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.
EXCERPT
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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