Parthian Books, £1.99, ISBN 978-1-910409-50-3
Horror, 2015 (Reissue)

Arthur Machen’s The White People is often lauded as a masterpiece of weird fiction. HP Lovecraft himself practically fainted over it, calling it one of the best examples of supernatural horror ever written. But is it? Or is it just a fever dream in desperate need of an editor?

First, let’s address the title. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those race-tinged polemics floating around online these days. The “white people” in question are instead a vague and sinister presence lurking in the ether of the story. Unfortunately, much like the plot, their exact nature remains stubbornly unclear.

The story opens with two men having one of those overly intellectual Victorian-era discussions that only ever happen in books. One of them asserts that true evil isn’t about your run-of-the-mill murder and mayhem—it’s something far more esoteric, bound up in forbidden knowledge and ineffable horror.

Just as you’re about to doze off, Mr Machen switches gear and dumps us into the diary of a young girl who, through vague and dreamlike means, stumbles upon something sinister.

Here’s where things get dicey. The diary reads less like the private musings of a child and more like an opium-fueled gothic manifesto. The paragraphs go on forever. Seriously, teenage girls do not write like this unless they’re auditioning to be the next Lord Byron.

If you were hoping for a bit of clarity, well, Arthur Machen laughs in your face. Instead, we get descriptions of weird hills, eerie forests, mystical rituals, and encounters with the enigmatic “white people”… but all of it is just vague enough to make you feel like you’ve walked in halfway through an unsettling conversation.

Then, just when things might be getting interesting, Mr Machen slams on the brakes and yanks us back to those two dull men from the beginning, who dismissively wrap up the story with a casual “Whelp, that’s that!” conversation. It’s an ending so abrupt and unsatisfying, you almost expect to find a missing page. You are left blinking, wondering if Mr Machen himself got bored and decided to wrap it up early to make it to the pub before last call.

The real issue with The White People is that it’s all atmosphere, no substance. Back in 1904, the idea of forbidden knowledge and creeping existential horror was still relatively fresh so this story might have been a sensation. In the 21st century, however, when we have everyone constantly bringing up the cosmic dread of climate change, late-stage capitalism, and then there’s the Cats movie—well, a little girl getting poetic about ominous landscapes just doesn’t quite cut it.

Arthur Machen was undoubtedly a skilled writer, but in this case, his literary gimmicks overpower the actual story. He insists on framing devices, labyrinthine prose, and an almost pathological avoidance of resolution. If he had simply let the girl tell her story without interruption, maybe we’d have something more haunting and immersive. Instead, The White People feels like an overwritten mood piece more concerned with being enigmatic than actually delivering chills.

Ultimately, whether you enjoy The White People depends on how much you vibe with Machen’s style. If you love the idea of horror as a dreamlike impression rather than a tangible narrative, this might be your jam. However, if you’re looking for stakes, structure, or even a proper ending—well, you might be better off reading something that doesn’t feel like an overlong prose poem designed to annoy modern sensibilities.