Īnyone who reads this blog would think I'd love lyrical, literate horror that peers into its protagonists' dark hearts. Then Nakota gets the bright idea to put a video camera down the Funhole. Nakota wants to go in herself, but Nicholas won't have it. A mouse dipped into the ingress explodes, showering the pair with suddenly misshapen body parts. Caged insects left near it sprout bizarre mutations in a matter of minutes. Nakota dubs it the Funhole, not that there's anything enjoyable or humorous about it.
Black as deep space, redolent of some indefinable odor, and terribly unnatural, it seems a portal into absolute nothingness, an opening to utter null. In it, inveterate slacker Nicholas and his sometimes friend, sometimes lover Nakota find a hole in a disused storage closet in Nicholas' apartment building. I've wondered why for the longest time and actively looked for any authors that specialize in it, so I was excited to discover Kathe Koja's The Cipher, which won a Brahm Stoker Award and a Locus Award. Oh, the genre lives on in cinemas, but it has largely vanished from book racks.
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