Zebra, $1.95, ISBN 0-89083-519-5
Horror, 1979 (Reissue)
When most people hear the name Bram Stoker, they immediately think of Dracula, a bona fide masterpiece of horror literature. It has everything: atmosphere, suspense, plot progression, characters you care about (even the ones doomed to have their blood sucked out), and a villain whose name has become synonymous with the very idea of vampirism. In short, it has everything that The Lair of the White Worm doesn’t.
Published in 1911, a year before Stoker’s death from locomotor ataxia, this little gem appears to be less of a novel and more of a desperate literary scramble. One can hardly blame him; writing a book while suffering from a debilitating condition is no small feat. Sadly, while some great minds shine brightest in adversity, The Lair of the White Worm feels more like a sputtering candle in a very drafty room. The pacing is rushed, the characters seem less like actual people and more like rejected cutouts from a particularly bad melodrama, and the plot… oh, the plot. If we can even call it that.
To summarize: a young man named Adam Salton arrives in England from Australia, at the request of a very old relative willing to fund his little trip. Little does he know, he’s about to face not one, not two, but three villains—none of whom manages to be remotely interesting. Lady Arabella March is supposedly the central antagonist, linked somehow to a giant underground serpent that may or may not be real (it hardly matters, as the novel barely commits to the idea). Then there’s Edgar Caswall, a mesmerist with all the charisma of a damp sponge, and his African servant, Oolanga, whose portrayal would make even Mr Stoker’s contemporaries cringe. That’s our triumvirate of terror, folks: a haughty aristocrat, a hypnotist who can’t seem to hypnotize anyone worth hypnotizing, and a character whose main purpose appears to be reinforcing uncomfortable stereotypes.
The story is cobbled together from a mishmash of half-baked ideas that never quite come to a boil. The connection between Lady Arabella and the titular worm is hazy at best, leaving readers to wonder if she’s merely eccentric, possessed, or has some kind of niche pet problem. One might suspect she’s been chewing on the same laudanum-laced snacks as the author. Three villains, and not one manages to exude even a fraction of Dracula’s dark allure—or even the mystique of Dracula’s Bride Number 3, whose name I’m sure we all remember fondly (don’t worry, I’ll wait).
Now, about those “of their time” elements: yes, the book does contain passages that modern audiences would rightfully call racist and sexist. Still, let’s not get too excited—Mr Stoker was writing over a century ago, after all. This was a time when writers apparently didn’t think twice about casting women as either cackling fiends or helpless damsels, with no middle ground. It’s best to just acknowledge these uncomfortable parts and carry on. Or, if that’s not your style, you could always hurl the book across the room and open Twitter, oh wait, X instead.
Back to the unfortunate portrayal of the female characters, one could forgive Mr Stoker’s earlier works for their occasional lapses in depicting nuanced women, but The Lair of the White Worm offers not so much “occasional lapses” as “full-time employment.” With heroines like Lilla and Mimi, whose primary talents appear to be swooning and looking concerned while the men go off to do important things, Mr Stoker has really outdone himself. One particular gem of a scene features a villain confidently stating that poor Lilla will be “too selfless” to save herself, and lo and behold, she proves him right by fainting at a critical moment. One almost suspects she does it just to prove a point.
The prose lacks Bram Stoker’s usual atmospheric touch and descriptive flair, making this less a descent into darkness and more a brisk stumble through a swampy bog. Characters are bland, dialogue is stilted, and the titular worm—which, let’s be honest, is probably why we picked up the book in the first place—barely gets any screen time. It’s as if Mr Stoker’s creeping dread had fled the scene, leaving behind only its malnourished cousin.
To be fair, one can’t help but feel some sympathy for the circumstances of its creation—a reminder that even the greats must someday decline. Alas, for those of us who prefer our horror novels to actually horrify, this isn’t so much a tale of terror as it is a sad footnote in a celebrated career. If you’re determined to complete your collection of Bram Stoker’s works, then by all means, add this one to your shelf. But for the rest of us, I’d recommend giving this book a miss and revisiting Dracula instead. At least there, the monsters are actually scary.
