Nowadays, I tend to be pretty picky when it comes to reading horror fiction. Much of the work out there is shoddy, even exploitative, and completely bereft of scares. I’ve consequently kept my focus primarily on established authors and a rare few unknowns that look promising.
This wasn’t always the case: when I was in my teens, I would indiscriminately snatch anything off the bookshelves that had the word ‘horror’ on the binding. Most of the time I was sorely disappointed, but every once in a while I found something nice.
One of the books I discovered back then is Stickman, by Seth Pfefferle. I dug it out of my collection a couple of nights ago and gave it a reread, and it still holds up pretty well, even though I first read it as a teen in 1987!
