Feral: A Novel of Werewolf Horror by Matt Serafini.
This book took me beyond my comfort zone, stole my safe word, and then made me think about biology. Horrifying.
Two of the above are cardinal sins… but because nobody listens to screeching red birds, their warnings go unheeded.
Ahem. I am, at best, a casual, near-normie reader of “extreme” horror. I do not particularly enjoy tales of sexually-charged anything, of werewolves, and certainly not of incest. Heck, incense eradicates my sinuses, and that’s legal.
I’d “like” to say run far, run fast. But the writing here is tight, composed, and well-edited. The characters, by and large, are not very likable… which is realistic, as they sound very much as I was at that age (quiet, those of you hissing about the present!).
There is humor; there is drama. There are nicely-rendered descriptions, and there are surprises.
And beyond all else… at the lip-smacking, pink-tipped extremities—that desperate place where reputations are made and ruined—Serafini makes bold decisions that not every reader will enjoy, but ones that horror fans and authors of this genre will surely applaud.
Before you read (or listen to) this book, ask yourself a question to set realistic expectations: do you know what dogs do? Have you seen a fertile mother and son; father and fertile daughter? Observed their behavior? That’s right, friend: given the chance, they go right to Funkytown.
If your eyes have been opened to the nauseating, seedy reality of life for the baser creatures, you will find at least one transformation in this book, technically from man to animal, not only realistic, but allegorical.
Is this neat, clean, and comfy? No. But horror, done right, rarely is… because it explores the parts of the map marked by those too afraid to draw-in the details. Serafini does, and I appreciate his bold attempt.