The weather here has begun to contract. It begins its annual disassembly into the fundamentals of winter. The sun has lost its violence. Humidity has been trucked away from view. It is still warm, but just. The mornings creak and whisper, a bite in the air. It is no great secret why ghost stories maintain their currency. I simply don't care. Rattling chains and mysterious footfalls can be regarded as symbols of family secrets. Personally I don't need creepy enhancements of subterfuge: I've heard all that before, and without the moaning as well. My family history is disturbing enough without the inexplicable. Ectoplasm doesn't scare me. Sigh.

The Thirteenth Tale recalls The little Stranger. I hated that one as well. Instead of broaching class relations in postwar England, The Thirteenth Tale attempts to garner steam from the literary sleuth sub-genre: instead of the Vatican, this time it is the moors.. Imagine my surprise upon realizing how unliterary our scholar proved to be, not mention the author Diane Setterfield. Middlebrow mewling into Jane Eyre: I should've known better.