It's not really a secret that Bram Stoker never equalled anything like the success of Dracula, even though Dracula wasn't that big success in his lifetime. However, Lair of the White Worm is very disappointing. You feel the inky thumbprint of Dracula all over it: ridiculously trite love affairs; the Byronic or Irving-esque anti-hero; the arrow-straight man of action from overseas. The main interest is Lady Arabella March of Diana's Grove, who has set her cap, for financial reasons, at the newly returned Edgar Caswell of Castra Regis, who is, perhaps wisely, more interested in the gigantic kite he flies to scare off birds.
The setting is also of interest: the Vale of Cheshire, which has a deep a history as Dracula's Transylvania. It is contemporary Cheshire and thus railways play a major role. It was a rare highlight when the gigantic serpent chased the train most of the way to Liverpool. Mainly, though, it is very silly and not at all frightening. The monster is absurd, its linkage with Arabella not thought through, and there are far too many deferred conversations, conveniently putting off gobbets of key information.
It's interesting, particularly for devotees of the genre, but not much more. It would have fared much better as a novella than as a novel.
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