“They only ever remember the barber. Never the woman who cleaned up after him.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
London, 1887: At the abandoned apartment of a missing young woman, a dossier of evidence is collected, ordered chronologically, and sent to the Chief Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police. It contains a frightening correspondence between an inquisitive journalist, Miss Emily Gibson, and the woman Gibson thinks may be the infamous Mrs. Lovett—Sweeney Todd’s accomplice, “a wicked woman” who baked men into pies and sold them in her pie shop on Fleet Street. The talk of London Town—even decades after her horrendous misdeeds.
As the woman relays the harrowing account of her life in the unruly and perilous streets of Victorian London, her missives unlock an intricate mystery that brings Miss Gibson closer to the truth, even as that truth may cost her everything. A hair-raising and breathtaking novel for fans of Sarah Waters and Gregory Maguire, The Butcher’s Daughter is an irresistible literary thriller that draws richly from historical sources and shines new light on the woman behind the counter of the most disreputable pie shop ever known.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
The Butcher’s Daughter: The Hitherto Untold Story of Mrs. Lovett is a darkly enthralling reimagining of a familiar tale, breathing vivid life into the shadowy corners of Victorian London through the eyes of a woman long dismissed as a footnote in the Sweeney Todd legend. The authors craft a richly layered portrait of Mrs. Lovett—not just as a pie-maker with a macabre secret, but as a deeply human, complex figure shaped by hardship, ambition, and survival.
The novel is gripping from the first page, blending historical fiction with gothic suspense in a voice that is both lyrical and razor-sharp. Lasley deftly explores the power dynamics of class, gender, and violence, allowing readers to sympathize with Lovett without excusing her choices. The pacing is impeccable, and the atmosphere—fog-laced alleys, greasy kitchens, and shadowed cellars—is as immersive as it is haunting.
What makes this book so engaging is its ability to transform a well-known villain into a compelling protagonist whose story demands to be heard. The Butcher’s Daughter is as deliciously dark as one of Mrs. Lovett’s infamous pies—and just as impossible to resist. A must-read for fans of historical fiction with a gothic twist.
I experienced this as an audiobook and truly recommend checking it out in this format as it made the story and characters come to life, all the narrators were very brilliant.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Hell’s Hundred for the audiobook copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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When one thing leaves your house or heart, it makes room for another to take its place. This is why it’s unwise to make solid statues inside. A statue takes up space without moving, without flowing, without growing.
PLOT SUMMARY:
To eight-year-old Bela, her family is her world. There’s Mommy, Daddo, and Grandma Ruth. But there is also Other Mommy, a malevolent entity who asks her every day: “Can I go inside your heart?”
When horrifying incidents around the house signal that Other Mommy is growing tired of asking Bela the question over and over, Bela understands that unless she says yes, her family will soon pay.
Other Mommy is getting restless, stronger, bolder. Only the bonds of family can keep Bela safe, but other incidents show cracks in her parents’ marriage. The safety Bela relies on is about to unravel.
But Other Mommy needs an answer.
GRADE: B-
REVIEW:
Incidents Around the House by Josh Malerman is a chilling novel that delivers a claustrophobic, psychological horror grounded in the mundane. Told from the perspective of young Bela, the story captures the eerie atmosphere of a home slowly being overtaken by an unseen presence. The “creepy entity” that Bela sees—and her parents do not—lurks at the edges of their house, at first ambiguous and unsettling, then increasingly menacing. Malerman plays expertly with perspective, making readers question what is real and what is imagined.
The novel excels in tone and mood. The tension is slow-building, and the child’s voice is authentically rendered, adding a layer of vulnerability. The idea of a malevolent figure quietly “moving in” is deeply unnerving, made worse by the adults’ dismissal of Bela’s warnings.
However, while the setup is gripping, the middle portion becomes repetitive. The narrative relies on similar beats—Bela sees the entity, her parents so see the entity and continue trying to escape it—which dilutes the suspense over time. The lack of escalation or variety in how the threat manifests causes the tension to plateau before the conclusion. Still, Incidents Around the House is a creepy, well-written tale, just one that might have benefitted from tighter pacing or a bit more narrative progression.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Del Rey for a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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Step into the heart of revolutionary France with Panico! Marie Antoinette’s Journey During the Reign of Terror—a gripping, gothic reimagining of the doomed queen’s final days. Blending historical horror with psychological suspense, the poetry collection paints a haunting portrait of Marie Antoinette as she navigates betrayal, fear, and the crumbling world around her. With lush prose and chilling atmosphere, this poetry collection explores the blurred lines between reality and madness as the guillotine looms ever closer. Perfect for fans of eerie historical fiction, Panico! is a visceral descent into the mind of a queen on the edge of history—and sanity.
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Tall. Sharp green eyes. A small, pointed nose. Pale. Red hair, worn down, falls just below her shoulders, framing her compact face. Her posture is pristine, and she appears to be flexing, though that may be her natural state. Her hands are folded, left over right. She sports an unblemished French manicure and light pink lipstick that you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. She has two earrings on her left ear, both in the lobe, and one on her right. They’re all diamonds, and I’m sure they’re real. She wears a light blue Oxford shirt. It looks like it was designed for her frame—towering and athletic, without succumbing to bulk. Over the shirt, she wears a light jacket, tan and slim fitted, with bronze buttons. It looks like it was born to be a man’s jacket but changed its mind when it met her.
She had me from the start. It was her wave. It showed the world she came from, the sophistication, the poise, the casual superiority. It was a wave that had been passed down, refined, choreographed. A stiff hand, a pirouette, a fold. It was elegant in its learned simplicity.
She paired it with a vacant, performative smile. It wasn’t for me. It was for the watchers. It told the world that she wasn’t, despite appearances, one of those people. She was, in fact, a normal person, perhaps even a kind one.
I nodded my acknowledgment and matched her smile. Mine was professional, a journalist’s smile, continuing the performance we were engaged in.
We were meeting at an outdoor café on campus. One of those places where students bring their laptops and pretend to work. It’s not a place to work, not true work. It’s a place to be seen to be working.
She stood as I sat, a prosaic gesture that nonetheless endeared her to me.
I felt the cool spring breeze and heard birds singing in a tree nearby. A woman shouted in the distance, and I didn’t even turn to look. I assumed it was playful. I used to be able to assume that.
“Tess,” she said, not a question but a statement of fact. “And you’re Rose?”
“Yes.” She smiled and took a sip of her coffee. She placed it down, and I noticed it was uncovered, no lid in sight.
I looked at my own cup, a lipstick-stained plastic lid of shame sitting atop it. I felt her eyes on it, felt the judgment. I shouldn’t have had a lid. I should’ve told them I didn’t want one. Lids were plastic, single-use plastic. They were death. They were climate change. They were a stain upon you as a person.
I tore it off, and the steam burned my hand. I didn’t flinch, too afraid it would be another strike against me. Rose looked like the type of person who never flinched, who never got sick or hurt. She looked like she went to the cape on the weekends and played tackle football with her brothers and more than held her own.
I pulled out my notebook, almost knocking over my coffee as I did so. The cup rattled, but I grabbed it before it tipped and smiled an apology. I opened to a fresh page, and, as I always did when beginning an interview, I took down a description.
“Are you writing a novel?” Her voice was cold and clipped, formal and challenging.
I blushed, and my skin turned a few shades darker. I’m sure she noticed. Rose looked like she never blushed. Or at least never out of embarrassment. I imagined she did on occasion, but with a purpose.
I hid in my notebook. “No, I, uh, well…”
I hated myself. It was odd for me. I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t a stammering, stumbling fool. I wasn’t often awed. I was the one in a relationship who was distant. I was the one who was unaffected by the end of the affair, the one who needed to be wooed.
But there was something about her, an aura, a magic. Some- thing that changed me, disrupted me. I both hated and loved it. Longed to be free of this pull and to never leave it. One could chalk it up to the difference in age—Rose was twenty-one to my nineteen, but it was more than that. She had something. Something I wanted.
I twirled my pen around a finger and clicked it. It was a nervous habit, one that would take years to tame. Rose watched, a cryptic smile in her eyes. I placed my phone on the table and set it to record. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head, but I could feel her quiet disapproval. “I just like to get the setting down,” I said and motioned to
my notebook. I calmed myself by sipping the spring air, a slight scent of grass being cut somewhere in the distance. ““I was taught that if you have the time, you should overwrite, even in journalism. Easier to cut later. ‘Never trust your memory’ is what my professor says.”
This wasn’t true. My professors would be appalled by my long, florid notes. They advocated direct, blunt ones. But I wasn’t writing for them. Not anymore. I’d already developed my own strategies, my own style, and my notes were part of that.
She met my eyes, an intrigued look cresting across her face. I’ll never forget that look and the feeling that accompanied it, tracing up my spine and nesting in my skull. I felt my embarrassment disappear. I remembered who I was. I remembered that I was someone, and she knew it.
“Well.” She drank her coffee. I followed her lead. Mine was still too hot, and it scalded my throat. “I guess whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
And there it was. The reason she’d come. It was a hint, a slight lead, but we both knew where she was taking the conversation. I may have my objective, my questions, my story, but she didn’t care. She wanted to discuss it. She met me so she could discuss it.
“I still have a lot to learn —”
“But to have an article receive national attention as a sophomore.” She cut me off with the ease of someone used to doing it. “My guess is it won’t be long before the job offers start coming.”
They already had, but she didn’t need to know that. Not yet. You need to save things. You need to build a relationship with patient precision if you want it to last.
I nodded and went back to my notebook. I should’ve steered the conversation, transitioned from my success to the work- shop. But I couldn’t, I wanted to press on, I wanted to talk more about my article. I wanted to astonish her and luxuriate in that astonishment.
That’s all it took. A little acclaim, a little attention, and, as I’m sure she’d planned, I’d forgotten my questions, my story.
“Now.” She unstacked her hands and moved one toward mine. “I’m not a journalist, just a fiction writer, but I felt your piece transcended the subject and demonstrated an uncanny ability to be informative, engaging, and unique. I couldn’t put it down, and more to the point, I found myself rereading it even after knowing the story, which I feel is a true test of great writing. Your work doesn’t read like journalism. It reads like fiction, good fiction.”
I felt the familiar warmth of praise pulse through me.
Her assessment was pretentious and vapid, it said nothing. It raised my own work by comparing it to the vaunted heights of fiction and, in doing so, denigrated journalism, but I didn’t care. “Thank you.” I tried to temper my grin. “I appreciate that.
It was a good article, and I was pleased with the exposure it received. That’s an important issue that I think will continue to pervade our society.”
I was trying to match her. Her intellectual snobbery, her placid distance, her broad generalities.
“So.” She leaned forward, and I found my eye tracing down to the opening of her shirt. I caught a glimpse of lace and looked away, landing on her forearm. It was exposed, and
I could just make out a pale purple bruise. She noticed and dropped her arm beneath the table. “I have to ask. How did you get the interview? How did you get him to agree to that? To say all that?”
I nodded and leaned back. This was what they always asked. This was what made the article. This was why it garnered national attention, why everyone was talking about it, why I was someone.
Hearing her ask the same, tired question settled me.
I ran a finger along the seam of my pants and looked around, debating whether to do it, whether to take the leap. I felt the brief flutter of nervous excitement that we all come to know at some point.
I paused and felt my heart rattle. It felt wrong. She should be the one to ask me out, not the other way. I didn’t even know if she was gay. But somehow, I did. I could tell. I could feel an opening. This was my chance. She was curious, everyone was. I had a story, I had cache, I was someone, if only for a moment. So, I leapt. “How about this? You have dinner with me tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you how I got the interview. Deal?”
The question hung in the air as it always does, time elongating—heavy and thick with anxiety but exhilarating. All the world is packed into that pause between the question and the answer.
“What, like a date?” She tilted her head, a smile leaking out of the side of her mouth, a slight hue dampening her cheeks.
I nodded.
Someone shouted at a table not far from us, and chairs scraped against the ground.
“All right,” she said, her smile spreading. “Deal.”
And just like that, the anxiety exploded into a million shards of light. I was ebullient. I was phosphorescent. I was invincible. After that, I tried to stay present, tried to listen to what she said, to not think about the future that was already being crafted
in my mind.
But it was no use, I was gone. My mind was adrift. There were winters skiing and summers sailing. There were literary arguments and good coffee. There was an initial frigid period with her family. A tense scene with her grandfather where he reverted to his old prejudices, dismissing the whole of me based on the half that was Lebanese, but I won him over by talking history and baseball. I became one of them. And later, there were galas and houses full of antiques and rich wood.
“I guess you’re not here to talk about your article, are you?” She shifted back. “You’re here to talk about Jack.” Her face fell, her hands fidgeted in her lap. The color left her cheeks. The radiance of our previous conversation still lingered, but it was just a residual taste. We’d moved on.
I nodded but said nothing. Being a journalist is a lot like being a therapist. You need to draw them out. You need to make them comfortable and then let them talk.
“Terrible, just horrible.” She looked like a different person, like an actor trying to play Rose in a marginal play. “Such a waste.”
I let the silence linger, hoping she’d continue. When she didn’t, I eased into it. “Did you know him well?”
She nodded, and took her forefinger and thumb and pinched the bridge of her nose as if that could stop the tears and the pain. “Yes, of course. We all… I mean, you know about it, right? About the workshop? Dr. Lobo?”
I did. Everyone knew about the workshop. It was a creative writing group on campus, not an official workshop, whatever that means, just a group of students whom an acclaimed professor had taken an interest in.
Dr. Lobo’s workshop. Sylvia’s kids. The Creative Writing Cult.
Sylvia Lobo’s second novel, A Wake of Vultures, was an instant classic. She was teaching here as an associate professor when she wrote it, and after its publication, she became an instant celebrity. Now she teaches creative writing and gives few lectures. I took one during my first semester. Someone had dropped right when I was registering, otherwise, I’d have never
gotten in. It was on the erosion of the past in literature. Novels set during times of change with characters who are stuck in the past and grappling with the future. It was an eighty-person class, and I don’t think I said more than three words all year.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know about Dr. Lobo.”
“Have you read any of her work?” The energy that had left us returned.
“I’ve read A Wake of Vultures and Jezebel.”
Rose tried to hide her excitement and nodded to herself. I could tell I’d passed a test. “I’ll give you Chariot Races and Bubblegum. If you like those, we can go from there. If not…”
More tests. But that was all right. For her, I would take them.
“You’re all very close, right?”
“Yes, Sylvia’s big on that. We’re all working toward the same goals and have the same interests, and it’s essential that we spend time together. She says it makes for better writing. Look at Paris in the twenties. Do you think it was an accident so many great writers were there at the same time?”
I took my time and wrote this down verbatim. It sounded rehearsed.
“Some people even…” She laughed. “…say we’re a bit of a cult.”
Her laughter stopped, and I made sure not to smile. This wasn’t a joke. This was a repudiation of a nasty piece of gossip. I’d have to be careful with that. I’d have to watch that I never hinted at the cultish atmosphere of the workshop.
People had good reason to call them a cult. They took all the same classes, not just Sylvia’s, but everything—history, science, even phys ed. They got coffee together at the same time every day. The same table, the same café, the same black coffee, the same far-off look while they drank. They ate lunch together. They ate the same things for lunch. They ate with purpose. Refined but rapid. They walked the same, hurried steps announcing their presence, clearing a path. They talked the same. The same talking points, the same articles referenced, the same political issues discussed, same positions held with fervor. They used the same words. They spoke at the same frantic pace. Their hands moved with their every word, painting a mute portrait of their argument. They used the same pens, same notebooks, read the same books, watched the same movies, chewed the same gum, smoked the same colorful French cigarettes, not because they were addicted, but because it stoked conversation and helped with the writing process.
They were the same. They were like her.
That was how she drank her coffee, how she ate, how she walked, how she spoke, how she thought.
They idolized her. They forced her works into their conversations. They cited her. Not just her published comments and writing but personal ones from conversations they’d had with her. They attributed immense weight to these citations as if mentioning her name ended all debate. If Sylvia said it, it wasn’t to be questioned. It was fact.
The cultish atmosphere of the program was why I decided to write the story. Why I was sitting there, interviewing Rose. Jack’s suicide was a part, but not the whole. I hoped to expand it, turn it into a piece on Sylvia and the workshop. Get a glimpse behind the curtain. See what was fact and what was fiction.
Rose stared at me after the cult comment. Judging me, reading my reaction. I met her stare and held it. “Well, these days, I think gossip is the sincerest form of flattery. As for Jack, I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nodded and raised a hand to her chest. “Yes, he was, well, very talented. We came in together, same class. We were both in her freshman seminar on literature’s obsession with the past.”
“I took that class.”
“Really? Not the same one though? I’m sure I’d have noticed you.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. But it must’ve been a different year,
you’re what, a senior?”
“She teaches it every other year. You’re fortunate you got in.”
“I could say the same to you,” I said, unable to avoid the
opening to flirt.
“Hah.” She rolled her head back. She didn’t laugh. She said, hah. Spat it. “No, I sent her my writing from high school, two awful short stories about— Oh god, I don’t even want to say… one was about my high school friends and a teacher of ours, and the other was about a ski instructor. They were dreadful, but she saw something in them, something in me.”
She looked over at the sprouting trees that lined the walk, feigning to hide her satisfied smile. “She reads the work applicants send in, as do her current students, and selections are made. If she picks you, you’re assured a spot in her freshman seminar and the creative writing major and some other class- es. See, where most creative writing programs don’t really get serious until graduate school, she starts right away. Freshmen year. She believes that you need to get to a writer early, before they learn those bad habits and become just a poor imitation of some famous writer. She wants you raw, unadulterated, malleable.”
“I thought you said she teaches that seminar every other year?”
She shook her head as if I was a mistaken child. “Oh no, just that one class on literature and the past. She teaches that in even years. She teaches a different one on female writers and the diaspora in odd years.”
I nodded and smiled and waited.
She rubbed the bruise on her arm, caught herself, and dropped her hands, resuming her practiced pose of mourning. “Yes, I was close to Jack. We were in all the same classes. I was his shadow, as we called it. Like a peer editor, you read everything they write. He was my shadow too. Sylvia thought our work complemented one another’s. He was a genius, and I don’t use that word lightly. It’s a true tragedy. Not just for him and those of us who knew him but for the world. The world lost a great writer.” Another tear, she lifted a napkin to stop it. “I edited his book. The one that we—Sylvia and I—are helping to finish. You know about that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Sylvia worked to get it published, not that it was all that difficult, it’s a brilliant novel. But she took it on. She wanted to… She knew it was what he would’ve wanted. And now, at least, that part of him will live on. A tribute of sorts.”
“I hear the money’s going to charity?”
“A suicide prevention charity. And some will go to the creative writing program here as well, help to make it official, and I think some is going other places, but I don’t have the details on that.”
“Any to his family?”
“He didn’t have family. An uncle upstate somewhere, whom he grew up with, but they weren’t close, and I think he passed away. His parents weren’t in the picture.”
“Anyone else you think I should talk to?” I was afraid to push too hard too soon. You can always come back with more questions. You can always have a second interview, provided, of course, you remain on good terms.
“People in the workshop. I can give you some names. Intro- duce you.”
“That’d be great.” I looked down at my notebook, pretending to scan it, knowing what I needed to ask. “Look, Rose, I’m sorry to ask this, but I have to. Do you have any idea why he would’ve done this? I heard he didn’t leave a note.”
A writer not leaving a note. Seemed off.
She shook her head and forced another tear. “He was”— she ran a fingernail around the rim of her now-empty coffee cup—“troubled, like many writers are. It’s true what they say, ‘genius and madness flow from the same source.’ Good work often comes from pain, and I think, not to be unkind, but I think some can court it. Wallow in it. Again, I don’t mean to… I loved Jack, and it’s a tragedy what happened, but he lived in that pain. It’s what his work was about. He’d go into it and be down there and write, and after he finished, he’d come back up. He’d live in joy for a bit. But this time, with the novel, he was down there too long. He couldn’t surface.”
This, too, felt rehearsed. Maybe not quite scripted but planned. She knew I’d ask about it, and she was ready. There’s nothing wrong with that. Meeting with a journalist is stressful, and people like to be prepared.
But still, it felt off.
“Well,” I said, “I think that’s all I’ve got for today. I might have some follow-ups, but I’m sure you’re busy.”
“Yes, I have to decide what I’m wearing for our date.” I blushed and withdrew to my notes.
“I hope we won’t have to muddy that up with this?” she said. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”
We both stood, and I stared at her, straining my eyes, as she retreated into the falling sun.
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East Broadway station bleeds when it rains, water rushing down from cracks in the secret darkness of the ceiling. Someone should probably fix that, but it’s the end of the world, and New York has bigger problems than a soggy train station that no one should be inside of anyway. No one takes the subway at the end of the world. No one except Cora and Delilah Zeng.
Delilah wanders too close to the edge of the platform and Cora grabs her arm, tugging her away from the abyss of the tracks that unlatches its jaws, waiting. But Delilah settles safely behind the yellow line and the darkness clenches its teeth.
Outside the wet mouth of the station, New York is empty. The China Virus, as they call it, has cleared the streets. News stations flash through footage of China—bodies in garbage bags, guards and tanks protecting the city lines, sobbing doctors waving their last goodbyes from packed trains, families who just want to fucking live but are trapped in the plague city for the Greater Good.
On the other side of the world, New York is so empty it echoes. You can scream and the ghost of your voice will carry for blocks and blocks. The sound of footsteps lasts forever, the low hum of streetlights a warm undercurrent that was always there, waiting, but no one could hear it until now. Delilah says it’s unnerving, but Cora likes the quiet, likes how much bigger the city feels, likes that the little lights from people’s apartment windows are the only hint of their existence, no one anything more than a bright little square in the sky.
What she doesn’t like is that she can’t find any toilet paper at the end of the world.
Apparently, people do strange things when they’re scared of dying, and one of them is hoarding toilet paper. Cora and Delilah have been out for an hour trying to find some and finally managed to grab a four-pack of one-ply in Chinatown, which is better than nothing but not by much.
They had to walk in the rain because they couldn’t get an Uber. No one wants Chinese girls in their car, and they’re not the kind of Chinese that can afford their own car in a city where it isn’t necessary. But now that they have the precious paper, they’d rather not walk home in the rain and end up with a sodden mess in their arms.
“The train isn’t coming,” Cora says. She feels certain of this. She feels certain about a lot of things she can’t explain, the way some people are certain that God exists. Some thoughts just cross her mind and sink their teeth in. Besides, the screen overhead that’s supposed to tell them when the next train arrives has said DELAYS for the last ten minutes.
“It’s coming,” Delilah says, checking her phone, then tucking it away when droplets from the leaky roof splatter onto the screen. Delilah is also certain about many things, but for different reasons. Delilah chooses the things she wants to believe, while Cora’s thoughts are bear traps snapping closed around her ankles.
Sometimes Cora thinks Delilah is more of a dream than a sister, a camera flash of pretty lights in every color that you can never look at directly. She wraps herself up in pale pink and wispy silk and flower hair clips; she wears different rings on each finger that all have a special meaning; she is Alice in Wonderland who has stumbled out of a rabbit hole and somehow arrived in New York from a world much more kind and lovely than this one.
Cora hugs the toilet paper to her chest and peers into the silent train tunnel. She can’t see even a whisper of light from the other side. The darkness closes in like a wall. The train cannot be coming because trains can’t break through walls.
Or maybe Cora just doesn’t want to go home, because going home with Delilah means remembering that there is a world outside of this leaky station.
There is their dad in China, just a province away from the epicenter of body bags. And there is the man who emptied his garbage over their heads from his window and called them Chinks on the walk here. And there is the big question of What Comes Next? Because another side effect of the end of the world is getting laid off.
Cora used to work the front desk at the Met, which wasn’t exactly what an art history degree was designed for and certainly didn’t justify the debt. But it was relevant enough to her studies that for a few months it stopped shame from creeping in like black mold and coating her lungs in her sleep. But no one needs museums at the end of the world, so no one needs Cora.
Delilah answered emails and scheduled photo shoots for a local fashion magazine that went belly-up as soon as someone whispered the word pandemic, and suddenly there were two art history majors, twenty-four and twenty-six, with work experience in dead industries and New York City rent to pay. Now the money is gone and there are no careers to show for it and the worst part is that they had a chance, they had a Nai Nai who paid for half their tuition because she thought America was for dreams. They didn’t have to wait tables or strip or sell Adderall to pay for college but they somehow messed it up anyway, and Cora thinks that’s worse than having no chance at all. She thinks a lot of other things about herself too, but she lets those thoughts go quickly, snaps her hands away from them like they’re a hot pan that will burn her skin.
Cora thinks this is all Delilah’s fault but won’t say it out loud because that’s another one of her thoughts that no one wants to hear. It’s a little bit her own fault as well, for not having her own dreams. If there was anything Cora actually wanted besides existing comfortably, she would have known what to study in college, wouldn’t have had to chase after Delilah.
But not everyone has dreams. Some people just are, the way that trees and rocks and rivers are just there without a reason, the rest of the world moving around them.
Cora thinks that the water dripping down the wall looks oddly dark, more so than the usual sludge of the city, and maybe it has a reddish tinge, like the city has slit its own wrists and is dying in this empty station. But she knows better than to say this out loud, because everything looks dirty to her, and Cora Zeng thinking something is dirty doesn’t mean the average human agrees—at least, that’s what everyone tells her.
“Maybe I’ll work at a housekeeping company,” Cora says, half to herself and half to the echoing tunnel, but Delilah answers anyway.
“You know that’s a bad idea,” she says.
Cora shrugs. Objectively, she understands that if you scrub yourself raw with steel wool one singular time, no one likes it when you clean anything for the rest of your life. But things still need to be cleaned even if Delilah doesn’t like it, and Cora thinks there are worse things than leaning a little bit into the crazy parts of you. Isn’t that what artists do, after all? Isn’t that the kind of person Delilah likes? The tortured artist types who smoke indoors and paint with their own blood and feces.
“Mama cleaned toilets for rich white people because she had no choice,” Delilah says. “You have a college degree and that’s what you want to do?”
Cora doesn’t answer at first because Mama means Delilah’s mom, so Cora doesn’t see why her thoughts on Cora’s life should matter. Cora doesn’t have a Mama. She has a Mom, a white lady from Wisconsin who probably hired someone else’s mama to clean her toilet.
Cora quite likes cleaning toilets, but this is another thing she knows she shouldn’t say out loud. Instead, she says, “What I want is to make rent this month.”
Legally, Cora’s fairly certain they can’t be evicted during the pandemic, but she doesn’t want to piss off their landlord, the man who sniffs their mail and saves security camera footage of Delilah entering the building. He price-gouges them for a crappy fourth-floor walkup in the East Village with a radiator that vomits a gallon of brown water onto their floor in the winter and a marching band of pipes banging in the walls, but somehow Cora doubts they’ll find anything better without jobs.
Delilah smiles with half her mouth, her gaze distant like Cora is telling her a fairy tale. “I’ve been burning lemongrass for money energy,” Delilah says. “We’ll be fine.” This is another thing Delilah just knows.
Cora hates the smell of lemongrass. The scent coats her throat, wakes her up at night feeling like she’s drowning in oil. But she doesn’t know if the oils are a Chinese thing or just a Delilah thing, and she hates accidentally acting like a white girl around Delilah. Whenever she does, Delilah gives her this look, like she’s remembered who Cora really is, and changes the subject.
“The train is late,” Cora says instead of acknowledging the lemongrass. “I don’t think it’s coming.”
“It’s coming, Cee,” Delilah says.
“I read that they reduced service since no one’s taking the train these days,” Cora says. “What if it doesn’t stop here anymore?”
“It’s coming,” Delilah says. “It’s not like we have a choice except waiting here anyway.”
Cora’s mind flashes with the image of both their skeletons standing at the station, waiting for a train that never comes, while the world crumbles around them. They could walk— they only live in the East Village—but Delilah is made of sugar and her makeup melts off in the rain and her umbrella is too small and she said no, so that’s the end of it. Delilah is not Cora’s boss, she’s not physically intimidating, and she has no blackmail to hold over her, but Cora knows the only choice is to do what Delilah says. When you’re drowning and someone grabs your hand, you don’t ask them where they’re taking you.
A quiet breeze sighs through the tunnel, a dying exhale. It blows back Delilah’s bangs and Cora notices that Delilah has penciled in her eyebrows perfectly, even though it’s raining and they only went out to the store to buy toilet paper. Something about the sharp arch of her left eyebrow in particular triggers a thought that Cora doesn’t want to think, but it bites down all the same.
Sometimes, Cora thinks she hates her sister.
It’s strange how hate and love can so quietly exist at the same time. They are moon phases, one silently growing until one day all that’s left is darkness. It’s not something that Delilah says or does, really. Cora is used to her small annoyances.
It’s that Delilah is a daydream and standing next to her makes Cora feel real.
Cora has pores full of sweat and oil, socks with stains on the bottom, a stomach that sloshes audibly after she eats. Delilah is a pretty arrangement of refracted light who doesn’t have to worry about those things. Cora wanted to be like her for a very long time, because who doesn’t want to transcend their disgusting body and become Delilah Zeng, incorporeal, eternal? But Cora’s not so sure anymore.
Cora peers into the tunnel. We are going to be stuck here forever, Cora thinks, knows.
But then the sound begins, a rising symphony to Cora’s ears. The ground begins to rumble, puddles shivering.
“Finally,” Delilah says, pocketing her phone. “See? I told you.”
Cora nods because Delilah did tell her and sometimes Delilah is right. The things Cora thinks she knows are too often just bad dreams bleeding into her waking hours.
Far away, the headlights become visible in the darkness. A tiny mouth of white light.
“Cee,” Delilah says. Her tone is too delicate, and it makes coldness curl around Cora’s heart. Delilah tosses words out easily, dandelion parachutes carried about by the wind. But these words have weight.
Delilah toys with her bracelet—a jade bangle from their Auntie Zeng, the character for hope on the gold band. Cora has a matching one, shoved in a drawer somewhere, except the plate says love, at least that’s what Cora thinks. She’s not very good at reading Chinese.
“I’m thinking of going to see Dad,” Delilah says.
The mouth of light at the end of the tunnel has expanded into a door of brilliant white, and Cora waits because this cannot be all. Dad lives in Changsha, has lived there ever since America became too much for him, except it’s always been too much for Cora too and she has nowhere to run away to, her father hasn’t given her the words she needs. Delilah has visited him twice in the last five years, so this news isn’t enough to make Delilah’s voice sound so tight, so nervous.
“I think I might stay there awhile,” Delilah says, looking away. “Now that I’m out of work, it seems like a good time to get things settled before the pandemic blows over.”
Cora stares at the side of Delilah’s head because her sister won’t meet her gaze. Cora isn’t stupid, she knows what this is a “good time” for. Delilah started talking about being a model in China last year. Cora doesn’t know if the odds are better in China and she doubts Delilah knows either. All she knows is that Delilah tried for all of three months to make a career of modeling in New York until that dream fizzled out, smoke spiraling from it, and Delilah stopped trying because everything is disposable to her, right down to her dreams.
Cora always thought this particular dream would be too expensive, too logistically complicated for Delilah to actually follow through on. Worst-case scenario, they’d plan a three-week vacation to China that would turn into a week and a half when Delilah lost interest and started fighting with Dad again. The idea of flying during a pandemic feels like a death sentence, but Cora has already resigned herself to hunting down some N95 respirators just so Delilah could give her modeling dream an honest try.
Because even if Delilah tends to extinguish her own dreams too fast, Cora believes in them for all of their brief, brilliant lives. If Cora ever found a dream of her own, she would nurture it in soft soil, measure out each drop of water, each sunbeam, give it a chance to become. So Cora will not squash her sister’s dreams, not for anything.
“I’ll just put my half of the rent on my credit card until I find work,” Delilah says, “so you won’t need a new roommate.”
Then Cora understands, all at once, like a knife slipped between her ribs, that Delilah isn’t inviting Cora to come with her.
Of course she isn’t. Delilah has a mama who speaks Mandarin to her, so Delilah’s Chinese is good enough to live in China. But Cora’s isn’t. Delilah would have to do everything for her, go everywhere with her because she knows Cora would cry just trying to check out at the supermarket. Delilah could do it for her, but she doesn’t want to.
Cora suddenly feels like a child who has wandered too far into a cave. The echoes become ghosts and the darkness wraps in tight ribbons around your throat and you call for a mom who will never come.
Cora’s hands shake, fingers pressing holes into the plastic wrap of the toilet paper, her whole body vibrating with the sheer unfairness of it all. You can’t string someone along their whole life and then just leave them alone one day holding your toilet paper in a soggy train station.
“Or you could stay with your aunt?” Delilah says. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about rent. It would be better for both of us, I think.”
Auntie Lois, she means. Mom’s sister, whose house smells like a magazine, who makes Cora kneel in a confessional booth until she can name all her sins. Delilah has decided that this is Cora’s life, and Delilah is the one who makes decisions.
Delilah keeps talking, but Cora can’t hear her. The world rumbles as the train draws closer. The white light is too bright now, too sharp behind Delilah, and it illuminates her silhouette, carves her into the wet darkness. Delilah has a beautiful silhouette, the kind that men would have painted hundreds of years ago. Cora thinks about the Girl with a Pearl Earring, and the Mona Lisa, and all the beautiful women immortalized in oil paint, and wonders if they said cruel things too, if their words had mattered at all or just the roundness of their eyes and softness of their cheeks, if beautiful people are allowed to break your heart and get away with it.
The man appears in a flash of a black hoodie and blue surgical mask.
He says two words, and even though the train is rushing closer, a roaring wave about to knock them off their feet, those two words are perfectly clear, sharp as if carved into Cora’s skin.
Bat eater.
Cora has heard those words a lot the past two months. The end of the world began at a wet market in Wuhan, they say, with a sick bat. Cora has never once eaten a bat, but it has somehow become common knowledge that Chinese people eat bats just to start plagues.
Cora only glances at the man’s face for a moment before her gaze snaps to his pale hand clamped around Delilah’s skinny arm like a white spider, crunching the polyester of her pink raincoat. Lots of men grab Delilah because she is the kind of girl that men want to devour. Cora thinks the man will try to kiss Delilah, or force her up the stairs and into a cab, or a thousand things better than what actually happens next.
Because he doesn’t pull her close. He pushes her away.
Delilah stumbles over the yellow line, ankle twisting, and when she crashes down there’s no ground to meet her, just the yawning chasm of the train tracks.
The first car hits her face.
All at once, Cora’s skin is scorched with something viscous and salty. Brakes scream and blue sparks fly and the wind blasts her hair back, the liquid rushing across her throat, under her shirt. Her first thought is that the train has splashed her in some sort of track sludge, and for half a second that is the worst thought in the entire world. The toilet paper falls from Cora’s arms and splashes into a puddle when it hits the ground and There goes the whole point of the trip, she thinks.
Delilah does not stand up. The train is a rushing blur of silver, a solid wall of hot air and screeching metal and Delilah is on the ground, her skirt pooling out around her. Get up, Delilah, Cora thinks, because train station floors are rainforests of bacteria tracked in from so many millions of shoes, because the puddle beneath her can’t be just rainwater—it looks oddly dark, almost black, spreading fast like a hole opening up in the floor. Cora steps closer and it almost, almost looks like Delilah is leaning over the ledge, peering over the lip of the platform.
But Delilah ends just above her shoulders.
Her throat is a jagged line, torn flaps of skin and sharp bone and the pulsing O of her open trachea. Blood runs unstopped from her throat, swirling together with the rainwater of the rotting train station, and soon the whole platform is bleeding, weeping red water into the crack between the platform and the train, feeding the darkness. Cora is screaming, a raw sound that begins somewhere deep inside her rib cage and tears its way up her throat and becomes a hurricane, a knife-sharp cry, the last sound that many women ever make.
But there’s no one to hear it because New York is a dead body, because no one rides the subway at the end of the world. No one but Cora Zeng.
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“My heart is a dark passage, lined with ranks of gleaming jars. In each one something floats. The past, preserved as if in spirit.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
“A great day is upon us. He is coming. The world will be washed away.”
On the wind-battered isle of Altnaharra, off the wildest coast of Scotland, a clan prepares to bring about the end of the world and its imminent rebirth.
The Adder is coming and one of their number will inherit its powers. They all want the honor, but young Eve is willing to do anything for the distinction.
A reckoning beyond Eve’s imagination begins when Chief Inspector Black arrives to investigate a brutal murder and their sacred ceremony goes terribly wrong.
And soon all the secrets of Altnaharra will be uncovered.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Little Eve by Catriona Ward is a gothic masterpiece that showcases her exceptional talent for crafting narratives laced with deception, suspense, and relentless twists. Set on a remote Scottish island in the aftermath of World War I, the novel follows a secretive, insular cult-like family whose dark rituals and fractured loyalties set the stage for a haunting mystery. Ward’s storytelling is labyrinthine—just when the reader feels they’ve grasped the truth, the narrative shifts, peeling back another layer of deception.
What sets Ward apart is her ability to embed twists that feel not only shocking but inevitable in hindsight. Each revelation deepens the emotional and psychological complexity of the characters, especially Eve, whose voice is both haunting and heartbreakingly human. The prose is atmospheric and immersive, rich with dread and beauty, drawing readers into a world where nothing is quite what it seems.
Ward doesn’t rely on cheap thrills; instead, she builds a carefully structured narrative where every twist feels earned. The result is a novel that constantly redefines itself, keeping the reader in a state of taut anticipation. Little Eve is a chilling, intricately woven tale that confirms Catriona Ward as a true master of psychological suspense and gothic horror.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Tor Nightfire for a digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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“The parts of us that they are attacking are the best parts of us, and that is what makes us special.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
When Dylan Mulvaney came out as a woman online, she was a viral sensation almost overnight, emerging as a trailblazing voice on social media. Dylan’s personal coming-out story blossomed into a platform for advocacy and empowerment for trans people all over the world.
Through her “Days of Girlhood” series, she connected with followers by exploring what it means to be a girl, from experimenting with makeup to story times to spilling the tea about laser hair removal, while never shying away from discussing the transphobia she faced online. Nevertheless, she was determined to be a beacon of positivity.
But shortly after she celebrated day 365 of being a girl, it all came screeching to a halt when an innocuous post sparked a media firestorm and right-wing backlash she couldn’t have expected. Despite the vitriolic press and relentless paparazzi, Dylan was determined to remain loud and proud.
In Paper Doll: Notes from a Late Bloomer, Dylan pulls back the curtain of her “It Girl” lifestyle with a witty and intimate reflection of her life pre- and post-transition. She covers everything from her first big break in theater to the first time her dad recognized her as a girl to how she handled scandals, cancellations, and . . . tucking. It’s both laugh-out-loud funny and powerfully honest—and is a love letter to everyone who stands up for queer joy.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I experienced this memoir as an audiobook which I think is the best way to experience it. Dylan Mulvaney delivers a memoir that is as full of heart as it is sharp with humor. Known for her viral “Days of Girlhood” series, Mulvaney brings the same charisma and vulnerability to the page, blending deeply personal storytelling with punchy, self-aware wit. The book is a kaleidoscope of moments—some raw, some hilarious, all profoundly human.
Her humor never feels performative; it’s the kind that springs from resilience, used not to mask pain but to reshape it into something empowering. She recounts awkward adolescence, awkward adulthood, and everything in between with a comedic timing that never undercuts the seriousness of her journey. Instead, it complements the memoir’s emotional core.
What elevates Paper Doll beyond a personal story is its quiet, powerful wisdom. Mulvaney doesn’t pretend to have all the answers. Instead, she offers hard-won insights about identity, self-worth, and the freedom of living authentically. Her voice is candid and warm, turning the memoir into a conversation more than a proclamation.
Paper Doll is ultimately a triumph of spirit—a joyful, honest, and sharply observant reflection of what it means to grow into oneself, and to do so with grace, grit, and a perfectly timed joke.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Harry N. Abrams for the audiobook copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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But she didn’t realize it was the last normal day on Earth as she’d known it… the last normal day anyone had known.
PLOT SUMMARY:
The meanest teen queen in high school might be the world’s only chance against killer plants run amok!
Camellia Dume is the meanest teen queen in her Malibu high school, a rich daddy’s girl thanks to her father’s elaborate scams. But she might be the only hero for humanity as an extraterrestrial mutation sends plants tearing across the country and through people in bloody fashion. As if that weren’t enough drama, Camellia just might meet her own personal match or worst enemy, in the new student Wray, as sparks fly and opposites attract. Only by working together can they uproot a deadly conspiracy that may have torn Camellia’s family apart.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Mean Girls meets Day of the Triffids in this fast paced horror. Move over Regina George, there’s a new bad bitch in town – Camellia Dume. She’s disgustingly rich and very influential both at her school and online realm, where she’s both loved and feared. Upon her first encounter with Wray, things don’t go down very well, but soon the two are going to be faced with killer plants and life as Camellia knows it will no longer exist. These two unlikely heroes will capture your heart and have you rooting for them in this campy, yet very fun scary book!
Doomflower by Jendia Gammon is a relentless, fast-paced horror thriller that grips the reader from the very first page and littered with hilarious moments that will have you laughing! The narrative is a whirlwind of tension, with each chapter escalating the horror as the protagonist is drawn deeper into a nightmarish world. Gammon masterfully builds a sense of dread, using sharp, vivid imagery that keeps the reader on edge. The pacing is swift, ensuring that the suspense never lets up, while the horror elements hit hard with shocking twists and grotesque killer plants. Doomflower is a wild, adrenaline-fueled ride for fans of chilling, fast-paced terror.
*Thank you so much to Encyclopocalypse Publications for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
SHORT Q & A WITH AUTHOR:
What inspired you to write Doomflower?
Doomflower was one of those secret-sauce ideas that bubbled up about 6 years ago, when I was getting to know Los Angeles better, and fell hard for Point Dume. I had been a fan of dark humor most of my life, so that’s reflected in the book; notably Heathers, as well as various high school dramedies over the decades, as well as pulpy slasher films of the 80s and 90s. I also love a mixture of sci-fi and horror, like The Thing, Day of the Triffids, etc.
And as I was a fan of antihero dramas like Mad Men and Better Call Saul, as well as growing up with How the Grinch Stole Christmas, I thought, “What if the absolute worst person in high school had to save the world? Who would want to follow her, and why?” And that’s Camellia Dume. She the richest and meanest teen queen in Killian High School, and her father is very much a shyster conman like Saul Goodman. They’re ghastly…but there’s a reason.
As I transferred schools in the middle of high school, from a county/semi-rural area to city school, I was suddenly faced with very wealthy cliques, and I was…not wealthy. So I identified a bit with Wray Blythe in that regard. I love fish-out-of-water stories.
I also love the enemies-to-lovers trope, especially when it leads to character growth.
And, frankly, I love L.A. Much of this story takes place in Malibu, and I lean into some Los Angeles tropes with love for the city I love and live in now.
Camellia is the ultimate mean girl when we meet her, but becomes the unlikely hero. Who could you see portraying her in a film adaptation or mini series?
It’s likely that at this point, she’d have to be a younger GenZ or a Gen Alpha actress, and I think in many ways this would be a breakout role for someone. I don’t have anyone particular in mind. I’d know her if I saw her audition. And I hope Doomflower IS made into a film or show, because I think a lot of people would enjoy it. It’s very cinematic, raw, funny, and filled with one-liners.
Several writers have explored deadly plants in the past few years such as Wilder Girls and Annihilation. What is it about plants that you find personally terrifying?
As I have a degree in ecology (which plays a role in the book), I’m not so terrified of plants as I am of genetic manipulation and the thwarting of nature to greed or malice. Given an extraordinary situation here–trying to avoid spoiling for readers–I’m reminded of Ripley’s quote in ALIENS that starts with, “You know, Burke, I don’t know which species is worse…” But in terms of monster appeal, I actually love pulpy horror, and nothing screams pulp like plant horror!
Can we ever expect a sequel to Doomflower?
If Doomflower does well, I do have framework for a sequel. So let’s hope it does. There’s definitely more to unravel! Meanwhile, I hope I get a movie or show option. Then you can be sure I’ll wrote a sequel!
Are you working on anything new?
Hot on the heels of Doomflower is my thriller/horror/sci-fi novel Atacama, out May 13, 2025. That has a more unsettling vibe, delving into mystery and grief (which both do play a role in Doomflower as well; I lost both parents in the past 5 years, and that definitely left huge effects on my writing). Atacama is a bit like The X-Files plus Annihilation plus Black Mirror and The Thing. Following that, I have a SFF short story collection out in July called To Wonder and Starshine, a dragon fantasy out next spring, The Vale of Seven Dragons, and a Choose Your Own Adventure middle grade horror out next spring as well, called Dungeon Crawl at the Haunted Mall. I’m also a publisher of speculative fiction at Stars and Sabers Publishing, and we have all sorts of books coming out from various authors there.
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Perihan gazed at the opulent villas lined up like precious pearls on a necklace, feeling overwhelmed by their excessive beauty. The sight was almost terrifying, reminiscent of the antique pearls adorning her own necklace. As the dark clouds were illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning, she shook off her thoughts and quickened her pace along the deserted road. The gentle raindrops on her tired face felt like an ominous sign. The unexpected gust of wind, unusual for a mild November afternoon, added to her unease.
On her seventieth birthday, Perihan had indulged in a day of shopping at Milan’s most luxurious stores. Despite her age, she possessed a strong physique, with firm knees, agile movements, and enough strength to carry her shopping bags from the stores to her home. The kind store managers at Cartier and Valentino had offered to send the packages to her address with a courier, but she declined, insisting she could manage on her own. Though she lacked a family to celebrate with, her small group of friends had arranged to gather at the villa, refusing to let her spend the evening alone. They had asked her to leave the house and return around seven o’clock. Glancing at her watch, Perihan realized she was already half an hour late.
Oh my… Licia must have already set the table, she thought as she turned the corner onto Via Marco de Marchi, where she resided. Just then, another lightning bolt flashed across the sky, and a large monarch butterfly appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Despite the heavy rain, Perihan could hear the faint flapping of its wings. The butterfly had bright orange and black stripes, with one wing decorated with symmetric white dots. It seemed to hover in midair.
“What a miracle,” Perihan exclaimed, a smile stretching across her wrinkled face. “It’s been years since I last saw this one…and on my birthday!” Hastily shifting the heavy bags onto her shoulder, she wiped the raindrops from her eyes with her long red nails and followed the butterfly. It fluttered around in circles for a few moments, before darting straight ahead. Despite the downpour, the orange-and-black wings moved swiftly. Overwhelmed with excitement, Perihan disregarded the red light—and almost got hit by an old Ford passing by. The driver, an unattractive man with numerous moles and few teeth, leaned out of the window and cursed at her in an Italian dialect she couldn’t understand. Unfazed by his behavior, Perihan remained focused on following the butterfly, which flew rapidly and ascended into the sky.
“I wonder where it disappeared to,” she mused with a melancholic expression on her face. The rain intensified, the drainage problems in the area turning the road into a pool of water. Perihan’s bare feet were drenched as the rain seeped through the open toes of her green python slingbacks.
“You’re blocking my view.” The unexpected comment startled her. She looked at the stranger, hoping to recognize a friendly face, but it was no one she knew. She turned to notice the growing crowd of people with their faces hidden behind their phone screens. She wondered if they were filming her. Lacking an umbrella, her meticulously coiffed hair now wet, her makeup smudged, and her silk skirt ruined by the muddy street, Perihan was struck by the crowd’s indifference. They shifted slightly to the right, attempting to remove her from their line of sight, all the while continuing to record whatever had caught their attention. Curious, Perihan turned around and was terrified by what she saw. In shock, she dropped her red shopping bags, causing more muddy water to splatter onto her skirt and completely destroying her shoes.
“This can’t be happening,” she screamed to the sky at the top of her lungs. Her knees trembled uncontrollably, left her unsure about taking another five steps to cross the road. Perihan noticed the cameras turning toward her in her peripheral vision, but she paid no mind to the desperation and terror that would eventually go viral on numerous social media networks in multiple countries. Her villa loomed in front of her, concealed by high walls covered with lush green bushes—now invaded by hundreds, if not thousands, of butterflies. They hovered over the garden, flapping their wings vigorously despite the pouring rain. The entire structure, partially visible through the bushes, seemed imprisoned within a butterfly sanctuary. When Perihan realized the creatures were all monarchs, each one so exquisite and valuable, she paused. Beauty had a threshold, and beyond it, it became a captivating terror, holding people’s attention hostage to fulfill its own needs. She propelled herself into the flooded road, heading for the garden gate. With what little strength remained after the ordeal, she pushed her way through the floral Art Nouveau door.
“Licia! Where are you?” she shouted upon entering the garden. Before closing the door behind her, she turned to scream at the onlookers, “Leave! The show’s over! This is my property!” Yet, the crowd remained unaffected, mesmerized by the extraordinary natural phenomenon unfolding before them.
Licia, Perihan’s housekeeper and closest friend of nearly forty years, looked like a ghost. Her complexion was drained of color, her wet hair clung to her face in disheveled patches, and her shoes were ruined by dark mud. She trembled as she spoke. “Perihan… We did our best, but…” Licia glanced quickly at their small group of friends, who observed the scene from the kitchen window on the first floor of the house. Perihan brushed Licia aside with the back of her hand and made her way toward the large greenhouse on the left side of the garden. Orange butterflies continued to emerge rapidly through a broken pane in its ceiling, swarming through the air. Looking up at the vortex of butterflies resembling a brewing tornado, Perihan felt a wave of dizziness. Her bony hand reached for the intricately detailed metal handle of the greenhouse door, but fear gripped her body. She hesitated, afraid to enter, yet knowing she had no other choice. Slowly, she pushed the door open, entered, and closed it behind her.
Licia tried to conceal her sobbing behind her hands. Should she follow Perihan into the greenhouse or return to the house? The rain cascaded like a waterfall, obstructing not only her movements but her thoughts as well. She compelled herself to decide, but the sudden outburst from within the greenhouse froze her in place.
“No… No… No!” Perihan’s voice echoed, growing louder with each repetition—until the world fell silent, save for the raindrops tapping against any surface they encountered. The darkness beneath the swarm of butterflies gradually gave way to a dull light as they departed from the house. Licia collapsed onto her knees and allowed herself to sink into the saturated garden soil, her tears mingling with the raindrops. Once the first monarch butterfly Perihan had witnessed a few moments earlier found its way to her villa, it hovered briefly over the garden before heading in the same direction as the others. When the last of the butterflies vanished, no trace of the miraculous event remained.
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Haunted by the past . . . terrified of the present.
PLOT SUMMARY:
Penny knows she must forget about her ex, Nash. Ever since his father was revealed as the brutal serial killer who traumatized their small town last Halloween, Penny’s parents have forbidden her to have anything to do with Nash or his family. It’s hard not to think of him—but she’s trying.
That stops when she goes shopping with friends for a costume. What she finds instead is ripped from a horror movie: someone from school bleeding out on the floor of a dressing room. Stabbed.
People are quick to blame Nash and his sister, Grace, but as Halloween nears and the body count rises, Penny can’t help thinking this copycat killer is someone no one else suspects. . . .
GRADE: C
REVIEW:
Natasha Preston’s The Haunting is one of those books that offers an enjoyable escape, perfect for readers looking for something light and fun. With its chilling premise and short chapters, the novel presents a classic whodunit murder mystery, which immediately grabs attention. However, while it’s an easy read, it lacks the depth and engagement that some readers might crave.
One of the most appealing aspects of The Haunting is how quickly it can be devoured. The chapters are short, and the writing is straightforward, making it perfect for readers looking for a fast-paced, no-frills story. It doesn’t demand much of the reader’s attention or deep thinking. You can easily pick it up and read it in short bursts without losing track of the plot. For those who just want to unwind with a book without much complexity, it definitely serves its purpose.
However, while The Haunting is fun, it doesn’t quite offer the level of engagement that would make it a truly memorable read. The characters, for instance, are rather one-dimensional. Their development is minimal, and their personalities can feel somewhat stereotypical. The relationships between the characters don’t feel very authentic, and as a result, it’s difficult to form a real emotional connection with them. The plot, too, can feel predictable at times, with a few obvious twists that don’t pack the punch they could have. For readers looking for something with a bit more substance, The Haunting may leave them wanting more.
The Haunting by Natasha Preston is an easy, enjoyable read that offers just enough suspense to keep you turning the pages. It’s perfect for a quick read when you’re in the mood for something light, but it may not be the most engaging or thought-provoking book out there. It’s fun while it lasts but won’t necessarily leave a lasting impression.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Delacorte Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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