Cannabelle

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that a harmless flirtation can open the door to something darker. Cannabelle by Shaun A.I.C. Wilson brings that point home in a way that’s unsettling, to say the least. Who hasn’t been drawn to someone mysterious, that person who seems a little too good to be true? A few drinks, some witty banter, and suddenly you’re swept into their world before you even have a chance to ask if they’re friend or foe. In real life, it might just lead to a rough morning or an awkward goodbye. But in Wilson’s world, it’s a grave mistake.

The protagonist thinks he’s stumbled into an exciting, alluring connection with Annabelle, a girl who seems to embody every fantasy he’s ever had. But in the extreme horror landscape, that innocent attraction is often the first step down a path of no return. One flirtatious look, one accepting nod, and suddenly he’s waking up strapped to a table, realizing that he’s not going to make it out alive—or at least, not as himself.

Wilson’s prose here is relentless. With each chapter, he ratchets up the tension, creating an atmosphere that feels both claustrophobic and surreal. His descriptions are vivid, with painstaking detail that pushes the boundary between reader engagement and revulsion. Blood, flesh, and primal hunger are laid bare without restraint, and the graphic depictions are not for the faint of heart. This is a novel that leans into its extremities, presenting the horror of cannibalism in raw, unflinching strokes.

Thematically, Cannabelle is more than just a gore-fest (though there’s certainly plenty of that for extreme horror fans). Wilson seems to explore the fear of losing autonomy and the horror of becoming someone else’s “meat”—a literal object of consumption. There’s a psychological terror underlying the physical horror, as the protagonist struggles not just to escape but to retain his humanity amidst dehumanizing treatment. The novel provokes uncomfortable questions about agency, vulnerability, and the perversion of intimacy in a world where trust becomes a death sentence.

If there’s a critique to be made, it might be that Wilson’s dedication to graphic descriptions occasionally threatens to overshadow the story’s deeper layers. At points, the sheer intensity of the gore can feel overwhelming, almost as if it exists to shock more than to serve the plot. However, for fans of splatterpunk and extreme horror, this boundary-pushing style is likely a draw rather than a deterrent. Wilson isn’t interested in subtlety here; he’s aiming for impact, and he achieves it in spades.

Wilson’s story serves as a dark reminder that sometimes, letting your guard down with a stranger doesn’t end in romance; sometimes, it’s the start of a nightmare. After reading Cannabelle, you might think twice the next time someone catches your eye from across the room – even if they are a regular.