Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk.
New York: Doubleday and Co., 2005. $24.95 — 404 pp.

Chaucer’s pilgrims told stories to “pass the time” on a tedious journey to Canterbury. Boccaccio’s quarantined young people tell each other dirty jokes and folktales for 10 days as a means of distracting themselves from the Black Plague that rages in the world around them. Byron, Shelley, Mary Godwin and a half dozen admirers attempted to distract each other by telling stories of vampires and creatures patched together out of disparate parts, all through a very dull summer at Villa Diodati.

So, a traditional device for telling stories has evolved. It seems that if you put five (or 30) people together for an extended period of time, they will amuse themselves by telling each other stories. However, Chuck Palahniuk has a variation in Haunted.

Chuck has a group of people answer an ad to join a “writers’ retreat” where they will spend three months “without distraction” — three months to write that play, novel or the film script in the “company of like-minded folks.” The class quickly reaches its quota — however, some of the applicants have “hidden agendas.”

Within days, the writers’ colony is in full rebellion. Trapped in an abandoned theatre filled with ornate trappings, dust and mildew, the applicants refuse to create. Instead, they dissemble, plot, and devise fantastic schemes to become famous and wealthy on the royalties from the artistic work that “someone” will write and market — a work based on their suffering, starvation and torture in this writers’ retreat. To insure the fact that their ordeal will have box office appeal, they set about creating obstacles that threaten their survival. They sabotage their own heat and water; destroy their own food supply, and mangle their own flesh (toe and finger amputation). And, oh yes! They tell stories to pass the time.

Haunted proves to be a remarkable literary juggling act. While the bloody and devious machinations of the writers’ group unwind, Palahniuk keeps the reader dazzled (and repulsed) by the biographies of his trapped cast — each of which has a nickname (or nom de plume) befitting his personality. Consider a few of this winsome collection: Chef Assassin, who has been literally filleting and fricasseeing any critic that has criticized his gourmet dishes (shade of Dr. Phibes!); Mother Earth, who has perfected the art of giving her clients awesome orgasms via foot massage; Ladybag Lady, a metropolitan socialite who has found true happiness as a homeless dumpster diver (but the Mafia is looking for her); and Saint Gut-Free, who has lost 90 percent of his intestinal tract (don’t ask!).

There are more, of course, including the Earl of Slander who records everything; Reverend Godless, who plans to kill the Dalai Lama; the Matchmaker who plans to castrate himself with a cleaver; and Miss Sneezy who is infected with a deadly virus that will kill everybody else.

In addition, the stories are interrelated. Many, like “The Nightmare Box” and “Obsolete” play out like X-rated versions of Twilight Zone episodes or urban myths. “Dissertation,” told by a character called Missing Link, mixes werewolf legends and Native American folklore with terrifying results.

At this point, it is probably redundant to note that Haunted is not for the squeamish or the easily offended. Palahniuk’s work can be described as offensive, lewd, gross and occasionally downright repugnant. However, he is also one of the most imaginative, humorous and gifted writers in America. His previous works (Lullaby, Fight Club) have made him an enormously popular writer — especially among college students and young professionals.

While admitting that Palahniuk novels may be “an acquired taste,” I am also convinced he has a remarkable ability to amuse, shock and offend a reader — all within the same story. I am still haunted by the image of thousands of families who “immigrate” to Venus in the family garage via carbon monoxide — all eating flavored popcorn and listening to music on the radio.

No doubt Palahniuk perceives this tale as a parable for what we are doing anyway — dying in front of TVs or sitting in grid-locked traffic. I am tempted to say, “Lighten up, Chuck,” but he is already one of the most humorous (and surreal) writers in modern fiction.

(Gary Carden is a writer, storyteller and lecturer whose book, Mason Jars in the Flood, was recently named Book of the Year by the Appalachian Writers Association. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)