He had no teeth; no eyes. His empty sockets were empty caverns rippling with shadows from the lamplight. “How long have you been there?” Angela whispered. “Since the moment you thought of me,” the Necromancer replied. With long, bony fingers, he withdrew two bird eggs from his dirty shroud and placed them in his eye sockets. “I’ve been watching you since you left your castle, my crow’s eyes circling the night sky.”

Later, after Angela gets away, the Necromancer hunts for her, flicking his gray, lizard-like tongue, catching her scent in a graveyard. Another striking line is this bit near the end of the book: "We'll stuff him in a bone barrel, gagged with a dead rat." There's really quite a lot of this sort of thing.

Although Stratton very deliberately explains away as much magic as he can, there are over-the-top and creepy things going on, just the same. Much of it is exhilarating, such as when our hero and his allies escape from an attack by tobogganing in coffins or when the bears help them exit Arnulf’s dungeons.

On a side note, I was very pleased with how Knobbe is kept in the story and even honored for his rough but dedicated attempts to raise Hans. In a departure from most storytelling, Han’s somewhat repulsive adopted father isn’t limited to being a one-dimensional villain.

This is a colorful tale, full of adventure, horror, comedy, and heroism. Not to mention a prophecy that echoes Macbeth’s doom, though this one may be even more satisfying, considering it involves a sea of bones. Elements like Hans’s identity are given away well in advance, but I don’t think you’ll care much. You’ll be too busy following Hans and Angela at a breakneck pace as they flee the Necromancer and the evil archduke.

Watch the author's book trailer here.

Note for Worried Parents: This book is recommended for ages 10 and up. The gory elements, especially the way Arnulf slaughters and memorializes his child brides, are pretty horrific. Yet you’ll find that The Grave Robber's Apprentice is funny and playful at the same time.

A Review of The Near Witch by Victoria Schwab

You could batch Schwab's first novel in with the latest crop of paranormal romances, but it's really something more than that. It's a sort of horror fairy tale, complete with ghosts and small children who dance in a circle, singing an ancient song, before they begin disappearing one by one, night after night.

And then there's Shane. No, I mean there's a stranger in town, a strange stranger who almost immediately gets blamed for the disappearing children. Only Lexi doesn't believe the rumors: she is sure the boy has troubles of his own. She names him Cole, and she asks the town witches—who are wisely, even cynically, gearing up to be the possible subjects of a witch hunt—to help her.

Turns out the town of Near has been keeping secrets about its past. Now Lexi must investigate, although her scowling uncle and a bossy suitor try to stop her, telling her it's not lady-like.

Lexi is a strong main character, determined to put on her dead father's old boots and go searching for answers, no matter who might try to stand in her way. Lexi's powerful personality and sense of justice make her admirable, but they also make her a target.

Schwab is interested in themes of small town loyalty, as well as small-mindedness and a suspicion of anyone who doesn't fit in. The events of the Salem Witch Hunt inevitably spring to mind. (See Rosalyn Schanzer's new book, Witches: The Absolutely True Tale of Disaster in Salem. Check out Betsy Bird's review here.) In The Near Witch, a tragedy from the past will not stay buried; it reverberates into the future, Lexi's present.

The author has a lovely storytelling voice. Here is Lexi thinking about her father and the present-day witches of Near:

My father taught me a lot about witches.

Witches can call down rain or summon stones. They can make fire leap and dance. They can move the earth. They can control an element. The way Magda and Dreska Throne can. I asked them once what they were, and they said old. Old as rocks. But that's not the whole of it. The Thorne sisters are witches, through and through. And witches are not so welcome here.

The Near Witch is almost a fable, but it is saved from being pedantic by Lexi's appealingly fierce character and her efforts to help, not only Cole, but the entire town.

Cole's story is also moving, and his interactions with Lexi are more heroic than romantic. The romance is quiet and tender, taking a backseat to the pair's efforts to find the missing children.

Other characters may be a tad more predictable, but the parts they play in the unfolding drama contribute nicely to the whole in Schwab's new book. I especially like the Thorne sisters.

Perhaps the best thing about The Near Witch is how atmospheric it is. Even though no one runs around a Victorian mansion in a white nightgown, you get a wonderfully eerie feeling of a town that is haunted, of ghosts drifting silently across the empty moors. I'll end with one more excerpt, as Lexi looks out the window one night:

Our house sits at the northern edge of the village of Near, and beyond the weathered glass the moor rolls away like a spool of fabric: hill after hill of wild grass, dotted by rocks, and a rare river or two. There is no end in sight, and the world seems painted in black and white, crisp and still. A few trees jut out of the earth amid the rocks and weeds, but even in this wind it is all strangely static. But I'd swear I saw—

Again something moves.

This time my eyes are keen enough to catch it. ...

I squint, pressing my hands against the cool glass. The shape is a body, but drawn too thin, like the wind is pulling at it, tugging slivers away. The moonlight cuts across the front of the form, over fabric and skin, a throat, a jaw, a cheekbone.

There are no strangers in the town of Near. I have seen every face a thousand times. But not this one.

Note for Worried Parents: You'll find a scary witch in this book, as well as some teen attraction and a few kisses. We also hear about a cruel murder. The Near Witch is a book for teens, but 11- and 12-year-olds who like dark fantasy, historical fiction, horror, and paranormal romance will be interested, too.

A Review of Enclave by Ann Aguirre

I'm pretty sure I'm not the first nor will be the last to compare this book to The Hunger Games: tough teenage girl who's a warrior, dark dystopian setting, a race for survival. But believe it or not, Deuce's world is worse than Katniss's. I compare them simply to give you some idea about the book's general tone and level of violence. Really, Aguirre has built her own world here, and it makes the one with those 12 (or 13) districts and televised death matches look downright cheery.

Here the death matches are every day. Deuce is part of a mostly primitive tribe inhabiting the subway tunnels in a post-apocalyptic New York City. She and her bunch are pretty brutal, exiling or killing off anyone who breaks the rules, but they are menaced by worse terrors—the cannibalistic mutants they call Freaks. (These have a whiff of zombie about them, if you're trying to picture it.)

Deuce has survived to the age of 15, so she is marked with fire and given a name instead of a number. She is proud of her training as a Huntress (vs. a Builder or Breeder), but she is dismayed to be assigned to a partner who came to the tribe as an outsider and has managed to survive in their culture. Fade isn't necessarily one for obeying the rules, which means he could get Deuce killed by the tribal leaders. Sent on a suicide mission, the two manage to survive, but when they return with a warning about the Freaks, their leaders won't listen.

Deuce and Fade end up in exile, where they are nearly killed by the Freaks. Then Fade leads Deuce to the surface of the city, a place she has never dreamed of going. They run into trouble with a local gang and with the Freaks who live on the surface. Barely escaping death yet again, they acquire a hardhearted companion and flee the city altogether, unsure where they will wind up, assuming they continue to stay alive.

Yes, there's a sort of love triangle. Deuce and Fade grow close, but their closeness is threatened by the thuggish Stalker. As tough as she is, Deuce is somewhat drawn to Stalker, who is more like her. But she likes Fade partly because he is more compassionate and civilized than she is (though nevertheless a fighter). This plot thread is left hanging at the end of the book.

Deuce's world is an ugly one, but it's heartening to watch her survive and grow and even (sort of) escape to a place that is a bit less vicious—though the Freaks continue to threaten those who are more human even as the book ends. We are definitely heading toward a sequel here!

I've read some of Aguirre's adult sci-fi, and she just keeps getting better. This book is well crafted, from its world building to its character building. Aguirre moves easily between action and emotion, giving Enclave a better balance than some books of this sort. Here's Deuce heading out on her first real hunt:

Beyond the light of the enclave, it was dark, darker than I'd ever seen. It took my eyes long moments to adjust. Fade waited while I made the shift.

"We hunt like this?" Nobody ever told me. Primitive fear scuttled up my spine.

"Light attracts Freaks. We don't want them to see us first."

Reflexively, I checked my weapons as if mentioning the monsters could bring them slavering out of the murk. My club slid free cleanly. I put it back. Likewise, my knives found my palms in a smooth motion.

As we moved, my other senses compensated. I had done visual deprivation as part of my training, but I hadn't understood just how much I would need that skill out here. Now I was glad I could hear him moving ahead of me because I could make out only vague shadows. No wonder Hunters died.

So yes, if you liked The Hunger Games, or Incarceron or The Forest of Hands and Teeth, for that matter, add this to your list of creepy-cool dystopian books!

Note for Worried Parents: Enclave is an intense book for teens and includes graphic violence, horror, and the threat of rape, plus mature themes simply in the way Deuce's grim little society functions.

Also: Click here to watch the book trailer. (Not sure I care much for the casting of Fade. I'm thinking the boy should look a lot less like a friendly spaniel. Oh well!)

Please note that this book was provided to me as an ARC by the publisher.

A Review of The Iron Thorn by Caitlin Kittredge

This author isn't the first adult writer to cross over to YA, but so far she's one of the best. Steampunk, urban fantasy, alternate history, dystopian fiction, romance, gothic novel, you name it: The Iron Thorn combines the best of all these subgenres, throwing in one of those genetic ticking clocks plus an actual ticking clock that's the nerve center of an entire house made of magic-infused gears. Which is to say, if you liked Fever Crumb, Leviathan, Lament, and Twilight, you should take a look at Kittredge's new YA offering.

As the jacket flap puts it, "Aoife's family is unique in the worst way." Her mother has gone crazy and is in an insane asylum, while her beloved older brother lost his mind, too, nearly killing Aoife before running away.

Aoife lives in the dark city of Lovecraft, where she studies in the strict school of engineers, applying reason and science to practical problems as the city's great Engine beats like a malevolent heart beneath it all. Her fellow student and best friend, Cal, stands by her, but even he is uneasy when it appears that Aoife herself will lose her mind when she turns sixteen. The city authorities, as represented by the Proctors, also have their eye on the girl, which is a very bad thing.

Then Aoife gets a cryptic message from her brother Conrad and sets off to find him, presumably at their father's home in a village to the north. Crossing the city, let alone the countryside, is a dreadful prospect, considering the threat of death or capture from monsters like the nightjars and government spies in the form of clockwork ravens. Fortunately, Aoife and Cal find a scruffy guide named Dean, who has secrets of his own. He knows a guy with an airship, and it appears he won't sell them out to the monsters that live in the sewer system, so off they go.

The little company eventually reach the house where Aoife's father lived, only there's no sign of him or of Conrad. Of course, Aoife has never met the man. And his house turns out to be very strange indeed. That's even before Aoife has her first encounter with the fairy realm, whose denizens—most notably a fey named Tremaine—may prove to be the greatest threat of all. But Aoife, despite her growing attraction to Dean and her loyalty to Cal, will do anything to get her brother back. Anything.

This book is a thoroughly marvelous tale, one of my favorites so far in 2011. In fact, I felt that my experience of YA horror/steampunk/dystopian fantasy was refreshed by reading The Iron Thorn. I also appreciate how the main plot thread comes to a satisfying conclusion, even as new problems set us up for the next volume in this series. In addition, for those of you looking for romance, Aoife's interactions with Dean aren't cliché in the least; they're clever and bumpy and real (with Cal acting sweetly jealous, to boot).

I guess about the only thing that threw me off even a little would be the logistics of Aoife's role relative to the fey, especially her use of magic in the book's climax; however, close enough. The rest of the book more than makes up for a bit of trouble in that regard.

Here's part of Aoife's description of the marvelous clock in her father's mechanical house:

On the opposite side of the long narrow room was a leviathan clock—a full-bodied, intricate machine, much different than a pocket chronometer. As I watched, the hands swung in a parabolic arc, their wicked spiked finials grinding to a halt at twelve midnight. The chimes let out a discordant, muffled bong.
The hands swung again, and I stepped closer, watching them trail across the clock face like compass needles that had lost north, the unearthly ticking echoing loud enough to vibrate my skull. Each numeral was actually a tiny painting, wrought in delicate ink. A naked girl lying sleeping on a stone. A great goat with the body of a man sitting on a throne. A circle of figures in a dark forest who wore the sign of Hastur, the heretical Yellow King, whom cultists worshipped before the necrovirus. According to Professor Swan, and who knew where he got his stories from?
...Friendly as the library was, the clock was a monstrous thing, a machine of bloody teeth.

I know you're all wondering how to pronounce the main character's name, so I looked it up: that would be ee-fa.

Now, please get your shivers on and enter the alarming world of Aoife's Lovecraft!

Note for Worried Parents: This is a book for teens. The horror elements are pretty horrific, and there's some teen attraction with eventual kissing.

Update 8-17-11: Check out this interview with the author on The Enchanted Inkpot!

A Review of The Witches' Kitchen by Allen Williams

A lot like the museum in Lian Tanner's Museum of Thieves (reviewed above), the kitchen in Allen Williams' book is a sprawling, crawling land of monsters and surprises. But I guess that's what you might expect from a witches' kitchen!

Our story begins with a wonderful in medias res scene as two witches prepare to drop a struggling toad into a cauldron bubbling with a spellful brew. Only it's not really a toad, or not just a toad... With a little unexpected help from a bird made of bones, the Toad escapes into the depths of the Kitchen, where she finds both new threats and help.

For example, an odd creature called Jack (short for Natterjack) offers to accompany her on her journey as she attempts to find her way out of the Kitchen, and a fierce little sword-wielding fairy warns her against a monster in a seemingly quiet well. The creatures in this book would fit nicely in a Fellini film or a Hieronymous Bosch painting; author Williams creates a nightmare grotesquerie to populate the Kitchen landscape. For example, here's the monster the fairy tells the Toad to watch out for:

A serpentine Form ran beneath the water into the darkness above, covered in reptilian scales that shimmered with a dull bluish glow, which was the only reason that she could still see its upper body, which stretched far above her, beyond the normal range of her night sight. At its midsection, it became segmented like an insect and at the intersection of each segment there was a long thin pair of arms ending in a single wickedly sharp barb. At the top, there were two longer, stronger arms.
These did not have hands...they had meat cleavers.

Ig-trolls, demons, skeletal birds, a giant dreaming man who has become both a landmark and an oracle—Williams has created an amazing dark world through which the Toad must navigate. The fact that all of this takes place in a kitchen just adds to the surrealism. And of course, the Kitchen tends to shift and change shape.

Then every so often, we get a chapter which shows us what the two witch sisters are doing as they search for the missing Toad and try to complete their spell. Think of the aunts from James and the Giant Peach, only with magic, and you've got a pretty good idea what Serafina and Emilina are like. (One of the more subtle touches in this book is the way the witch sisters interact with each other.)

Early on, it is obvious that the Toad is under a spell, so it shouldn't surprise you that she not only exhibits unexpected magical powers, but has a history which she eventually recovers. In the meantime, there are battles to be fought and evasive action to be taken.

The Witches' Kitchen feels a little inconsistent, occasionally bogging down in explication. But it is definitely innovative, and many of the details and adventures in the Kitchen make this book worth the read. As a bonus, it has appropriately ghoulish illustrations scattered throughout, also created by the author.

I've noticed lately that more and more children's fantasy is being colored by the flood of paranormal hitting the market. In other words, the fantasy being written today, even for middle grades, feels darker, more horrific, and more perilous than much of the fantasy that was written for past generations. The Witches' Kitchen supports my theory: it's part fantasy, part horror story. Of course, it's essentially a quest tale, and our Toad makes it through in one piece, if not precisely the piece she started the book with. (And I just noticed Amazon is calling this a book for teens!)

Like so many fantasy books today, The Witches' Kitchen ends with a hint of things to come. I have to admit, I'm curious to see what Williams will do with these characters next. Will he take them back to the Kitchen, or create a broader, even stranger world for them?

Note for Worried Parents: This is kind of a scary book, and the pictures may give a timid reader nightmares. That said, the Toad doesn't ever really get hurt, surviving the many threats against her. Her friends also escape relatively unscathed, though some minions and monsters are not so lucky. The Witches' Kitchen has definite boy appeal, with its hideous creatures and fight scenes. It's labeled YA, so it's basically intended for readers ages 12 and up, but I could see some 10- and 11-year-olds reading it happily.

Also: I requested this review copy from the Amazon Vine program.

A Review of Always Listen to Your Mother by Florence Parry Heide and Roxanne Heide Pierce

Lately, there's been some blog chatter about the new satire in children's books—and we're talking picture books. I suspect this ball got rolling in 1989 with the publication of Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith's The True Story of the Three Little Pigs, along with their triumphant follow-up, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales (1992). Subversive, witty stories are becoming more popular for the picture book crowd, perhaps as much to entertain their parents as to amuse 4- to 6-year-olds. I think we can also give some credit to The Simpsons for educating kids about satire. And then there's the recent wave of paranormals, which is largely attributed to the popularity of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight books and movies.

All of which paves the way for Always Listen to Your Mother, a story by Florence Parry Heide and Roxanne Heide Pierce, illustrated by Kyle M. Stone. Then again, Heide has been writing children's books since 1967, including some illustrated by luminaries Edward Gorey, Jules Feiffer, and Lane Smith, and she had the tongue-in-cheek thing down long before the books mentioned above came out. Let's just say, rather, that the time is ripe for a book like this, written by one of the grandmasters (grandmothers?) of smirk and her daughter.

Our story begins with a little boy named Ernest, such a good child! He always, always listens to his mother, so he spends a lot of time doing housework and homework and saying, "Yes, mother." We learn that "Ernest never: spilled, whined, dawdled, talked back, got his own way... or had a good time."

Of course, when new neighbors move in, Ernest asks his mother's permission to go see if they have a child his age he can play with. She says yes because all good mothers "want their children to meet nice children who will be a good influence."

So Ernest rides his bike (the high, old-fashioned penny-farthing kind) across a rather long stretch of terrain to the neighbors' house, which will look suspiciously like a horror story mansion to readers, up to and including the weather overhead.

There is a new boy, and his name is Vlapid. He looks like a cross between Frankenstein's monster and—well, some kind of goblin, with nice gray skin and pointed ears. Only he's shorter. Vlapid also obeys his mother (who may remind you of Elvira and vampires). But his mother's idea of how a child should spend his time is a little different from Ernest's, thank heavens. Her list of "chores" is remarkably vague, and Ernest has the time of his life.

Naturally, Ernest's mother doesn't worry a bit once she hears what an obedient boy the new neighbor child is...

It's all one big joke, but a fun one, and it's wrapped up inside an eerie, antique atmosphere like, um, an elderly beef patty between two early twentieth-century hamburger buns. (My best metaphor ever, no? With its zombie overtones.)

Stone's soft-edged mixed-media illustrations make a nice fit for this clever tale about different parenting styles and what they mean for kids. Just in time for Halloween, but also right on schedule for making family in-jokes about listening to your mother, which is a year-round sport.

A Review of The Shadow by Donna Diamond

I've been watching with interest the rise of the paranormal in YA and its trickle down into middle grade fiction and picture books. Yes, the Twilight effect, like its predecessor the Hogwarts effect, is a powerful thing!

But so far, most of the creepy supernatural stuff has hit intermediate books rather than picture books. The horror picture books we've seen are mostly funny, though Bobbi Katz and Adam McCauley's The Monsterologist: A Memoir in Rhyme and Ryan Heshka's ABC Spookshow and just-published Welcome to Monster Town might be a tad darker, if only because of the illustrations.

None of them have been as scary, or as subtle, as The Shadow, a new picture book from illustrator and fine artist Donna Diamond.

I'll give you the product description first so you can see how the publisher is presenting the book:

A young girl confronts her fears in an eerie, wordless picture book featuring stunning, hyper-realistic illustrations. It’s an ordinary afternoon. A child comes home, heads upstairs, and sprawls on the floor to do some drawing under the watchful eyes of a pair of favorite dolls. But there’s another character in this wordless story: the shadow, unnoticed at first, then slowly creeping into her field of view. It’s a terrifying sight. Will the girl cower, or will she take on this shadow and tell it who’s boss? And where will the shadow go from there? With mesmerizing intensity, this dreamlike story tells an unflinching tale about recognizing and staring down one’s fears—if only for a time.

And this is from Donna Diamond's website: "The Shadow is a suite of seventeen paintings that tell a story. The pictorial narrative creates a psychological drama about fear, how it grows in the dark, and takes on a life of its own."

In these beautiful paintings of a girl going upstairs and playing in her room, you will probably notice the child's shadow before she does. It doesn't match. It is a Halloween shadow with two spaces for eyes. (Look closely at the shadow to the girl's left in the cover image above.) At first it just follows the girl, like an ordinary shadow. But up in her room, it looms over her threateningly.

Finally the girl, who appears to be about seven years old, sees the shadow and responds. After her initial shock, she gets tough and subdues the shadow, which is rather heartening. She even drives it away—or does she? As she goes to sleep, we discover that the shadow has secreted itself in a traditional shadowy spot, where it continues to lurk.

The Shadow is a really gorgeous book, and it's like nothing else out there. My only question is, who is it for? Although I can see having a conversation with a child about the shadow as a symbol for fear, I'm thinking kids aren't much for symbolism till they're a bit older than the target audience, perhaps even in middle school.

Much as I appreciate the way the child defeats the shadow, Diamond goes with a horror-movie ending—the shadow, like Freddie Krueger or Jason, is still there, waiting for another chance at our young hero.

Sorry to say, I can see this book giving first graders nightmares. The very realism of the paintings makes this book's terrors more believable than those illustrated in more cartoon-like or stylized picture books.

I will add that the fact that The Shadow is wordless completely suits the story, but again skews the audience a bit younger than might be sensible. (Interestingly, while Candlewick lists the book for ages 5-8, Amazon lists it for 9-12.)

My recommendation would be, if your 6- to 8-year-old blithely watches horror movies and reads the Goosebumps series with gusto, look for this book. If your kid is the sensitive type, maybe not.

But you might enjoy taking a look. Donna Diamond's The Shadow is unique—and chillingly lovely.

Note: Check out the website Kinderscares for more scary books for young readers, including some picture books.

P.S. Aha! I've thought of another sincerely scary picture book: poet Eve Merriam's Halloween ABC or (retitled) Spooky ABC, illustrated by Lane Smith. Beautiful poems, but truly creep-worthy. The book is often recommended for older kids and has even been banned on occasion. (Let's all shiver in unison!)

A Review of Zombiekins by Kevin Bolger

It had to happen. First there was the vampire wave, then the werewolf wave, and then the zombie wave. (Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, anyone?) I valiantly resisted the onslaught of rotting flesh and eyeballs drooping like little dead Slinkies when it hit the YA market harder than a metric ton of brain goop, but I could no longer resist when it struck middle grade fiction—I had to take an anti-nausea pill and read a few of the new books.

Starting with Zombiekins, written by the man best known for his dashing knight, Sir Fartsalot of Sir Fartsalot Hunts the Booger fame. For those of you who worry about finding books for reluctant boy readers, look no further!

Here are the first few paragraphs of Bolger's new book:

The little town of Dementedyville was a tidy, uneventful town. The sort of place where home owners took care never to let their well-tended lawns become overrun by unsightly weeds or children, and birds sang in all the trees—but only between the hours of nine and five, as per the town's bylaws.
But even in Dementedyville there was one house that stood out from all the others....

Next we see the neighbors storming the creaky old home of Mrs. Imavitch with pitchforks and torches—to attend her yard sale.

At the sale our boy Stanley buys an odd stuffed animal called Zombiekins. Mrs. Imavitch is so pleased by his choice that she gives him a bunch of taffy with a twinkle in her eye and reminds him to read the new toy's instruction manual.

But our author knows boys: when he gets home, Stanley instantly discards the box and the instructions. His little sister takes an uneasy interest in Zombiekins, who is invited to attend a tea party with stuffed animals like Whimsy the Pfoo. "Hugs are cuddle-wonderful...Have a huggsy-wuggsy day," Whimsy says. You just know he's going down, along with Bolger's Barney and Elmo clones.

Sure enough, when the moon rises that night, we hear the awful sound of a zombie stuffed animal walking through the playroom, dragging his bad leg: "Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch... Stump!—scri-i-i-i-i-itch..."

Stanley's dog, who appears to be smarter than Stanley, tries to warn the kid, but he doesn't listen. Naturally!

Of course, the fun's only beginning, because the next day Stanley takes Zombiekins to school and his teacher, Mr. Baldengrumpy, puts on a movie about the moon. Pretty soon Zombiekins is stalking through the school, turning sixth graders and kindergartners alike into zombies. Chaos—and hilarity—reign. Plus a bunch of delightful satire about school and bullies and such. For example, when Stanley's best friend Miranda tells a teacher the kids are zombies, we get this:

"Now, Miranda," Mrs. Plumdotty replied, "you know it's not nice to call the other children names."
"No, you don't understand," Stanley hurried to explain. "She means they're flesh-eating monsters who want to guzzle our livers and gobble our limbs!"
"Stanley, dear, don't be such a tattletale," chided Mrs. Plumdotty.

As you can see, Stanley and Miranda are running around the school trying to find Zombiekins and stop the zombie kids, or at least not get bitten by them.

Zombiekins is a funny and satisfying read, nicely illustrated by Aaron Blecha in a clean, cartoonish style. The Zombiekins character alone is a visual and visceral triumph. Watch out for Book 2!

(You can visit the Zombiekins website here.)

Note for Worried Parents: This is pretty goofy stuff, despite the horror elements. I wouldn't worry too much. Any kid who might be bothered by all this probably wouldn't touch the book in the first place. Now, I'm not implying you should leave out girl readers—I think they'll like Zombiekins, too. They might make faces, but then they'll laugh. A lot.

Kids in grades three through six are probably the best audience for this one.

Bonus: I've yet to read Sir Fartsalot, but I did watch this very funny cartoon short, also by Bolger and Blecha, Sir Fartsalot vs. the Dragon. Check it out for some fartastic humor!

A Review of The Zombie Chasers by John Kloepfer

Our story begins with Zack being tormented by the girls at his older sister's sleepover. (His parents are out on the town.) Zoe and her friends, including beautiful, vain Madison, tie him to a chair and put make-up on him. To make things worse, they videotape him and send the footage out to his friends by Internet. Next Madison eats Zack's carefully saved slice of birthday cake—though she is shocked to discover it's non-vegan.

Aaaand, then the zombies attack. Suddenly the neighbors, other kids, and the girls at the sleepover are turning into zombies. Zack and Madison may despise each other, but they quickly team up to escape being bitten. A more unlikely Bogart and Hepburn you'll never find.

Here's what it's like to have your neighborhood full of zombies:

Madison fished out another VitalVegan from her handbag and sidled up next to Zack. She took a casual sip, then looked out at the shambling swarm of blood-thirsty fiends. The zombies tottered randomly in every direction. Their arms were outstretched, disjointed limbs dangling out of their sockets, some slashed to shreds with bloody gashes.
Madison let out a choked yelp, dropping the plastic bottle out the window. It seemed to pause in midair before the plastic clinked noisily off the wooden slats of the ladder.
The zombies turned in unison, craning their necks toward the house.
Madison sucked in air, preparing to let out a full-fledged scream. But Zack cupped his hand over her mouth, and instead, she just sputtered into his palm. He shot her a sideways glance and wiped his hand on the side of his pants. Gross.
And then she screamed anyway.

The third member of this little tribe ends up being Rice, Zack's best friend. Madison delights in talking down to both of the boys, but the three of them make a surprisingly good team. Madison may be in love with herself, but she's not stupid. And Zack and Rice are smart in just the way you would expect from a couple of sixth grade boys who've watched a lot of TV—canny and determined to survive. Although Zack's not too sure about Rice's theory that ginkgo biloba is to zombies as garlic is to vampires.

Did I mention that they've made their escape in Zack's parents' Volvo, which Madison manages to drive? After a showdown in a supermarket, they go back to Zack's house to retrieve Madison's little purse dog and Zack's sister, a zombie whom they keep hitting over the head to keep her from biting them. One hockey mask, a leash, and a doggie car divider later (for Zoe, not the dog), they are on the road, heading for the nearest military base, which is where the radio announcer has instructed survivors to gather.

Ah, could the opening of those new BurgerDog fast food restaurants all over the country have anything to do with this national zombie epidemic? And conversely, might Madison's super-healthy lifestyle give her an advantage?

I should mention that the crew picks up another eighth grader named Greg, whom the boys know as a bully and Madison knows as a hottie. Zack looks all the better next to Greg, who is pretty much a lunkhead. But Madison doesn't necessarily catch that.

I have to say, if Kloepfer had simply given us Zack and Rice, this book wouldn't have been nearly as good. But the combination of these two boys with haughty Madison is a hoot, especially when you consider how well the three of them manage.

Illustrator Steve Wolfhard has a great time with his material, drawing zombies and dropping body parts with enthusiasm and panache. Don't forget to take off the book jacket and look at the fabulous map printed on the book cover itself.

I've decided the appeal of zombie stories is that it gives us an instant playground in theater of the absurd: hey, there goes your mom and the cranky neighbor next door, shambling around groaning and falling apart, literally. "Moooowaaaaaahhaaarrgh! It was the unmistakable zombie battle cry." Is that the skateboarder who lives up the street, skateboard in one hand and dead bunny in the other?

Kloepner does an incredible job of pacing this book, of writing realistically funny dialogue for Zack and Co., and of coming up with clever action scenes using zombie mayhem and the creative responses of our young carload of heroes. A very fun new series!

Note for Worried Parents: This is for a little older crowd than Zombiekins, pretty much fifth through eighth graders. The gruesomeness is more gruesome, and there are jokes about middle school crushes. On the other hand, I can think of some fourth graders who would like it... Perhaps I should say instead that Zombiekins is for a little younger crowd than this one.

Also: Your kids might like seeing the Zombie Chasers website, where they can join to participate in games relating to the book.

A Review of Living Hell by Catherine Jinks

This book's title represents truth in advertising in a big way: the story gets bleak, then bleaker, working its way clear down to bleakest. In that sense, Jinks's new YA science fiction work is ultimately a horror story, Edgar Alan Poe on a spaceship. Or maybe it's just an especially creative example of dystopian fiction. (Spoiler ahead!)

We begin with a seventeen-year-old boy named Cheney who lives on the Plexus, a huge spaceship outbound from Earth many years earlier. More than a thousand colonists live in a perfectly well-ordered environment which supports their every need. But during the middle of a birthday party in a virtual environment, Cheney gets an inkling that something has gone wrong. As the son of leaders, he is able to find out that the ship is about to pass through a strange wave of radiation.

If this were a movie script, the wave would be what is called "the inciting incident." The other movie term I'm thinking of is "high concept." Because—and this will be a spoiler—the radiation essentially transforms the ship into a living organism. An organism whose immune system tags the humans as something along the lines of attacking bacteria.

I tell you this because there is no way to describe the book at all without showing you where Jinks is going with this. The remaining three-fourths of Living Hell describes the terrible struggle for survival of those who manage to get through the first few hours. The author goes all out with her concept, coming up with intriguing details about the problems Cheney and his friends encounter, as well as how they get around the ship and defend themselves.

So this book is action-adventure of a kind boy readers might particularly enjoy (including some grisly deaths), especially if they like horror. Jinks does a great job of depicting the ship's transformation, carefully envisioning what each change might entail. Here's a sample from right after the change:

Slowly, one by one, we clambered through the hole between the door panels. It was becoming so small that by the time Dad squeezed through—nearly falling on his face in the process—the fleshy rims of the panels were sucking at his body.

It was disgusting to watch—like someone being born.

Out in the street there were samplers flying everywhere. The street shuttle had disappeared. All the doors had turned into valves and the floors into slippery paths of tissue, some of it slick and smooth, some of it rough with soggy bristles, some of it bunched into funny pads or pillows that looked a bit like cauliflower heads.

Mum seized my hand.

"I feel as if I'm in somebody's stomach," Dygall muttered, and I glanced at Mum in alarm. She knew exactly what I was thinking.

"We're not in a stomach," she declared. "If we were, those excretions would be eating through our pressure suits."

(Yep, there are quite a few scientific explanations of what is happening!)

Now, I'm usually pretty good at suspension of disbelief. But this one is tough to buy into, and perhaps that's because the change is so abrupt that, in addition to being a shock to the crew of the Plexus, it's a shock to the reader. I would have liked to see the change come on more gradually, with a building of suspense, having people being picked off one by one instead of everyone being completely under attack all at once. It also seems like the characters figure out what's going on and what each change means a little too quickly. (Including an explanation of what the strange radiation is, which isn't entirely satisfying.) Though many readers will appreciate that Living Hell is fast-paced, at times it feels a bit rushed.

As for characterization, we mostly get to know Cheney and an aggressive friend of his named Dygall. Cheney is a likable first-person narrator who is forced to become the leader of a small group of kids in short order. He rises to the challenge, and readers will be rooting for him to succeed.

It's possible there could be a sequel, although I didn't get the feeling the author has decided to write one just yet. For the moment, if you're in the mood for a happy ending, you should probably skip this book. On the other hand, if you don't mind a dose of gloom and doom and have a fondness for science fiction, action-adventure, and horror of the gooshy variety, try Catherine Jinks's latest.

Note for Worried Parents: Living Hell is a book for teens and includes some peril and gruesome deaths, but the author doesn't linger on the gore.

Also: I requested this book from the Amazon Vine program. It is scheduled to be published on April 12.

A Review of The Boneshaker by Kate Milford

Natalie loves machines. She helps her mechanic father in his shop, repairing motorcars and bicycles and trying to build clockwork machines like a small flyer. It's 1914, and Arcane isn't an ordinary small town. The crossroads is a place of power, where the devil once battled an old musician for his soul and lost.

At least, that's the story Natalie's mother tells her, but is it true? As The Boneshaker progresses, we learn not only that the story is true, but that the uncanny Doctor Jake Limberleg's Nostrum Fair and Technological Medicine Show has something to do with demons, as well.

Natalie, whose biggest concern up till now has been her inability to ride the odd bicycle her father has rebuilt for her, the titular boneshaker, now has a whole new set of worries. With her friends, she begins to explore the eerie doctor's medicine show. What she discovers frightens her, but things get even worse when her brother and father decide to bring her ailing mother to the medicine show for treatment.

The author builds her story—and the suspense—beautifully, pulling readers deeper into Natalie's all-too-appropriate fears about Dr. Limberleg and the "paragons" who accompany him. Meanwhile, Natalie's continuing efforts to ride the boneshaker lead us to a final chase scene in which she must ride the bike on a wild night-time journey to save her town and everyone she loves.

Milford gives us fun details like the time Natalie tries to sell a single bee to the town's shopkeeper, along with curious details such as the miniature automata inside Dr. Limberleg's trailer or the way the front left wheel pops off of every vehicle that comes into Arcane through the crossroads. And the medicine show, a kind of carnival, is described nightmarishly well.

The characters here are as marvelously strange as the medicine show. We get to know Old Tom Guyot, the elderly black musician who challenged the devil and won; a devious drifter named Jack (whom you might recognize from folklore); a mysterious rich man who isn't quite human; and stalwart townspeople like the pharmacist and Natalie's friends Alfred and Miranda.

You'll find that Kate Milford has a way with words. Here's Natalie's first glimpse of the flame-haired doctor:

Something about this man seemed...out of place in the general store. It was hard to say where a man like that might belong, but he surely didn't belong here.
He was taller than anyone she knew, and he wore an old-fashioned frock coat like her grandfather wore in old pictures: long and flared at the bottom and too heavy for a summer noon. He carried a tall silk hat under one arm, and there was something odd about his hair, too; the way it stood off his scalp was like the way her hair billowed when she dunked her head underwater.

But, evil though he seems, there is more to Dr. Limberleg than readers first suspect. For that matter, Natalie discovers there is more to her own self than she had previously realized. Natalie solves the problems in Arcane in difficult and thoughtful ways, achieving far more than a victory over her uncooperative bicycle.

Milford's work hints of magical realism and Alfred Hitchcock's subtle touch rather than today's scare-a-minute horror stories. A rich and shivery historical fantasy—or what I like to call rural fantasy—The Boneshaker will appeal to kids who are willing to take the time to watch fear unfold in increasingly unnerving detail.

(Listen to the old Charlie Daniels Band song, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia," for an earlier take on the American musician's-pact-with-the-devil legend. And here are the Muppets performing the song!)

Note for Worried Parents: In addition to mature themes relating to the serious illness of a parent, The Boneshaker features pacts with the devil and demonic horror elements. It's definitely creepy, which explains the publisher's suggested reading range of 10 and up.

I requested this book from the Amazon Vine program after hearing about it on The Enchanted Inkpot. The Boneshaker will come out on May 24.

A Review of The Pickle King by Rebecca Promitzer

The Pickle King reminds me of a particular group of books, most of them about villainous factory owners, particularly food fabricators, and many of them drizzling with perpetual or near-perpetual rain: Fortune's Magic Farm by Suzanne Selfors, The Secret of Zoom by Lynn Jonell, Canned by Alex Shearer, and The Deep Freeze of Bartholomew Tullock by Alex Williams. More distantly, Pickle King has echoes of Charles Dickens and Joan Aiken. In each book, evil rich people oppress a town, their misdeeds covered up by bribery and/or dark magicks. The awful secrets are eventually brought to light by a kid or a group of kids.

Amazon calls this a YA, although it reads like middle grade fiction much of the time. The publisher's website says "10 and up." The Pickle King includes horror elements such as rats, roaches, and, most important, human body parts. In some ways, the book is simply a mystery about contemporary kids. But psychic powers, hidden histories, and things like a secret community of misfits living beneath a garbage dump make it more of a paranormal/fantasy/horror story, part of a new subgenre inspired by books like Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book.

This entrant is a little uneven, but there are quite a few things I liked about it. The setting has a nice Twilight Zone vibe, and Bea draws you into her worries as well as her friendships and adventures. I was basically a happy reader for about half the book, after which I felt a slight loss of interest. I ended up being disappointed by the way the story concluded—as much for plot choices as for a heavy-handed cliffhanger after what seemed like four final chapters in a row.

The rain is essentially a character here, and Promitzer describes it really well, bringing it up over and over again. If you get tired of this, recall that main character Bea is just as sick of it as you are! One of her chief goals in life is to escape the rainy town of Elbow and go visit a place like Florida, where the sun shines. Here's a rainy sample from the first chapter:

Anyway, it was summer vacation in Elbow and, of course, it was pouring rain.
I don't know if you've ever been anywhere where it rained for a few days without a break, not even a little one. If you have, you'll know that it makes you feel edgy, kind of jumpy inside. There are shadows, an unnatural kind of light, strange rainy noises, and you start to feel like you can't trust the regular things around you, the things you take for granted. Sometimes it seems like the things you've seen in scary movies or your own nightmares have come alive and are real—and have moved in for good. Other times it's as though you're living underwater and there's no air, and you really start to believe the sun will never ever shine again. It's no good for anybody to spend the summer in Elbow, but it's the kids like me who have to hang around; kids with no money or no parents or a bit of both. Some of us have got green growing between our toes from all the rain. It's a kind of mold. Bertha says it's the start of webbed feet.

TV screenwriter Promitzer tells a fairly compelling story in The Pickle King, and readers will find themselves going along for the ride with Bea on the bike she has spray-painted purple. The first place Bea brings us is an old house, where her friend Sam shows her a dead body. Aspiring photographer Bea takes pictures of the corpse, only to find when she gets home that the dead man's ghost appears to be haunting her camera.

Bea is accompanied by a nice little cast of characters. First there's Sam, a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who is alternately neglected and abused by his thuggish older brother and his father the drunk. We also get Sam's dog Jellybean, who provides comic relief along with some Lassie-like proclivities in a crisis. Sam and Bea reluctantly seek out other members of "The Summer Club," starting with rich girl Madison, whose initial superficiality and shoe fetish turns out to hide her unhappiness and a bad habit. Next we meet Eric, a young mad scientist who's really not that good at inventing things, and Butterfly, who is endlessly doomed to babysit her younger brother, Nelson.

Throw in some sinister villains, a jar of Herman's Red Devil Relish (also haunted), and you've got quite the summer vacation! Although sometimes the "blech" factor seems a little calculated, young readers will probably get a kick out of it. This book is obviously intended to be followed by a sequel. While I could wish for a slightly stronger plot next time, I do recommend Bea Klednik as your guide to some unusual adventures.

Note for Worried Parents: Sam smokes, and he offers to share his cigarette with the other kids, one of whom accepts. Other than that, just the horror elements mentioned above and a little preteen attraction—one kiss and some hand-holding, for example.

Picture Books with Bite

Despite the popularity of No, David! and Where the Wild Things Are, I suspect most people think of picture books as being sweet. No doubt this impression is influenced by the abundance of bedtime books—often lullabyes—which really are sweet. So it is with some gusto that I give you a handful of books that aren’t sweet. In fact, they are tart and funny, and above all, toothy.

But first, let’s talk about the horror genre. A decade or so ago, it was all wizards: nothing but miles and miles of pointy hats and wands everywhere you looked. That was in the days when Potter was king, or Rowling was queen, take your pick. Today’s royal couple, both of them actual human beings, would be Neil Gaiman and Stephenie Meyer.

Still, The Graveyard Book and Twilight are not for small children, and neither is Coraline, even if you do decide your five-year-old won’t get nightmares from seeing the movie. Which raises the perhaps-less-obvious-than-I-think question: Does horror have a place in picture books?

The answer, at first glance, would seem to be yes—in the form of Halloween books. But if you have ever examined the offerings on the orange holiday altar in a bookstore in October, I can guarantee that few of the books you saw were actually scary. Again, we’re talking picture books. (For middle grade readers, forget about Goosebumps—the scariest stuff would have to be those Alvin Schwartz collections. Extremely creepy!) One of the few Halloween picture books I like is Shake Dem Halloween Bones by W. Nikola-Lisa and Mike Reed, but it's not scary. The Halloween subgenre has yet to offer up a classic picture book, nothing like The Polar Express or How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Of course, this is probably because most people don’t think it’s a good idea to terrify four-year-olds.

Even so, the tinge of horror has reached its haunted hands into picture books. Either that, or we’re simply seeing the brashness of a generation of writers who've read Scieska and Smith’s books and watched a lot of Simpsons episodes. The four books I’m reviewing today aren’t noticeably “horror” so much as they have a boldness about them, the subversiveness I wrote about a few weeks ago. And yes, they all involve teeth, or at least food. Think of this as my homage to Sendak’s classic line, “Oh please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!”

The Odd Egg by Emily Gravett

Emily Gravett is quite the maverick. I like her work very much, and I expect more funny, unpredictable books from her in the years to come. Besides, wolves, spells, and fears? Emily is clearly a closet horror writer. (I’m choosing to ignore the dogs and meercats.) Gravett is also a talented illustrator.

As The Odd Egg begins, a little gathering of birds waits for their eggs to hatch. Except a duck, who doesn’t have an egg. It didn’t occur to me till later that the robin, the hen, the parrot, the flamingo, and the owl might all be female, while Duck is referenced as a male. I doubt Gravett is dabbling in gender politics, but it certainly explains why Duck has not laid an egg!

Fortunately, Duck finds an egg—a beautiful white egg with green spots. In Duck’s fervent opinion, it is “the most beautiful egg in the whole wide world.” Soon the other five eggs hatch, and here the author/illustrator makes wonderful use of specially cut partial pages. She also throws in a clever joke about the baby owl.

When Duck’s egg doesn’t hatch right away, he waits patiently, knitting baby booties with great good cheer. The other birds are not what you’d call supportive: like the adults in Krause and Johnson’s The Carrot Seed, who inform the little boy that his seed will not come up, these birds tell Duck that his egg will never hatch. But Duck just keeps knitting, and eventually his patience is rewarded. We also get some teeth and some comeuppance. Be sure to look at the endpapers, which are actually the last page of the story.

This is a seemingly simple book, and the soft-edged watercolors make it look like it might be sweeter than it is. But The Odd Egg is a hoot—an owl’s hoot, most likely. More important, it has an ironic edge that readers who aren’t fans of the saccharine in children’s books will surely appreciate.

I’d Really Like to Eat a Child by Sylviane Donnio and Dorothée de Monfreid

The bite in this story is more overt, which makes it all the more amusing to me that Donnio’s work is ultimately sweeter than The Odd Egg. But only a little, kind of the way a lemon square tastes. In the absurd alternate reality that children's books so readily create, we meet a family of crocodiles whose diet largely consists of bananas. Then little crocodile Achilles wakes up one morning and announces, “Today, I’d really like to eat a child.”

His parents try to convince him to eat something else—bananas, perhaps? They cajole, they prepare special foods, but to no avail. Achilles is determined. Eventually he goes down to the river and finds a real live child. His dream has come true! Or has it? The human girl he meets casually turns the tables on the little croc, which results in Achilles hurrying home to rethink his strategies, if not his diet.

What’s really funny about this book is that it depicts the traditional battle between parents and small children over what, if anything, those children will eat. Russell Hoban’s Bread and Jam for Frances is the only book I’ve seen previously that handled this topic successfully. Times have changed, however: children of yesteryear may have been stuck eating whatever was plopped on their plates, but lately, I’ve been in grocery stores eavesdropping on parents who walk from aisle to aisle, asking the four-foot-and-under crowd to tell them what to buy. Along these lines, I love the way Donnio, a French writer, depicts the calm arrogance of a cute little kid who knows how much his parents want him to be happy. For example, look at the first few pages of the story:

Every morning, Mama Crocodile would bring tasty bananas to little Achilles for his breakfast, and each time she said in wonder, “What a big boy you are getting to be, my son! And how handsome! And what beautiful teeth you have!”

“True,” Achilles would say to himself.

There are other jokes in I’d Really Like to Eat a Child, but I’ll leave them to you to discover. Suffice it to say that this book might inspire your own family to adopt the title as a catchphrase for arguing about what kids—and adults—will or will not ingest.

Beware of the Frog by William Bee

This one is flat-out satirical. I hope you get the idea as soon as you read the first sentence: “This is the story of a sweet little old lady named Mrs. Collywobbles.” Naturally, the dear old soul “lives in a little house on the edge of a big, dark, scary wood.” The only thing standing between her and terrible danger is “her little pet frog,” who sits on the front porch looking innocuous.

Then again, the sign on the front gate does say, BEWARE OF THE FROG. On something resembling crime scene tape, no less. So when a parade of monsters comes up to the house, planning to rob Mrs. Collywobbles or even cook her for supper, they get the surprise of their lives. As each one opens the gate: “But oh, dear, the frog doesn’t look very pleased about that....” (Like me, you may be reminded of the rabbit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.)

Your child might notice that Mrs. Collywobbles hides in a different room of the house each time one of the monsters comes along. Eventually, her house is completely without monster threats, so she decides to reward her deadly watchfrog.

That’s when the gleeful author-illustrator throws, not one, but two plot twists at us. All in a mere 32 pages! I do not recommend you read this to your child if your favorite picture book is Guess How Much I Love You. But if you have a bright, anarchic kid, he or she will thoroughly enjoy Beware of the Frog. (And be sure to check out the back cover design, which also resides outside the box.)

Inside the Slidy Diner by Laurel Snyder and Jaime Zollars

I remember seeing Jaime Zollars's gorgeously creepy art on display at SCBWI’s summer conference, and I’ve “met” Laurel Snyder in Kidlitosphere, where a group of people blogs about children’s books. This book is the closest to horror that I'll present to you in today's post. Inside the Slidy Diner shows us a place defined by ooze and hints of strange magic, but with beauty lurking beneath. I’m sure on some level it’s an allegory, although it doesn’t have to be, not unless you’re in the mood.

Instead, let’s say this book is a tall tale. You may even get the sense that Edie, standing outside the diner and trying to convince her friend to come inside, is making the whole thing up. But wait: that’s no fun. Let's try again. We'll call the Slidy Diner the restaurant where Lewis Carroll's Alice goes for dinner, or better yet, Neil Gaiman's Coraline.

My own guess is that the author was in a cheap diner one night and imagined taking the idea of a “greasy spoon” to its logical extreme. In fact, she uses the phrase early in the book: “Inside the Slidy Diner, the greasy spoon of stuck, there’s a gray man at the counter who mumbles and smells like mice.”

The food here is way past icky. Just for example, the coffee gives you hives and the pie is pumpkin asparagus topped with unidentifiable crunchy bits. There are a lot of dead flies in this book, some of them sticking to the back of witchy proprietor Ethelmae’s sweater. And don't ask about the ladyfingers.

But there’s more to the Slidy Diner than just the ick factor. In the depths of the diner, we find “dark blue secrets” and other wonders. Once we see the bird-shaped secrets, we realize they have been perched on previous pages, unnoticed.

Laurel Snyder is a poet, and the text of this book is beautifully worded. Illustrator Jaime Zollars, with her penchant for fantasy horror, is the perfect artist for envisioning the diner.

Does Snyder’s concept of marrying horror with hidden joy work? It’s an unusual and thought-provoking mix. The book reminds me of magical realism as well as horror, only the food in Like Water for Chocolate sounded a lot more edible. Of course, life itself is like the Slidy Diner, a rough mixture of troubles and blue-winged happiness. (Oops! Allegory attack!) I’m sure some parents will be uneasy with a book like this one, but people do know their own children—for others, it will be delightfully gruesome and possibly instigate some intriguing conversations.

Which is really the point of children's books with bite. Stories that do not surprise are not worthy of being called stories. Furthermore, in this new world of ours, horror makes a good analogy for terrorism, rampaging economies, and other powers beyond our control. In such a world, having a few sharp-toothed specimans hiding at the edge of the picture book forest seems entirely appropriate.

Update: Please, oh please, take a look at two posts about "Slightly Demented Picture Books" over at Seven Imp! There's one from 2008 and another from 2010, where you'll find still more picture books with bite and some wonderful discussion on the topic.