The second installment of this popular series, The Little Vampire Moves In, was one of my childhood favourites, and even inspired me to make a vampire cape for a Halloween party. Even though I have read the book countless of times, it's in an excellent shape. I loaned some of the next installments from the library ages ago, but in a random order and I can't remember anything about them anymore. It doesn't really matter that much if you don't read the books in order, but I have an obsession for it. I finally wanted to read this first one, and dive into the nostalgic world of the von Schlotterstein vampire family.

This did have the familiar magic, although I didn't get the exactly same feeling of excitement that I used to. The series was my first confrontation with vampires, and maybe partly because of this I prefer the traditional vampires that smell like sweaty coffins and soil. Here vampires aren't too tame, as you would think from a children's book, but for example aunt Dorothee still had that creepy air around her. It was interesting to realise that the feeding habits of vampires aren't even once referred to directly as biting. Anton's family is charming, but not ridiculously perfect. Mom gets a tad too curious all the time and dad gets angry easily. A special mention goes to Amelie Glinke's illustrations, which stuck into my mind ever since I saw them for the first time. The delicate gossamer pencil lines fit perfectly for the atmosphere, and the characters to the overall charming character of the book.

From Matheson I have read I Am Legend, which was a decent and thought-provoking vision of a world infested with vampires. The film version of The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957) also offered pretty good entertainment. Plus, the giant cat was cute. This Matheson's idea of a haunted house on the other hand was mostly a bewildering experience, despite its fairly promising start. I mean, a dying millionaire gives a task to search afterlife from a scary house in exhange for money promised, if not that special writing, then at least some chills and spookiness. Yeah, not really.

For some reason the author seems to entertain this strange concept (I'm not saying this as a feminist but as a friend of horror) that extreme sexuality of women or between women is somehow Satanic, and is perfect for scaring people instead of proper ghosts or other paranormal phenomena. Right. It felt more like the author's personal problems with sexuality. I would understand if we were talking about a 19th century novel, but in a 1970s novel it doesn't work (at least for me). The poltergeist phenomena were so yawningly cliched and long-winded, that they weren't anything near scary or creepy.

Towards the end it actually got worse, because the increasingly ridiculous events started to bug me real bad. The long lectures about parapsychology (remnants from Matheson's sci-fi books?) and Lionel Barrett's nauseating obstinacy and arrogance didn't help. I would have probably quit reading if this had been any longer, but I was curious about how it would end. Not a satisfying conclusion by any standards. The king of all anticlimaxes. There was also the typical cancer of modern horror movies: people do stupid things by jamming themselves into places where it really isn't ok to go.

I should probably mention here, that cliched haunting isn't necessarily a bad thing if it's executed neatly and stylishly. You also can't blame the age of the book for the tameness, as in all the forms of hauntings have supposedly already been seen in so many books and films, that they don't scare people the same way. Yeah right. Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House (1959), one of my favourite books, is not just a stylish psychological horror novel, but also a fantastic book in its own right. It gives way to different interpretations, and its age only shows in its charm. It's written beautifully, it got me to curse my decision to read it after midnight, but most of all it's a great combination of traditional horror elements and 1950s charm, with a multifaceted protagonist. Hazy and creepy, and the film version doesn't fall too far from its poetic greatness. Let's not forget The Shining (1977) either, shall we?

BBC Radio 7

This classic Finnish novella brings forth the gap between gentry and the poor in 19th century Finland. The best way this shows is in the part where Mari Holpainen wanders around the city and sees her former employee's daughter, who is now a young woman. Although they used to be close, now the daughter doesn't recognise Mari anymore, which suggests that their relationship wasn't that personal in the first place. This scene also shows how gentry spoke Swedish back then. Mari's husband can't even talk to the doctor, because the doctor speaks Swedish.

Even other poor families can't see the distress of the family Holpainen, before it's too late. Hellu, the family's oldest daughter, is said to be quiet and satisfied. Is she satisfied or merely resigned? Her innocent childhood is practically lost, and she can already sense the anxiety of the adults. The future doesn't look too bright, especially when there are families with a worse situation, and therefore first to get help from the authorities. No matter how much outsiders would like to help, it's not always possible. If you give a bag of flour for free, how many times you have to repeat it before bankruptcy strikes?

This was interesting, but I still felt something was missing. The discussion between the doctor and the priest seemed a bit random, like Canth wanted two extra characters to talk with her mouth. She is nevertheless an interesting author, so I'll definitely continue with her works.

None of the stories really stood out for me as brilliant or even great but I enjoyed reading the anthology. Contemporary horror just doesn't scare me, I really miss being spooked by mere words.

Meh. I browsed through the book recently and I can't believe what I was thinking when I gave this three stars. I mean, it isn't really horribly written but still a pretty ridiculous peace of work.