I'm reading 999, a book of horror and suspense stories I picked up for a few bucks at my favorite thrift store. It includes "The Road Virus Heads North" by Our Very Own, plus one by Neil Gaiman that I haven't read yet. The one I just finished last night is called "The Ruins of Contracoeur" by Joyce Carol Oates. I haven't read much Oates, but I know how prolific and well-regarded she is ... so I have to confess that it rather surprised me that though the story delivered a solid Gothic punch as far as atmosphere goes, the heart of the story itself was kind of ... scattered and nonsensical. And the narrator jumped from being one of the siblings to omniscient-but-maybe-still-a-sibling to definitely-not-a-sibling at the end. Editing, boys and girls. It's important.