Four American Indian men from the Blackfeet Nation, who were childhood friends, find themselves in a desperate struggle for their lives, against an entity that wants to exact revenge upon them for what they did during an elk hunt ten years earlier by killing them, their families, and friends.
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Four American Indian men from the Blackfeet Nation, who were childhood friends, find themselves in a desperate struggle for their lives, against an entity that wants to exact revenge upon them for what they did during an elk hunt ten years earlier by killing them, their families, and friends.
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Reads like a basketball-loving elk's sick revenge fantasy and not so much a horror novel. Not a lot of actual suspense or horror goes on until the climax and then the climax feels like an extremely long basketball game followed by drawn out running that you'd just wish would end already, instead of really capturing the horror well. Everything just seems to fall into place throughout the book aswell, I don't know how many times I found myself asking "how the f- did that happen??" scratching my head. Honestly the entire sweat lodge scene kinda just felt humorous to me for that reason, instead of instilling dread.
Did I mention the emphasis on basketball? So much of the book instead of being about building suspense or character development focused in on these basketball matches and some jargon here and there associated with it. Maybe if I was a basketball fan may have captivated me more, but it just felt extremely out of place in what was supposed to be a horror novel. If someone had described the climax between Denora and the monster to me before reading this, I would have immediately figured this book wasn't for me, and that's the best way I can put it without blatant spoilers.
I loved seeing a horror from the standpoint of native americans as that just doesn't make it into the limelight enough, and it's a shame with the folklore being the main focus for so many horrifying cryptids. It just didn't feel written all that great.
Sarah D
Oct 14, 2020
Beautiful, gut-wrenching tale of horror.
The Only Good Indians, authored by Stephen Graham Jones, was a birthday buy for myself. It was released on my actual birthday, along with Wonderland by Zoje Stage, so I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself; both hardcover editions had hauntingly lovely covers.
I rated this 5 stars.
By the end of the opening chapter I felt as if a great clock had begun ticking down, to what I did not know; but it didn't look good for those involved. There were many points while reading, I'll admit I was doing some sniffling, had to widen my eyes a bit to stop the waterworks from getting started, or as a last line of defense, looking up from the page to stare at the wall or Biscuit (my cat). I had to give up the ghost by the end, give in to a little emotional break, fully; akin to lancing a deep hurt, I was left feeling lighter but weary. Mapping the Interior was my introduction to SGJ, a novella that wasted no words in wringing out everything, leaving me gutted and a fan for life. This novel is a heavy hitter in the same way, showcasing the human bonds that we forge that can last us a lifetime, shining a light on the indigenous people that are always further and further swept into tighter corners of a land that used to be open, beautifully wild, and theirs; but now often burning or drowning.
I have watched or read horror from single digits; Hitchcock, Poe, then Lovecraft and some King were my introductions via my dad's library and blessing. I adopted a quirk for keeping myself from getting too scared while diving into my horrors, it couldn't happen to me because I'm not breaking whatever rule the poor characters in question were breaking. Example, I did not allow myself to enter the house of redneck cannibals of my own volition, ending in my murder. That doesn't really hold up with SGJ. Innocents are just as liable to be struck down, if not more so, before the guilty. And then this even harder one, what if there are no seriously guilty ones being punished, no tremendous enemies to hate on? Four friends make a memory. There are parts that all of them share equally, they could agree easily "That's the way it happened." But one made a secret pact, a private promise; he sealed the fate of his friends as well as his own, and even past that, to those attached by association or circumstance. So many lives were held accountable to one man's promise, and I still got to the end and can't say where there is an enemy. That's the thing that tore me up, that SGJ wrote in a way that hit me right between the eyes like a freaking brick; the debt has to paid, sorry isn't enough, and I can mourn both sides. There are many elements present in this novel, this is one that made the book that touch more horrific to me, kept my mind from resting, gave my pulse that little drop and catch, and coupled with that ending, led to my liberating, messy and over the top cry fest at the end.
