Dennis Wheatley’s To the Devil a Daughter was supposed to be a spine-tingling foray into occult horror, but I found myself laughing more often than shivering. From the first page, I was ready for a clever, suspenseful narrative, only to be greeted by a clunky mix of melodrama, cardboard characters, and a plot that wobbled like an over-iced sponge cake. It’s a novel that tries to frighten with devilish theatrics but ends up feeling like a bad episode of a supernatural soap opera.
The plot – if I can call it that – centres around Christina, a young woman unknowingly raised to be a Satanic pawn, thanks to her dodgy father and a defrocked priest, Father Michael. Alongside Christina are Molly Fountain, a retired British intelligence officer with a flair for meddling, and her son John, who’s meant to be heroic but feels more like a damp cloth. Together, they attempt to rescue Christina from becoming a virgin sacrifice in a demonic ritual. Sounds compelling, doesn’t it? Well, it might have been if the pacing weren’t so erratic and the suspense so thin. Instead, it stumbles between dragging exposition and frantic chaos, leaving me wondering if even Wheatley himself knew what was going on.
Poor Christina. Or rather, poor me, for having to endure her utter uselessness. She’s written as a tragic, sacrificial figure, but Wheatley never bothers to give her a personality or a sense of agency. She exists solely to be terrified, manipulated, and occasionally draped in diaphanous garments for dramatic effect. Watching her fumble through the story is like watching someone repeatedly trip over the same step – it’s frustrating, not endearing.
Then there’s Molly Fountain. I’ll admit, she’s the closest thing this novel has to a redeeming feature. Sharp-tongued, practical, and refreshingly sceptical, Molly is everything Christina isn’t: capable and interesting. She injects some much-needed energy into the story, though even her spirited attempts can’t fully distract from the clunkiness around her. Still, I found myself wishing the entire novel revolved around her rather than the insipid Christina.
Father Michael, the defrocked priest and supposed embodiment of evil, is a laughable caricature. Wheatley tries his best to make him menacing, but his dialogue is so overwrought and his actions so cartoonishly diabolical that he ends up about as intimidating as a man waving a rubber pitchfork. He’s a walking cliché, spouting Satanic dogma as if he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Generic Cult Leader #1’ in a low-budget horror film.
To give Wheatley credit, he does have a flair for vivid description when it comes to the occult rituals. The eerie chanting, the shadowy priory, the whiff of brimstone – it all sounds promising. But as soon as the tension begins to build, it’s undercut by the sheer theatricality of it all. It’s like watching a horror movie where the special effects budget ran out halfway through filming. I could almost hear the director yelling, “More fog machine!”
The pacing of this novel is an exercise in frustration. The first half drags with endless monologues and unnecessary details, while the second half careens toward the climax as if the publisher suddenly rang up Wheatley to remind him of the deadline. The rushed ending is a particular disappointment, tying things up with all the finesse of someone hastily wrapping a last-minute gift.
As if the clumsy plot and shallow characters weren’t enough, Wheatley feels the need to punctuate the story with moralistic rants about atheism, modern society, and the dangers of moral decline. Subtlety, it seems, was left entirely out of his writing toolbox. Instead, he bludgeons the reader with his opinions, halting the story to deliver sermons disguised as dialogue.
Reading To the Devil a Daughter felt less like engaging with a gripping piece of occult fiction and more like enduring an unintentional comedy. The plot is flimsy, the characters are laughable, and the scares are almost non-existent. And yet, there’s a strange charm in its ridiculousness. It’s the literary equivalent of a guilty pleasure – a campy, overblown relic of its time that’s best enjoyed with a large pinch of salt. Wheatley set out to write a tale of dark forces and demonic power; what he delivered is an accidental parody that’s as baffling as it is bizarre.
Wording 