The fear comes not in the eventual breaking of it but in the meticulous build-up. True horror requires-as far as I can tell-a building of tension, a careful construction of suspense even if we think we know where it is going. That, it turns out, is the crux of the novel, their feisty little exchanges going from humorous to exhausting about ten pages in. This group of young adults have all either slept with each other, dated, or at the very least kindled some sexual tension. We start with a promising premise: a group of twentysomethings stay in a haunted mansion, one tethered to a classic ghost tale, almost wanting to provoke a ghost encounter to get their money’s worth. Being clever is easy-there is nothing behind it, no emotion, no greater truths, no human connection-it is simply a brief blip of intellectual flexing of the bicep or showing off your tanned midriff, and then moving onto the next thing:

But she decided to not even try and instead focus on showing off how clever she is. Horror novels are hard-using words to conjure images to creep you out as you sit on your hammock outside in the sun.

Nothing but blackened teeth book