Cujo

Cujo is a Saint Bernard who contracts rabies and becomes a danger to the people in his hometown. That is the set-up of Stephen King’s novel, and it does not need a haunted house or a mysterious noise upstairs. A dog that large is quite enough to make the front door feel suddenly important.

The fear here is horribly ordinary. Rabies is what changes Cujo, so the threat is not something arriving from an impossible world. It is a familiar animal becoming dangerous. That makes this a properly frightening prospect rather than a gentle shiver. If an animal’s illness or a dog attacking people is something you would rather avoid reading about, this is one to leave on the shelf. No shame in that. The shelf will cope.

For everyone else, this is a book for a night when you want to feel tense, not comforted. Put the kettle on first; getting up to make tea might feel like a surprisingly ambitious little expedition. The novel was also adapted into a film, but its unsettling idea needs no screen to make sense. Something familiar has become a threat, and the ordinary world feels less safe for it.