Book Review — "The Book of Spite" by R.F. Blackstone

H.P. Lovecraft lives on in R.F. Blackstone. Lovecraft specialized in the horror of the unknown—horror from a place so far beyond the cusp of mankind’s imagination that many of us can’t even fathom it—and what happens when we are forced to confront such phenomena. This Lovecraftian brand is also knowns as cosmic horror. Blackstone, likewise, crafts what he calls Extreme Cosmic Horror. And extreme is apt.

In his stories, our reality is enveloped by a weak exoskeleton, pervious to penetration by Blackstone’s own Cthulhu-adjacent inter-dimensional terror, and the nefarious book that grants its passage. 

Each of the four short stories found in this gruesome collection, entitled The Book of Spite, are tied together by the recurring Book of Spite, a Necronomicon-like tome with the dark power to unravel our realm as we know it—for the incantations found within the Book of Spite give rise to the almighty Ch’ait, an ancient leviathan with many tentacles. Neat, huh?

What sets these four bloody tales apart is the fact that they are all so damn distinct. In subject. In setting. In tone. And in style. With each new opening line, Blackstone reestablishes the entire mood. Had I been given “Cabins,” “The Outback,” “White Dress,” and “Metalpocalypse” as separate unbound pieces, I would have sworn that they were by four different authors—whose works coincidently featured the same deity of doom. 

Something else Blackstone has going for him is the element of surprise. Just when it feels like you know where a story is going, Blackstone yanks your noose tighter. “Cabins,” for instance. When it began, I thought I was in for a brutal slasher story in the vein of Friday the 13th. Teenagers getting butchered in cabins, ya know? 

But then it becomes a detective story as two cops try to piece together what’s really going on. And what they find turns out to be quite otherworldly—and a delightfully clever reimagining of the slasher genre, in a very The Cabin in the Woods sort of way—which works to foretell the hellishness that’s to come in the next three stories. 

“White Dress,” the third in the sequence, is perhaps my favorite. I love grief as a motivator in dramatic text. And that’s exactly what “White Dress” is about: how far the bereaved will go to re-obtain what can’t be returned naturally. A guy wants his dearly departed wife back, and, according to the Book of Spite, all it takes is a whole lot of bloodshed and the recusal of one’s innocence. No biggie.

However you surly don’t need me to tell you that things go very badly for the desperate protagonist of this twisted morality play. And it’s gorgeously grim. With echoes of Clive Barker and Stuart Gordon, “White Dress” is a macabre marriage of grotesque murder and uncanny tragedy. Because who doesn’t love a cosmically gory domestic tragedy? I know I do.

We shuffle off to another time in “The Outback,” maybe the bleakest of the stories. It’s a post-apocalyptic yarn placed in Australia, where every animal, bug, and plant could already kill you today—but in Blackstone’s desolate Australia almost every previously living thing is now ravenously undead, so… good fucking luck! And luck is exactly what Noni, our hero, needs as she dodges cannibals and zombies—there’s even mention of mutated koalas!

I really admire the existentialism of “The Outback.” Finding beauty and purpose in this sometimes-heartless, not-quite-apocalyptic-yet world of ours is hard enough. How Noni maintains her will to keep fighting is miraculous. She’s so tired, and the prose reflects it; her exhaustion is palpable. Then a companion comes along to fuel her fire and remind us why we all keep going. Too bad life never stops being unbearably cruel… Splendid in the ghastliest sense. 

The Book of Spite concludes with “Metalpocalypse,” the collection’s most balls-to-the-wall entry. If you haven’t figured it out yet by this fourth and final tale, Blackstone is not concerned about readers thinking he’s too gross or too out there. He’s more of a “yes, and…” type of storyteller. Well, you’ve heard legends about rockstars selling their souls to the Devil for fame, and “Metalpocalypse” takes that premise to the next level. Then on to the next level. And then up to the level after that one.

It’s a fitting ending to this fabulous grouping. Of all the bizarre happenings in The Book of Spite, “Metalpocalypse” got the most raised eyebrows and dropped jaws from of me. Everything that works about Blackstone’s writing is on full display in this outing. It’s a perfect culmination of what has led up to it, while also elevating the author’s strengths and solidifying the mythos running through the book. 

Like Ch’ait, his nightmarish titan from beyond, R.F. Blackstone’s words have presence; they linger long after the punctuation. His language is both frank and meaty. Blackstone riffs and shreds to his devious heart’s content. Never for a moment does it feel like he’s holding back—really putting the extreme in Extreme Cosmic Horror. 

This is the kind of writing I want to read more often. I plan to be first in line to read Blackstone’s next effort. Hmm, makes me wonder if he performed a colossal ritual at the risk of us all…

And if I must criticize something here… coulda used more mutated koalas tearing people apart. But that’s a given.