I’m writing this in a stranger’s room on a broken chair at an old school desk. The chair creaks if I move, and so I must keep very still. The lid of the desk is scored with symbols that might have been made by children or men, and at the bottom of the inkwell a beetle is lying on its back. Just now I thought I saw it move, but it’s dry as a husk and must’ve died long before I came.
After Me Comes The Flood, Sarah Perry
This is a subtly creepy novel. I am enjoying it and irritated by it in equal measure in the way you might enjoy a horror flick but yell at the heroine enraged when she runs upstairs and traps herself instead of running out the door, into the car and leaving town. I have no idea what is actually happening in it, but I’m pretty sure it ain’t good.