This book is a clutch of poisoned flowers, each bloom more fragrant than the last. I caught myself leaning forward to inhale by the end of the first story, and pulled back from the bouquet just in time. I had to save myself if I was going to enjoy the rest of them. Once I'd reassured myself that I wouldn't be drawn in like that again, I settled in to read the second story. I had to quit this one mid-way through, because once again, I found myself too close for comfort. The story had extended its tendrils and I was this close to surrendering to the perfume.

I developed a pattern. Pick up the book, from a distance, and eyeball the first few lines of the story. After a momentary pause, I'd read a little more, gingerly, circling from a distance, before finally settling in, mesmerized by the imagery, drawn into the trap.

I think it was "Sunbleached" that finally did me in. At that point, it was too late for me. This story is the ultimate distillation of lyric horror, and it instantly inspired in me a hot streak of jealousy. It's a succinct, brutal masterpiece that transcends the genre. It may also be the saddest coming-of-age story I've ever read.

This is not a collection for the faint-of-heart. There is so much pain that the pages almost seem to throb. These are sufferer's stories, stories of mangled people, veterans of maladies. Sorrow seems to be ingrained in these characters' DNA. Indeed, heredity is a constant theme, though not limited to what is passed down in human genetics alone. These stories seem to inherit from a mythopoeic place - in which the true horror doesn't come from what can't be seen in the dark, but rather what outlines our eyes fill in when there is only a flicker of light.