No brick shitting for me. A couple of years ago, I heard rave reviews about this book and decided to get it. I stopped about a third of the way in, frustrated and bored with it. The story about the house was okay, but then it goes on a seperate tangent about the happy tattoo artist shitting bricks about reading the story about the house. Ooohh! How post-modern!

If I want to read a horror story with interweaving narritives, I'll re-read the classic Dracula again.