Joyce Carol Oates' newest collection of short fiction, The Museum of Dr. Moses, is neither easy to put down as you're reading it, nor to put out of your head when you're through. These are the kinds of stories that turn you cold and jumpy, with the whole world taking on an ominous sheen on even the sunniest afternoon. God help you if you should happen to read them alone in the dark of night.

Oates' tales of horror are not the kind that require vivid cerebral special effects to comprehend. The danger described in these stories is subtle: sometimes unexpected, sometimes calculated, but always quiet, subdued. You feel a bit sick while reading along, with the queasiness growing and growing as the story spills from the pages. Sometimes you're even afraid to keep turning those pages, certain you're about to encounter something horrific beyond belief. Other times it takes the willpower of a saint to not flip prematurely to a story's conclusion.

One of the most gripping tales, Feral, unfolds during the aftermath of a terrible accident in a quiet, affluent neighborhood. One has to think, ripping breathlessly through the story, that never before has the very word, "feral," taken on such a coolly haunting connotation.

The interesting thing about these stories, however, is that not all of them contain such singular grimness. Oates conditions us to expect this through tense build-ups and the occasional horrific surprise.

At times you might think to yourself, "Aha! I know exactly how this story will twist." And at times you might be right. But even guessing one of these stories' endings takes away nothing from the thrill of experiencing the story, itself. Oates is particularly adept at using exposition to convey a sense of mystery in her narratives. She first sets the scene, perhaps alluding to some horrible event that's taken place, then backtracks a bit. Little by little she leaks fragments of story, filling in the gaps and providing a curious retrospective analysis.