I like my horror reads to be absolutely chilling and of the mind-fuck variety, so I'd say very scary for any title here.

It - Stephen King : Beyond how inherently scary a concept a boggart is, and one written by King at that, what terrified me in this book is the truth of how helpless children are against adults, their power and their belief in other adults. It's always that scene where Bev is running from her not-dad, and no adult even stopping, because it rings so creepily real.

Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov : I don't get why anyone would mistake this one for a romance. Ever. That's the ickiest, most compelling and therefore scariest, unreliable narrator of literature. Real horror.

Misery - Stephen King : This one gave me palpitations. It gets violent and there are lasting consequences.

Ponies - Kij Johnson : Maybe horror is not the genre one would put it, but this little does cause horror. I never read it again, but I still feel like crying when I remember it.

Doctor Strange Vol. 4: Mr Misery - Jason...

To defeat evil Wong accepted an entity called Mr Misery into himself and now payment is being exacted. Doctor Strange really wants to save the man who has become his friend. He has to come to terms with the fact that Wong put his life on hold to help Doctor Strange and that that wasn't fair. Clea also re-appears and Thor has some screen time. Zelma (another Librarian!) also has to deal with power. There's also some building problems. All told an interesting read.

Borrowed from Dublin City Libraries.

"A man once made it a reproach that I should be so happy, and told me everybody has crosses, and that we live in a vale of woe. I mentioned moles as my principal cross, and pointed to the huge black mounds with which they had decorated the tennis-court, but I could not agree to the vale of woe, and could not be shaken in my belief that the world is a dear and lovely place, with everything in it to make us happy so long as we walk humbly and diet ourselves. He pointed out that sorrow and sickness were sure to come, and seemed quite angry with me when I suggested that they too could be borne perhaps with cheerfulness. 'And have not even such things their sunny side?' I exclaimed. 'When I am steeped to the lips in diseases and doctors, I shall at least have something to talk about that interests my women friends, and need not sit as I do now wondering what I shall say next and wishing they would go.' He replied that all around me lay misery, sin, and suffering, and that every person not absolutely blinded by selfishness must be aware of it and must realise the seriousness and tragedy of existence. I asked him whether my being miserable and discontented would help any one or make him less wretched; and he said that we all had to take up our burdens. I assured him I would not shrink from mine, though I felt secretly ashamed of it when I remembered that it was only moles, and he went away with a grave face and a shaking head, back to his wife and his eleven children. I heard soon afterwards that a twelfth baby had been born and his wife had died, and in dying had turned her face with a quite unaccountable impatience away from him and to the wall; and the rumour of his piety reached even into my garden, and how he had said, as he closed her eyes, 'It is the Will of God.' He was a missionary."

Quintessential Elizabeth.  And yet, her own cross amounted to vastly more than mole hills, too, in fact.

I feel like I just read, in one sitting, every Nicholas Sparks book ever written plus a few that have yet to be. That ending? The studio has some massive brass balls. WTF What.The.Actual.Fuck?!