The most recommended body horror books

I enjoy surprises. Jump scares? Eh, they’re okay. But what I really seek out are tales that evoke the sensation of being semi-lost in a dark forest, with a flickering flashlight, squinting around the brambles to understand what lies beyond. 

I want to discover monsters beyond run-of-the-mill demons, vampires, or werewolves. So, when I dug into this weird, surreal book, I was quickly mesmerized by its quiet horror, depicting a woman deeply betrayed by her partner and yet still caring for him during a strange metamorphosis while enduring his stark, hurtful confessions.

When she ultimately embraces a metamorphosis of her own, I had to sit back, eyes open wide, surprised, and delighted at the strange story I had just consumed.

The book that made me like robots. Okay, androids. Okay, Ancient-Egyptian-inspired hyper-advanced noble sapient beings biotransfered into soulless, dysphoric, flesh-phobic metal skeletons. To put it simply.

I loved the aesthetics of the book. Burnished silver, green, and black. Silver metal bodies with glowing emerald cores and burning “eyes”. Actinic green flashes of firing pylons and voidcraft in the night sky. A sacred tomb invaded by orks as scarab constructs and far worse things scuttle and crawl out from the shadows. An obsidian-black desert necropolis thick with obelisks and alight with gauss lamps.

Most of all, I loved how alien the book was, how inhuman – yet gradually “humanised”, with emotional and empathetic touches. Communication in this book felt unique. The “necrons” have no facial expressions or inflections of voice, so instead they found more technological ways to express emotional nuance in their new bodies: through the intensity of their core-fluxes,… show more.

Take the body horror nightmare of John Carpenter’s The Thing and substitute the remoteness of that film’s Antarctic setting for the densely populated familiarity of the UK. When a deadly infection strikes, four friends must cross a chaotic, war-torn England to reach their families. The infection turns people into vile, cannibalistic monsters that are almost Lovecraftian in their grotesqueness. There’s something about the juxtaposition of the normality of UK life and the unrelenting horror of the infection that really hits home. This is a vicious book that pulls no punches and spares no one. Beautifully written, and bleak as hell.

Barker is known best as a master of body horror, and this book certainly has some grotesque images. But it’s also a gorgeous meditation on memory, identity, love, and the use and misuse of great power.

Along with a vivid travelogue of the five realms that make up Imagica, Barker explores the use of the body itself as a canvas; malleable, changeable, and as fascinating as the view from the window of your train. That said, the view is often stunning, always inventive, and immersive enough that I feel I’ve walked the streets of Yzordderrex myself. 

Claire is an irreverent delight in person, but you won’t see much of that persona in her stories – this book is heavy with gooey and bizarre body horror that always has a deeply personal context for her characters.

She’s admitted that writing is a vehicle for talking about her epilepsy, but you don’t need to share that with her to relate to the strange changes that take place on her pages.

This is just her first collection, an opening salvo across the bow of Australian horror, so it will be interesting indeed to see how her work evolves and metamorphosises over time – to meet the creature that crawls, slime-slicked and hungry, from the casing of her next books.

I couldn’t finish this list without including one of the most famous examples of pregnancy in science fiction.

Humanity comes face-to-face with an alien species, the Oankali, who use gene editing, cloning, and mating to refresh their gene pools. The focus is on Lilith, a black woman taken hostage by the aliens who must learn about their plans for her and strategize her responses.

I really appreciate the way Butler’s work manages to speak to the legacy of slavery, particularly through a scene where the aliens create the circumstances for Lilith to breed with a human man in aid of their experiments. Lilith’s refusal to succumb to this animalistic treatment confronts the legacy of breeding humans during slavery.

I find Lilith (like many of Butler’s other characters) a driven character who deals with outlandish situations and the potential invasion of her own body with a pragmatic determination that invites me,… show more.

This novel caught my eye for one simple reason—the protagonist attempts to destroy her society with a spreadsheet. Although a fantasy in which the modern world (even office life) is divided between heroes and villains, this novel lands on some brutal truths—like the difference between good and evil is mostly marketing and that some people will do anything for the right job. 

It’s a hilarious book that pokes fun at the most absurd bosses, the things we do for work, and the real harm a toxic workplace or system causes everyone. The supervillain/hero context provides food for thought without slowing the story down or causing work-related cold sweats.

Kirstyn is another stalwart of the Australian scene whom I have always admired, and this recent collection of her stellar short work is so overdue it’s almost insulting.

Like the best of our number, she delves deep into the heart of her characters to present tales that never feel rote or disengaged, and her tales have teeth in the most unexpected places.

Her weirdness is never dispassionate, her horror never tame, and she returns from the darkness with gifts of many hues.

These are modern fairy tales for the grimy backstreets and dimly lit suburban kitchens down here at the bottom end of our haunted globe.

Recently adapted as a film by Yorgos Lanthimos and starring Emma Stone, Alasdair Gray’s novel of birth and creation is another example of the complicated and horrific birth stories that I find so fascinating.

When the dead body of a young, pregnant woman is pulled from the River Clyde in Glasgow, a local scientist, Godwin Baxter, takes it upon himself to create a new life, by installing the unborn baby’s brain in its mother’s head and bringing the new creation to life.

Gray’s grisly premise leads to a satire on education and complacency in light of social injustice. It's funny, and there are plenty of sly postmodern comments on reality and how we understand the past. Gray illustrated his own books, and his image of Bella as ‘Bella Caledonia’ is, I think, a brilliant image of a strong woman that has become iconic in Scotland and beyond.

I loved The Marigold as a darkly satirical, yet oddly hopeful dystopian tale about a disparate and desperate clutch of characters (not all of them human) struggling to survive in a near-future version of Toronto, a city in crisis and decay.

I thought the choice of a failing luxury condominium as a central metaphor was an inspired one: compromised in its construction, shored up with human sacrifices, and inhabited by a spreading sentient fungus known as The Wet. I found the book to be funny, scary, suspenseful, and unsettling in all the best ways.