Crystal Lake Publishing, $1.99, ISBN 978-1675928363
Horror, 2021 (Reissue)
HP Lovecraft called The Willows “the finest supernatural tale in English literature”, which is probably the closest thing to a five-star Yelp review you’re going to get from a man who spent most of his life terrified of fish and Rhode Island. But, for once, ol’ HP wasn’t wrong—this story slaps.
We follow two friends: our narrator, who is as anonymous as he is increasingly unhinged, and his companion, “the Swede”, which is either his actual name or the narrator simply doesn’t care to learn it. The duo embarks on a leisurely canoe trip down the Danube, blissfully unaware that they are about to have the worst Airbnb experience in literary history.
Things start going wrong when they camp on a willow-covered island, which, in hindsight, is the botanical equivalent of pitching a tent in the front yard of an eldritch god. A local tries to warn them away, but since his desperate cries are unintelligible, our heroes decide that, surely, this fine piece of cursed land is a perfect place to spend the night. What could go wrong?
The rest of the island was too thickly grown with willows to make walking pleasant, but I made the tour, nevertheless. From the lower end the light, of course, changed, and the river looked dark and angry. Only the backs of the flying waves were visible, streaked with foam, and pushed forcibly by the great puffs of wind that fell upon them from behind. For a short mile it was visible, pouring in and out among the islands, and then disappearing with a huge sweep into the willows, which closed about it like a herd of monstrous antediluvian creatures crowding down to drink. They made me think of gigantic sponge-like growths that sucked the river up into themselves. They caused it to vanish from sight. They herded there together in such overpowering numbers.
Well, everything. Everything could go wrong. The willows themselves seem to be alive, pressing in like a malevolent forest HOA. Reality starts unraveling like a cheap sweater, the wind sounds wrong, and an existential dread so thick you could spread it on toast starts seeping into their bones. Then, as a little bonus horror, they wake up to find their supplies mysteriously depleted, their boat damaged, and their paddles missing. It’s almost like something—or some things—don’t want them to leave.
What makes The Willows truly terrifying is that nothing is ever fully explained. There are no jump scares, no dramatic monster reveals—just an overwhelming sense of wrongness that lingers in your mind like a bad dream you can’t shake. It’s folk horror and survival horror rolled into one perfect, paranoia-inducing package.
This novella is a masterclass in how to scare the absolute hell out of your audience without ever showing them the monster. If you haven’t read it, fix that immediately—but maybe don’t plan any canoe trips afterward.
Final verdict: five oogies. Would not camp here again.