Curtain up, you miserable bastards. Let’s dissect this festering corpse of a book with the glee of a drunk coroner at a midnight autopsy.

Emma E. Murray, a name that sounds like it belongs on a dusty library card, is a relatively fresh face in the indie horror scene. Hailing from the gritty underbelly of small-press fiction, she’s got a knack for stories that claw at your insides. Her prior work includes short stories in obscure anthologies, with titles like “Teeth in the Mist” and “Bone Orchard” hinting at her penchant for visceral, psychological dread. This also follows her incredible collection of fucked up stories, The Drowning Machine from earlier this year. Published by Apocalypse Party, a press known for its unapologetic weirdness, Shoot Me in the Face on a Beautiful Day is her second novel. It’s a hell of a swing from a writer who’s clearly been simmering in the cauldron of human despair, and it shows. Murray’s not here to hold your hand; she’s here to rip your nails off.

Picture a small town where the air smells of pine and regret. Shoot Me in the Face on a Beautiful Day follows Birdie, a woman trapped in a toxic marriage with Russ, a man whose charm is as sharp as a rusty switchblade. Parallel to her unraveling life is a nameless corpse, narrating its own decomposition in a forest clearing, a grim Greek chorus watching the world rot. The novel weaves through seasons, from spring’s false hope to winter’s bleak surrender, as Birdie grapples with grief, love, and a creeping darkness that might be her husband… or something worse. It’s a horror story that doesn’t scream “boo” but whispers “you’re fucked” in your ear.

This book is a festering wound of themes: grief, abuse, and the slow death of self-worth. Murray structures the novel like a body’s decay (Fresh, Bloat, Putrefaction, Advanced Decay, Burial) each section mirroring both the corpse’s physical breakdown and Birdie’s emotional collapse. It’s a clever metaphor, if a bit on-the-nose, like a skull tattoo on a biker’s bicep. The corpse’s voice, pleading “Find me,” is a haunting refrain, symbolizing not just its own lost identity but Birdie’s desperate need for rescue from her own life. The woods, a recurring setting, are a primal void, both womb and grave, where secrets fester like maggots.

Murray’s prose is a jagged blade, raw and unpolished, yet dripping with vivid, nauseating detail. Passages about the corpse’s decay like, “liquid bubbles up and spills from my nostrils” are so tactile you’ll want to shower. Birdie’s sections, meanwhile, pulse with the claustrophobia of a woman caged by love and fear. The writing’s not perfect; it occasionally stumbles into melodrama, but it’s got guts. Murray’s style leans into the grotesque, with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat under a butcher’s knife. It’s not Lovecraftian cosmic dread or King’s populist spookshow. Instead, it’s intimate, like a confession you wish you hadn’t heard.

This book is about what happens when love becomes a noose. Birdie’s devotion to Russ, despite his volatility, is a gut-wrenching portrait of how abuse distorts reality. The corpse’s narrative, meanwhile, forces you to confront mortality in a way that’s both poetic and revolting. It’s not just a body rotting; it’s a life erased, begging for meaning. Murray’s horror is in the slow, inevitable grind of despair. The implication, that we’re all complicit in our own destruction, hits like a sledgehammer. It’s a book that asks: How far will you go for love? And when does love become a grave you dig yourself?

The parallel narratives, corpse and Birdie, mirror each other in a way that’s both brilliant and brutal. The corpse’s detachment contrasts with Birdie’s raw emotion, creating a dissonance that’s deeply unsettling. It’s as if Murray’s saying, “This is what awaits us all—oblivion or agony, take your pick.” The book’s refusal to offer easy answers or redemption makes it linger like a bad dream. It’s horror that doesn’t just scare you; it makes you question why you’re still here.

Let’s get to the meat. Shoot Me in the Face is original as hell. The dual narrative, corpse and human, is a gamble that mostly pays off, giving the story a mythic weight. The decay structure is a stroke of genius, tying the physical to the emotional in a way that’s both grotesque and profound. Murray’s characters, especially Birdie, are painfully real. Her inner conflict of love versus survival is drawn with such nuance you’ll want to shake her and hug her at the same time. The prose, while occasionally overwrought, paints a vivid, stomach-churning picture. This is indie horror at its best: bold, weird, and unafraid to get messy.

The pacing drags in the middle, especially in the “Bloat” and “Putrefaction” sections, where Birdie’s repetitive domestic strife feels like a hamster wheel of misery. Some secondary characters (Juliana, Charlie) lack depth, serving more as plot devices. The horror, while atmospheric, isn’t consistently scary; it’s more dread-inducing than terrifying, which might disappoint some of you thrill-seekers out there. The corpse’s sections, while poetic, can feel like an artsy distraction from the main plot, especially when they lean into abstract philosophizing.

Is it scary? Not in the traditional sense—no monsters under the bed here. The fear comes from the human cost: the terror of being trapped, the horror of losing yourself. It’s psychological, not paranormal, and that’s its strength and its limit. If you want cheap scares, go watch a slasher flick. If you want to feel like your soul’s been skinned, this is your jam. This is a damn fine novel, dripping with atmosphere and gutsy prose. It’s a bold, original stab at horror that respects the genre’s weird edges. Murray’s got a future, and I’m fucking here for it.

TL;DR: Shoot Me in the Face on a Beautiful Day is a raw, gut-wrenching debut from Emma E. Murray, blending a corpse’s decay with a woman’s descent into abusive love. Its vivid prose and bold structure shine, despite pacing hiccups. A haunting, original horror tale that’s stunningly dreadful.