Ah, Amy Cross. What wonderfully frightful tales you weave. The only thing scarier than the abundance of ghosts and ghouls and gore galore are the many, many grammatical errors raging through your stories. If you would only let me, I would edit the ever-loving h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of your books.  

Let’s talk, we’ll do lunch.

Amy Cross’ Stephen opens with an elderly woman reflecting on her past, and taking pen to paper to write down her account of the horrific events which ocurred during her time as a governess, events that still haunt her to this very day. She is Beryl, a woman who, at the beginning of one paragraph is in her “seventh decade”, and by the end of the same paragraph, came to the formidable Grangehurst forty years ago, when she was twenty.

I do so love Amy Cross’ stories, I get to brush up on my math skills.

Makes me go Cross-eyed.

Ha, ha.

Anyway.

The book opens with young, naive, straight-outta-the-convent (St. Winifred’s or St. Bernadette’s, depending on the paragraph) Beryl’s first job interview, which ultimately leads to her first (in case you don’t catch it the first thirty times it’s mentioned) experience with the real world. The young 20- or 30-year-old (I believe the author ultimately decided on 20) is whisked away to the English countryside to be employed as the new governess to the book’s namesake, baby Stephen.

What happened to the old governess, you ask? Well, don’t. Don’t ever, ever ask about the old governess, for something shockingly twisted and downright salacious happened, of course.

It is soon discovered that there is something very wrong with little Stephen. However, meek and mild Beryl repeatedly ignores her screaming instincts, the rapidly deteriorating minds of her employers, and the overall madness that consumes the estate and its surrounding grounds, to argue the natural against the unnatural and ultimately push on for the sake of helping those in need because she believes she can “fix” them. If that recipe for Stockholm syndrome doesn’t convince you to pick up the book and settle in for a snuggle, let’s focus on a character spotlight, shall we?

I just love to hate the protagonist, Beryl. Let’s pause for a moment. Beryl. It is one of those names that bring to mind footies, bon-bons, muumuus and Lawrence Welk on the boob tube, like Barney, Bertha or begonias (such fun words to say, aren’t they? I digress). The name, however, is so perfectly fitting for this plain Jane, mousy shadow of a character.

Because who doesn’t love one of those rare specimens, amiright?

Beryl is one of those clingy, grind-your-teeth annoying characters who follows the stronger, downright abusive characters for a word on what actions she should take next, like eating or breathing or when to stand up from the dinner table (no, srsly). She somehow, I don’t know, made me just want to squeeze her till she pops every time she opened her mouth to speak words at the wrong moment. She is so annoying that a group of nuns…nuns…reject her from taking her vows and send her out into the real world to gain experience. That’s right up there with being eighty years old and “not what we’re looking for” in a Wal-Mart greeter.

Beryl is so painfully annoying that whenever she’s saved from a situation that she only found herself in because she was too busy listening to the music of birds chirping in her head, she turns right around and tries to go back into said situation for the sake of “saving” and “fixing” those who try to do her harm. This bothersome trait runs rampant throughout the book, all the way up and through the story’s climax. With a dash of Stephen King, a sprinkle of the gothic, and a heaping dose of 50 Shades of WTF, this story is sure to keep your interest burning, and those pages turning. Pick up your copy today!

No really, though. I enjoyed it.