The term itself yields numerous search results when typed into Google, but the story is based on a true event. Hot Potting on the other hand, was something a part of me dreaded reading, after finding out the basis for the story. It was a warning to me not to cross the line and become so mistrustful that I end up that way. That out of what happened to the characters in this particular short story, a different kind of evil was born. It was, however, a harsh warning, I felt, not so much directed at me, but I took it on. So I’ll say this: Speaking Bitterness disturbed me from a personal place, from personal experience. It’s difficult to fully explain why without spoiling the book should anyone want to read it, and without revealing rather too much about myself (more than I feel needs to be revealed right here on this blog). Honestly, the two stories I can pinpoint as affecting me most while reading Haunted were Comrade Snarky’s tale, Speaking Bitterness, and The Baroness Frostbite’s Hot Potting, both for very different reasons. Maybe I was conditioned, long before reading this, by the tale about the guy who, imitating a Jackass stunt, ended up with a bird scarer attached to his intestines. If you haven’t, I’ll spare you the details the words ‘pool filter’, ‘intestines’ and ‘prolapse’ should say enough. It made me glad I don’t eat corn, though. When you stop and think about it, the scene in itself is horrific enough – if you’ve seen The Final Destination‘s swimming pool scene, you’re halfway there. Guts, I read through and genuinely wondered what all the fuss had been about. First comes Saint Gut-Free’s poem, and then … I prepare myself for the worst … I breathed in, out, in, out slowly before reading Guts, made sure I was lying down on the sofa (just in case), pillow behind my head, flicking through the pages with trembling hands. This isn’t something I need to harp on about, of course … I found myself significantly affected by American Psycho mostly for its brutality, so I expected to react in a similar way. I have a strong stomach, I thought, or at least, I do in most senses. The bulk of what I found basically told me that everyone who had read this book was grossed out, with the exception of one or two strong-stomached reviewers. Perhaps it was the reactions of other people that had read this novel that conditioned me trying not to spoil it for myself, I still wanted to see what others had to say about it on Goodreads and elsewhere on the Internet. For someone who didn’t entirely know what to expect, I sure had my expectations. I had the expectation that whatever I had endured while reading American Psycho would pale in comparison to what Haunted was about to put me through. In all honesty, I’m not so sure what I was scared of Haunted didn’t disappoint, not by a long shot, but I got the sense, before I started reading it on Sunday night, that I would need to prepare myself for the worst.
I’m still not sure why I didn’t hunt for it to begin with.
It’s difficult to describe exactly what drew me to it in the first place, other than a curiosity instilled by a friend who explained Guts to me before English class last year. I powered through Haunted in much the same way as I have powered through all the books I have bought and received in the past few days. The public readings peppered with two or three people fainting during each. If you’ve never heard of Guts, then you most likely won’t want to hear about it, and if you have heard of it, then you’ll know at least a little about its bizarre legacy. Haunted may very well be infamous, or at least, one of its short stories, Guts most assuredly is.
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