Urban fantasy horror comedy versus true supernatural horror, and my no-spoiler review of The Harpy by Julie Hutchings.

Horror comedy. It’s two words that shouldn’t go together, like jumbo shrimp and civil war. And like most oxymorons, it doesn’t seem like it should be a thing.

But thankfully it is.

Urban fantasy horror comedy is terrifying creatures cracking jokes. It’s scared protagonists hiding their fear behind humor. It’s the story getting dark, but the good guys saving the day before it gets really dark. 

True supernatural horror isn’t like that. It’s grim. It’s ugly. It’s violence against women and children. It’s awful and icky. It most certainly isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

Then why read it, you may ask. Some people would say the lowest lows make the highest highs. But honestly, if you have to ask, then it probably isn’t for you. And that’s okay. Personally, I like it when the hero turns the tables and saves the day. I like it when the real monsters get what’s coming to them. I like imagining a fantasy world with instant karma and balanced scales. A world far removed from the one we actually inhabit.

But that’s not what this book is.

The Harpy is pretty dark, you should know that going in. It’s the alley shortcut you shouldn’t take on the way home from the bar but do anyway. If you have a trigger, this book will set it off. If you have the rest of the gun, you should bring it along.

You know the part in the Twilight books (yeah, I read them, so what?) I got dragged to the movies too. Hell, I almost got lynched by a mob of tweens for talking during the time dilated 37 hours of Bella and Robert Patton’s character soulfully staring into each other’s eyes. Anyway, remember when you wanted to give Bella a good shake because she couldn’t make a decision? I think it’s in Book All of Them. And how she so desperately wanted to be turned into a monster, but a nice one, who used her powers for good?

The protagonist in this book is the opposite of that. She wants to be a monster too, so she can exact vengeance on the dirt bags of the world. Mostly by ripping them apart and eating bits of them.

In a way, this book is like being saved by a unicorn.

No really, think about that. Imagine you’re in a filthy alley (hey, you chose to go home this way), huddled against a dumpster. A monster (could be a troll, ogre, Jehovah's Witness, whatever you personally find terrifying) looms over you with a knotty club, a rusty knife, or a copy of the Watchtower. At the last possible moment before you’re killed, but well after you get clubbed, cut, or proselytized to, a unicorn gallops in and saves you.

How would that even work? How would a unicorn, a creature clearly lacking opposable thumbs, save you?

More than likely, the unicorn would ram its spiral horn through the monster’s chest, showering you with torrents of blood, chunks of pale pink lungs, and shattered bits of bleached white ribs.

And the smell. Oh god, the smell. As if the dumpster you were huddled against didn’t smell bad enough. Now there’s a stench like rusted metal and rotten meat from the blood and innards. And that’s before the monster’s bowels let loose. Yeah, that just happened. What then? Once the unicorn manages to shake the impaled monster off its horn (no thanks to you) by tossing its head vigorously and manically pawing with its forelegs, it dips its head, inviting you climb on.

What do you do?

While you ponder, the unicorn stares at you. It blinks the blood out of its eyes awaiting your decision. Sure, its back half is still a pristine white, but the front half looks like a cheerleader’s uniform in a slasher movie.

What choice do you make?

Don’t ask the unicorn for advice, it can’t talk. This one’s on you.

If you think you’d avert your eyes and mumble your thankyous before scrambling out of the mouth of the alley. If you think you’d run the rest of the way home, the whole time swearing you’ll never spend another night chasing Jager bombs with shots of bottom shelf tequila, pausing only to be noisily sick on the sidewalk as you rest one hand against the rough exterior brick of a dentist’s office, then this book is not for you.

But . . .

If you think you’d climb aboard the unicorn. If you’d lean forward against the back of its head, letting the cooling blood soak into the front of your favorite t-shirt while you wrapped your fingers in its gore-soaked mane. If you’d ride off into the darkness , true darkness, searching for others to save, then this is most definitely the book for you.