I’ve dog-eared so many pages in honor of vivid prose...Hypnotic and glowing, Mr. Splitfoot insists on its own ghostly presence. Memory, either of dead people or of books read once upon a time, obeys only the rules it chooses.
Hunt refuses to let any conclusions solidify in her wry prose...Turned around and around in these woods, you won’t always know where you are, but there’s a rare pleasure in this blend of romance and phantoms.
Although Samantha Hunt turns out the creepy imagery and Christianity, suspense runs short and horror is too often undercut by an infuriating structure that serves symbolism over story...the writing seems to aim for a Cormac McCarthy-ish American gothic spareness, but the simplicity it attains is only superficial
