Paul Tremblay’s The Cabin at the End of the World is a fucked up little novel that made me lose sleep for two nights as I blazed through it. I’m a slow reader thanks to neurological bullshit, but I knocked this one out in three days. I couldn’t put it down, I couldn’t look away from it.
I read Cabin because I saw a trailer for the upcoming movie adaptation and a friend mentioned the book “fucked them up for days.” Who doesn’t love getting fucked up by a piece of disturbing literature every now and then? I mean that sincerely.
As the title suggests, it’s a riff on “Cabin in the Woods” tropes. Husbands Eric and Andrew and their adopted daughter Wen are on vacation at a secluded cabin in a remote part of New Hampshire. Four people brandishing homemade weapons arrive on their doorstep, telling them they’ve been chosen to make a terrible sacrifice and if they don’t, the world will end. The tension ratchets up from there.
I love the narrative structure that jumps between points of view, each character a distinct voice free-associating and wandering in their memories as the horrors around them escalate. The book alternates between rambling character development and sharp action in a way that keeps it teetering on the edge of being too overwhelming. As the characters’ sanity unravels, so does the narrative structure until it’s a jumble of third and first person.
The story’s ambiguity is palpable. You never know if the world is actually ending or if the antagonists are just violent, insane cultists. You never know if Eric’s visions are real or the result of his severe concussion. Nothing in the story is resolved neatly, you start to doubt existence itself by the end of it. And you have to make room in your head for that ambiguity in order to appreciate what the novel is doing.
I liked it. It was 200 pages to indulge in nihilism and cosmic indifference. But I get why it makes most readers angry.
(It also needs a big ol’ CW for graphic depictions of violence and violence against children.)