Gothic Thriller
Date Published: September 18, 2024
Publisher: Wild Rose Press Inc.
Henry Maxwell, once a celebrated figure in Gothic horror cinema, finds
himself trapped in a life of grief, resulting in severe depression and
hallucinations after the tragic death of his wife, Lillian. Maxwell’s
battle with reality sets the stage for his emotional and psychological
exploration. The novel captures the essence of a man haunted by his past,
struggling to find solace.
Jessica Barrow, the young attorney appointed as Maxwell’s conservator, and David Grovene, a film studies professor with a penchant for sixties B-movies, form the central supporting cast. Their involvement in Maxwell's life brings a fresh perspective to his plight, blending elements of clinical psychology and film history into the story.
The setting itself acts like a character, reflecting Maxwell’s internal turmoil and the Gothic essence of his past. A mysterious serial killer adds a layer of creepiness mirroring scenes from Maxwell’s films interweaving the past and present, making for a compelling and suspenseful read.
The Salvation of Henry Maxwell is a unique blend of Gothic horror, psychological thriller, and detective story. The Salvation of Henry Maxwell is imbued with a sense of tragic grandeur and serves as an underlying commentary on the ephemeral nature of fame and the enduring impact of grief.
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The room melted
into a haze and Maxwell went into a dream—a dream so full of joy and
happiness—a dream with Lillian, vivid with sensual smiles and radiating
tingles, frolicking beneath the moon, playing hide and seek among the statues.
He sensed her tenderness, her gentle touch that would greet him after a trying
day. But it was on set, his films that kept overriding this sweetest of dreams.
Films offered security and a wonderful life for Lillian and himself. This man
Tony, this sleazy Dago, insinuating things about his work, bad things. Maxwell
began to sweat.
…
the old olive building, how can I forget? The bloated body in the cellar,
grotesquely rotting, eyeballs resting on his maggot-squirming chest. The
director had planned well. Herbert Bass, yes, I remember his name. He pulled a
coup with the grotesque corpse. I wanted real eyeballs, gleaming and shiny,
dripping with vitreous, maybe from some real corpse. No, Herbie called for
glass ones, like marbles. His only mistake in my opinion. Come to think of it,
Herbie died several years ago. A fantastic director, eyeballs or not. I must
say that scene outclassed Vincent Price’s Morella. Oh, we had such positive
competition, Vincent, and me, all in good fun.
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