The Gingerbread Man discusses Adam Cesare’s horror fiction (while using knives)

…asked the Gingerbread Man.

“Yes,” I replied. It was the truth. I hoped my affirmative answer would save me.

“Splendid. You’re older than my usual dinner guests. I’m looking forward to some adult literary discussion, as we prepare the meal.”

I had imagined (like most, I suppose) that a sentient seven-foot tall gingerbread man would have a voice like the Pillsbury Doughboy. I did not expect the creature that had kidnapped me to have a deep, high-toned British boarding school accent, his speech reminiscent of Boris Johnson’s cadence, with a hint of Kermit the Frog.

The spartan room was windowless, with white walls and bright lighting. Behind the creature, I could see a black wooden door. Because I was bound to a chair some distance from the laminate countertop the Gingerbread Man was using, I didn’t recognize what it was cutting up. The knife blade was stained bright red, and I knew the color didn’t come from strawberries.

“What books by Cesare have you read?” it asked.

“Clown in a Cornfield. That’s the most recent. Some others, too.”

The Gingerbread Man did a happy dance. It wiped its red-stained brown hands on a pastel washcloth and grabbed a hardcover book from a nearby side table, dancing and skipping around like a paper-thin ballerina as it came out from behind the countertop and approached me.

The Gingerbread Man held the book in front of my face, so close that I could have kissed the sinister clown face illustration on the cover.

“This book?” it asked.

I shook my head to confirm, trying to stay calm. It was the Matt Ryan Tobin cover illustration that had caught my attention at the local bookstore; I had found the cover unsettling in the store, and it was even more so now.

The Gingerbread Man took a step back and opened the book.

“Here’s a bit I love,” it said, and then read:

“And in that moment of stillness, Quinn saw it: the glass of the door was like a magic mirror out of a movie. On one side there were yellowed newspaper clippings about giant pumpkin pies made from giant blue-ribbon-winning pumpkins, little old ladies wearing kitty sweaters they’d knit themselves, and over that delicate small town, the huge, aged sheriff protecting law and order. On the other side — in what seemed like a different dimension — there were the kids with their iPhones, taking in the world through electric eyes a gigabyte at a time, there were boys in V-necks and girls in boy shorts, and that world was led by Janet, a vision Normal Rockwell never painted, black hair perfect, dressed in pink to match her nails, looking like a new stick of bubble gum.”

I recalled that passage. In a few well-crafted sentences, Cesare conveys a central tension of the book, the conflict between modern small-town restless youth, technologically savvy and socially hip, and the town’s conservative adults, wary of change.

As a reader, I had identified with the book’s protagonist, Quinn Maybrook, as she and her father settle into their new home in Kettle Springs, Missouri, after moving from Philadelphia to start over after a family tragedy. Quinn falls into the social orbit of the town’s teenage elite, led by Janet Murray and Cole Hill.

Cole’s crew of popular teens love breaking the rules and sharing their mischievous videos on social media. The town suffers from economic blight because the local corn syrup factory has been shut down, and many townsfolk blame the teenage troublemakers for the factory’s closure. Quinn is getting acclimated to her new world when the killing starts.

“How about that Frendo the Clown, huh?” asked the Gingerbread Man, doing a pirouette.

In my current predicament, with my hands tied behind the uncomfortable industrial chair I had woken up on, I didn’t think I could get more agitated, but the Frendo mention triggered me. Frendo is the town’s mascot, the commercial icon of the now-shuttered corn syrup factory. The clown begins killing the locals and, as the book title suggests, appears at a party thrown by the teens in a cornfield and commences to massacre the kids.

“I see the clown scared you,” said the creature, pausing its dancing to lean in close to my face, waiting for my response. I could smell cinnamon and blood.

“I remember those chapters in the cornfield. Where Frendo is killing those kids and they’re running to the barn or the silo or the stalks seeking safety. Cesare’s writing in those chapters just has me. I’m there with those kids. I remember feeling panic. The urgency of survival.”

The Gingerbread Man nodded. “Indeed. I took it as a very powerful metaphor for the real-world horror of school shootings.”

“I did, too.” The cornfield massacre invokes the terror of school shootings. The narrative reminder of those real tragedies is what makes the cornfield pages so emotionally painful to read. And the mystery behind Frendo and the killings is compelling.

“So Clown in a Cornfield got to you, did it? But have you read The Summer Job?”

When I said “yes,” the Gingerbread Man dismissed Clown in a Cornfield with a violent thrust, throwing the book against the wall. The book’s loud impact echoed through the room. The creature clapped its fluffy brown hands together and laughed maniacally.

When I moved to town a year ago and first heard about the local kids that were found dead, all of them missing body parts and sprinkled with brown sugar and molasses, I thought a serial killer was responsible. I dismissed my elderly neighbor’s panicked warnings — regarding a 100-year old cinnamon-flavored golem that had gone mad and destroyed the amateur occult bakers that had created it — as crazy talk.

I was no longer a skeptic.

“So what do you think of The Summer Job?”

The Gingerbread Man asked the question in a calm tone; its manic behavior had ceased, but I found its restored comportment more unsettling, the calm before an inevitable storm.

“I like folk horror. The Wicker Man is one of my favorite movies.” (The Gingerbread Man nodded its approval.) “I think the book is an excellent work in that horror subgenre.”

The Summer Job features protagonist Claire Foster, a twenty-something Boston University liberal arts graduate trying to find her place in the world. Claire takes a seasonal staff job at the Brant Hotel in the rustic town of Mission in Western Massachusetts. Claire is soon caught up in a deadly war between two factions of a local cult.

“I agree,” said the Gingerbread Man. “But I think what really distinguishes the work is its theme of change versus tradition, the young versus the old. Thematically, the book is similar to Clown in a Cornfield.”

I had to agree. I hadn’t thought of The Summer Job in that context before, but the Gingerbread Man’s assessment was on point. The cult divisions in the book are along generational lines, with the youth of the community rebelling against the rules established by the elder authorities.

For me, however, the book was engrossing because of Claire. I could relate to her post-college feelings of being directionless. As a reader, I came to care about her, and her safety.

The Gingerbread Man threw the book against the wall and pranced back to the side table. With its back turned, I struggled to loosen the ropes that bound my hands; I could feel them loosen, but I stopped the effort as the creature turned to face me.

It stood before me, waving a book in front of my face: Video Night.

“Have it you read it?”

“No,” I said.

The creature dropped the book at my feet.

…yelled the Gingerbread Man.

It picked the book up from the floor and swung hard, slapping my face with the paperback. It walked to the countertop, put the book down and picked up a knife, and then returned, standing behind me so that I could not see what it was doing. I screamed as it stabbed my left arm. I could feel the warm blood flow across my numb hands.

“Not to worry,” the creature said as it placed the knife back on the countertop. “I’ll fill you in.”

My head spun as the Gingerbread Man told me about the teenage boys Billy Rile and Tom Mathers, and their last days of high school on Long Island in the 1980s. The two best friends are very different — Billy is a bit of a nerd and socially awkward, infatuated with the girl next door, while Tom is tough, hates school, and loves taking drugs with his girlfriend.

But they share a passion for horror movies, renting VHS tapes and having a “video night” together to watch them every week. Billy and Tom have a special video night planned, an event that is unfortunately interrupted by an alien invasion.

“I know,” said the Gingerbread Man. “A conventional Invasion of the Body Snatchers plot, with a little bit of Alien, perhaps. But I think that’s the point. Cesare is writing a love letter to 80s horror. Cesare’s appreciation for horror movies underscores the work, with references to Stuart Gordon’s Re-Animator and other horror films from that period. The book is a paean to horror home videos, and the communities they create.”

The Gingerbread Man retrieved the book and opened it. “And Cesare’s writing is a delight, as always. Listen to how he describes Billy and Tom’s high school cafeteria.”

The creature said “Ahem!” to great affect, and then read aloud:

“Along with the stereotypical ‘geek’ and ‘jock’ tables, there were even more specific subdivisions: there were tables with the goth kids who liked The Cure, the goth kids who hated The Cure, the stoners, the rich girls, the girls who pretended to be rich, the table of guys who joked about sex all the time but had yet to have it. It was as if a John Hughes film had exploded inside the room, coating the walls with hormones, poor decision-making skills and insecurity.”

The Gingerbread Man closed the book and threw it against the wall. “Isn’t that brilliant? And Cesare’s writing conveys the horrors of the moment, the emotions of the characters, and provides a touch of humor, as he does in all his books. He’s a wonderful writer. Reading his fiction is as pleasurable as drinking a fine wine. Or eating a small child.”

I nodded weakly, although I couldn’t confirm or condone the aesthetic comparison to eating children. I was fading from the blood loss and the shock of the whole experience. It seemed like an eternity had passed since I had noticed that my home’s back door was open. The last thing I remembered before waking up in this room was the strong smell of cinnamon.

The Gingerbread Man leaned down to look directly into my eyes. “It’s a pity that you will never read Video Night.”

The creature turned towards the countertop. Adrenaline pumped through my body as I realized what was coming, my hands fighting the ropes for freedom. The blood flowing from where the creature had cut my arm served as a lubricant.

My right hand pulled clear just as the creature ran towards me with the knife. I grabbed its hand, deflecting its knife thrust. I rose to my feet. The effort was excruciating. Locked in battle with the monster, I felt dread. I felt tired.

But I also felt hungry, triggered by the sweet gingerbread scent. And then I thought, Why not?

The Gingerbread Man screamed as I bit into it.

EPILOGUE:

I heard kids playing outside in a neighbor’s yard. The child murders that had plagued the town had stopped months ago. The whole community was enjoying the warmer weather and its freedom from fear.

No one knew the circumstances that had vanquished the town’s nightmare. After I had finished with the Gingerbread Man, I dusted the sugar off my clothes and face and walked out the door and up the steps, leaving what was left of the broken, inanimate monster on the floor.

The creature had kept its victims in the basement of an abandoned, boarded-up restaurant on the town’s outskirts, and when I had emerged it was early morning. No one had seen me make my way home. I did not tell anyone what had transpired.

I had started my lazy weekend day with a book. I was sitting in my study, drinking a cup of tea and reading Cesare’s Video Night. It was a victory to prove the creature wrong; I would indeed get to read the book. Despite the Gingerbread Man’s monstrosity, I found that our literary tastes were similar. I was enjoying the book.

As I reached for my tea, I noticed the scar on my left arm, and covered it with the sleeve of my out-of-season sweater.

The Earl Gray was hot; its strong flavor banished the taste of cinnamon in my mouth. I knew the ever-lingering sweet tang was just in my head, an unwanted psychological ghost from my trauma, but I could still taste cinnamon in everything I ate.

The doorbell rang. I was careful to look through the foyer window. I saw no one, and opened the door. A package wrapped in brown paper and addressed to me had been left on the porch. I took the package inside and opened it.

It was a Cesare novel that I had never read before, Exponential. A white envelope had been wedged inside the middle of the book. Opening it, I could smell cinnamon, and fought off the need to vomit.

I pulled the homemade card out of its envelope. As I read it, I imagined the Gingerbread Man speaking the words aloud:

NOTES AND FURTHER READING:

Clown in a Cornfield (Adam Cesare, New York: HarperCollins, 2020)

The Summer Job (Adam Cesare, Cincinnati: Samhain Publishing, 2014)

Video Night (Adam Cesare, Cincinnati: Samhain Publishing, 2013)

Exponential (Adam Cesare, Cincinnati: Samhain Publishing, 2014)

Image Credits: The cover image of Clown in a Cornfield was produced by Matt Ryan Tobin (copyright 2020). All other images were produced by the author of this review.

Adam Cesare’s website: adamcesare.wordpress.com

In addition to his prose work, Adam Cesare also writes comics.

The text and images above are the property of their respective owner(s), and are presented here for nonprofit, educational, and review purposes only under the fair use doctrine of the copyright laws of the United States of America.