Some Thoughts on Robert Aickman's Cold Hand in Mine

[derwent_f]

I stumbled upon Robert Aickman’s works in the horror Goodreads rabbit hole. Last December, his book was on sale, so I thought, why not? Of the four books available, I picked Cold Hand in Mine.

I love it. You know those nightmares that start out normally? You wake up, have breakfast, go to work … and as the day goes by you begin to notice strange details that slowly pile up, until finally you realise that you’re trapped in a nightmare. That’s how Aickman’s “strange stories” feel like.

There are eight stories in the collection. Most exist in the mundane horror spectrum, which is one of my favourite horror subgenres. The book is prefaced with a quote from Sacheverell Sitwell: “In the end it is the mystery that lasts and not the explanation”. That quote perfectly sums up Aickman’s attitude in writing. Barely any explanation is given for what is actually going on. Even those that seem straightforward, upon rereading, reveal alternative interpretations and raise more questions.

My favourites are:

Niemandswasser
After breaking up with his mistress, a prince retreats to his family’s neglected castle, where years before, a tragedy befell his friend in its lake.

‘This lady, too, had large eyes and a large mouth; but now the mouth was open, showing white and pointed teeth, as many teeth as a strange fish. Although her mouth was so very open, this lady smiled not.’

Pages from a Young Girl’s Journal
An English girl travelling to Italy meets a bewitching stranger.

This is the most straight-forward horror story in the collection: a young girl becomes the victim of a vampire.

But! Saying that this is a vampire story would be reductive. The story is richly layered, and there are many possible readings. Does the girl really meet a vampire, or is it just in her head? Who was the contessina embracing? Why does she scream and flee upon meeting the narrator? Does anything she write actually happen? Each line seems to contain a multitude of interpretation.

Aickman really nailed a young girl’s voice: that teenaged pretentiousness, the insolence, the intense self-centred focus. The narrator is my kind of girl, and there’s an understated hilarity in her narration.

‘I smiled at the wolves. Then I crossed my hands on my little bosom and curtsied. They will be prominent among my new people. My blood will be theirs, and theirs mine.’

The Same Dog
A little boy and girl become best friends and spend their days roaming the countryside, until one day they stumble upon a house with a rabid dog in its yard.

Unsettling and grim. The implication of the girl's fate is horrifying.